I’m undertaking a 1000-day reinvention project, blogging here daily to track my progress. In Friday Flash, I share an epiphany or aha moment from the past week.
My most contrarian take on nonfiction writing is that the “power of storytelling” is way overrated. Doubtless there’s some incredibly broad sense in which “all good nonfiction writing is storytelling”, but it’s not a very useful sense, and I’ve definitely seen it cause people to freeze up because they don’t think they’ve got a good enough story or anecdote or case study to illustrate the thing they want to say. But it’s OK just to say the thing! (In any case, good anecdotes or examples are more likely to flow from doing that forthrightly, I think.) One of the reader emails I cherish the most was from the person who praised me for writing about things themselves instead of forever coyly sidling up to them by means of supposedly seductive illustrative tales; it is exactly what I hope I am doing.
I’ve often felt this way about nonfiction writing. Each chapter opens with a story designed to illustrate whatever principle being introduced. The stories are twisted around to possibly make the point, but sometimes they don’t. And to me they almost never land with any impact.
In my first draft of my Reckless Romance manuscript, I’ve used fictional stories to illustrate the principles I’m sharing. I do have doubts as to whether that’s a good idea or not. I’ve been impressed with just how reckless fictional characters are in romance. When they are reckful–cautious, calculating, optimizing–they don’t get what they really want. When they are reckless–present, open, ready to be changed–that’s when they find love.
I am enjoying writing the book as both an exploration of recklessness in romance and a sharing of cultural stories. I guess it might be considered cultural criticism of a sort. So it is not what Burkeman is referring to when he talks about using the “power of storytelling” in nonfiction.
Last night, Ray and I did a Tarot reading for ourselves. I drew Ace of Wands as the card representing my current energy–which delighted me, as it is a card of creative energy and confidence.
Avia Venefica on the Ace of Wands:
The ace of wands Tarot card meaning deals with high volume energies bursting forth in assertive confidence….
Those who pull this card in a reading are in for an incredible adventure. This card marks the beginning of a new direction – particularly in matters of creativity.
The ace of wands also reminds us of the creative control we have in our lives. Specifically, when we look at the card, we note the hand holding the out a rod symbolizing our passion. This is indicative of our ability to take hold of our desires and allow that passion to fuel us up to reach our goals.
In a later reading focused specifically on my book project, I drew The Hanged Man as representing the current energy of the project. That is where I am; in suspended animation, taking a break, looking at the project from a new perspective (The Hanged Man hangs upside down, he is not being executed but is rather at peace, in surrender). I’ve finished a first draft and awaiting some feedback from a trusted reader. Next week I am going to start on my own developmental edit, in which I take a big picture look at the manuscript to decide if any of its architecture needs to be changed. Given that, it’s an apt time to think about how to weave in my analysis of various cultural artifacts (stories from novels, television shows, movies) into the book.
I asked ChatGPT how I might strengthen the cultural criticism aspect of my book manuscript, as I am wondering if doing so will make it a more compelling read. It suggested asking “what work is this story doing for its audience?” and asking myself the following questions about each story I share:
What fantasy does it satisfy for viewers?
What cultural fear or desire does it soothe?
Who benefits from the message encoded in this story?
For example, I have written of the 1999 teen rom-com She’s All That, and how the quirky Laney Boggs is made over from an artist who goes her own way to a cookie-cutter pretty girl so that she’s appropriate for the male lead, Zack Siler. The message was that Laney’s value lay more in how she looked and dressed and groomed her eyebrows than in her artistic talent, her intelligence, and her many other good qualities.
One thing I’ve been wondering about is the disconnect between how people pursue romance in real life (reckfully–with attempts at gaining control and predictability) and how romance plays out in movies, novels, and television shows (recklessly, almost always). Is that because romance requires recklessness? Or because it makes for a better story?
A story only works if it has conflict, reversals, and transformation. A reckful romance wouldn’t provide any plot engine: no inciting incident, no rising action, no change in the main character and other characters. So one main reason fictional romance is reckless is that it must be, to serve the story.
But in real life romance and love without letting go and without surprise and without danger feels lifeless. We use reckfulness–cautiousness, maximization, self-protection–as a defense against our vulnerability.
Narrative requires risk, but our hearts crave it too. By sharing fictional stories of reckless romance (and contrasting them with the soulless reckful romance alternative) I am not simply sharing what feels good to watch or read. These stories can serve as compelling and engaging lessons in how to get the intoxication and aliveness that real romance promises.