As a matter of fact, non-stories annoy me.
Perhaps it was Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, but–I’m blanking–whatever other culprits there were (some Sundance person or other starts to grate in memoriam), the writing world got artsy about the concept of storytelling. But in the brouhaha of feel-good artistry, the more concrete concepts behind “What Makes a Story a Good Story” were abandoned. It’s not popular to be black-and-white these days.
The problem with artsy-fartsiness isn’t the amount of white people involved. Rather, it’s the sphere of the writing world that well-to-do hipsterdom and postmodern-storytelling represents, a fancy cover on the book that is The Lack of Story. It’s intellectual to tell non-stories because life doesn’t have a meaning. Because we wake up and we make coffee and we go about our days trying to make enough money (or steal it) to accomplish the something-more-that-we-want, but always always Real Life thwarts it for all but the lucky point two percent and then we die.
I disagree with the former statements because I believe in many things, God for one and that life has a meaning, and also—stories. As soon as the answer is that we have no answer, we’ve set a limit on possibility, and Possibility is meant to be endless.
I love my dog. She makes you feel like the most wonderful person as soon as you come home from anywhere, even the two second walk to the mailbox. But this silky-eared critter doesn’t sit with a pen in hand, puzzling over the twist in a suspense novel–or wonder if she has the right to write a human character, as she’s never had such experiences. She lives to love without condition and be petted every waking moment, and as the vet told us today, that’s her job.
But as a race, unlike our animal coinhabitants, we have the unique tendency to deal with our earthy mediums in rather pointless ways. We do puzzle over plotholes and villains we’ve botched. We fresco ceilings and carve immense marble statues, and while we don’t have to do these things for our living functions of respirating and surviving to carry on, we do it because we want to. Because sometimes we feel we must to be truly living.
“We are infinite” (Chbosky), and within us is the infinite: our stories. Stories compel. Stories move. Stories shape. Stories don’t muggle about in actionless introspection unless your character is then moved to do something and fight and perhaps, at long last, achieve a happy ending. Because–as such endings lie within the realm of endless possibilities–those happen too.
Keep an eye out for Episode I — coming soon!