Seeking The Paradox Within Story

'Most fables contain at least some truth, and they often enable people to absorb ideas which the ordinary patterns of their thinking would prevent them from digesting.'

Idries Shah, The Sufis

As I have mentioned in other posts on this blog, I am fascinated by the fundamental paradox that I see within story, in that while it encourages us to conform to society, it also encourages us to become true individuals by shedding mindless conformity. And it is this aspect of story that I keep returning to, asking myself how a narrative can enable us to evolve as individuals. I believe there is an alternative knowledge structure deeply embedded within story, a structure that enables and encourages personal transformation, and that echoes thousands of years back to the first stories of the shamans and the ancient myths of indigenous peoples around the world, as well as being evident in many contemporary narratives. People write, read and listen to stories, not because they wish to escape from themselves, but because they wish to find themselves. So perhaps then, a key to self transformation is embedded within story.

The idea that stories might contain hidden meanings is not a new one, stretching back to the interpretation of early religious texts across many faiths and persisting to the current day through continued scholarly analysis of literature. These theories are also rooted in mystical knowledge associated with Sufism and other esoteric groups, some of this knowledge dating back thousands of years. The ancient Aesops Fables which are popular in the West, are an example of stories that are designed to jolt us out of the boundaries that restrict our thinking. In his book, The Sufis, Idries Shah writes that the popular and humorous Nasrudin Stories which date from around the thirteenth century, 'may be understood at any one of many depths. . . and the experiencing of each story will contribute towards the 'homecoming' of the mystic'. Perhaps then, rather than reinforcing blind acceptance of society's constructed realities, stories might use hidden meanings in order to innately question them. Idries Shah goes on to explain the use of humour in the Nasrudin tales, saying that 'humour cannot be prevented from spreading: it has a way of slipping through the patterns of thought which are imposed upon mankind by pattern and design.' While humour is not a strong element in my writing at present, I agree that it has great power, encouraging us to question and laugh at what we hold sacred or simply take for granted.

Much of our interpretation of a text relies on how we read. Joseph Campbell emphasised the importance of poetic interpretation, as compared to literal reading, warning that 'wherever the poetry of myth is interpreted as biography, history or science, it is killed.' Karen Armstrong too, wrote passionately of the need to re-engage with story, using 'intuitive, mythical modes of thought' instead of the 'more pragmatic, logical spirit of scientific rationality.' When I was writing Flight, I began to wonder how I could layer the story in order to encourage different interpretations on the part of the reader. I wanted my readers to read intuitively, to find a story a that spoke to them in unexpected ways. In the end though I found myself unable to plan a novel in this way and decided instead to trust my unconscious to do this for me through the use of symbols and metaphor, as well as through the way in which the story structure formed itself around the character arc.

While it is clear that stories can and do contain hidden meanings, Campbell went further than this in his analysis of heroic myth, by suggesting that the very structure of story has a hidden meaning, that it is a metaphor for Jung's individuation process or the journey to self. Now that Flight is complete and published, and there has been time to receive reader feedback, it has become clear that the novel does act on a number of levels: as entertainment, as a psychological study and as a document of a spiritual journey, one in which readers can find themselves. I have always felt strongly that in my writing I am holding a mirror up to readers and helping them remember who they are, perhaps because this is what I seek from my own reading. However, my motives are not entirely altruistic, because first and foremost it is myself I am finding, both through the process of writing and through the mysteries of the unfolding story. It is my own past I am exploring and my own scars I am acknowledging and releasing, as I seek to uncover the treasure within me, the essence of self, by breaking down my fixed thinking patterns. Perhaps ultimately this is what stories are for.

Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/

Seeking Legitimacy

'The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.'

Sylvia Plath

For the first few months of writing this blog, the posts came with ease and clarity as if they were a gift. I looked forward to sitting down each week and discovering what I wanted to say. But for the past few weeks I've been struggling to find words, finding myself moving from one idea to the next, not satisfied with anything. Instead of an hour or two, my posts were taking a day of struggle and even then I wasn't certain of the result. I was fretting and irritable and losing confidence, and like a virus, this was spreading into my other writing as well, leaving me unable to settle to my novel or any other project.

My problems were exacerbated when a week ago my new novel, Flight, received a vitriolic review in a major newspaper. At some stage in their publishing career all writers get a bad review, so I knew it had to come. Flight had already received reviews; some excellent, others more measured, weighing the good with the bad, but this was the first time I had experienced anything cruel. I tried to be rational about it, tried to tell myself I was bigger than this, that it didn't matter, that everyone has a right to an opinion, that reading is a subjective enterprise and the reader is bringing themselves to the process, along with their own baggage. But no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't move on from the cruelty of it. Instead I fretted and felt sorry for myself and in the end my back went into spasm and I caught a cold, sure signs that time out was needed for me to take a good long look at myself.

My husband sat me down and told me to stop struggling against it. 'You're worrying about your readers,' he said. 'Stop thinking about their expectations and write from your heart again.' His words hit me with the force of truth. Even before this review, I had begun to worry about disappointing my readers, and I had begun questioning my legitimacy as a writer and even a teacher. This may sound strange to many readers. After all, I can list my credentials: two published novels, many years experience as a teacher of creative writing and as an editor and mentor, as well as a completed PhD exploring the nature and purpose of story. On paper I am highly qualified but for some reason a good CV isn't enough. Nothing is enough because I (like many others), carry such a lot of self doubt, which leaves me prone to concentrating on what I haven't got rather than being grateful for what I have.

This review pressed a number of buttons within me, all related to emotional memories of illegitimacy. For the past few days, while I have been immobilised with a sore back and a cold, memories of childhood have been bubbling up, snapshots that have been stored as scar tissue. My adoptive father pulling out his account book yet again to show me the column of numbers in red ink that flowed page after page. 'Expenses,' he'd say. 'This is what you owe me.' At my grandmother's wake, the will being read to a long list of recipients and my ten year old self waiting expectantly for my windfall; a bed perhaps (no, my sister got that), or a set of china, even a lounge chair or a vase. Then the disbelief, the anger and the despair when my name wasn't there. Memory after memory. . . A childhood full of accusations - adopted, illegitimate, bad blood. . . A childhood full of threats - reform school, sickness, hell. . . A childhood full of fear. . . A childhood I thought I had recovered from.

No matter how great our recovery from emotional wounds, scar tissue always remains and we will occasionally stumble into situations that will reopen old wounds. Perhaps the best we can do is recognise this and in so doing, not allow ourselves to place unconscious limitations on our lives. I have met many students who have decided not to publish because they are too sensitive, too afraid of the responses from readers and reviewers. And I have also met many talented would-be writers who have decided not to write again because they have received hurtful criticism. Over the years I have assessed thousands of manuscripts and reviewed a number of published novels. I know that each person whose writing I engage with has put themselves into their work and I know that this makes them vulnerable because their manuscript has become an extension of themselves. When we look at and comment on the work of another we have a great deal of influence and should approach it with a sense of responsibility. For an editor or reviewer, the distinction between reaction and assessment is crucial, as is the balance between flattery and constructive criticism. Many writers suffer from this process of sharing because the reader is dismissive, cruel, or simply without the skills to articulate their thoughts clearly.

So, how can we share our writing with others and emerge unscathed? Perhaps we can't. Perhaps we have to take that risk because we need to remain open to constructive criticism. It's vital to be honest enough with our work and with ourselves to see where improvement is required or where we have gone wrong, otherwise we simply stagnate. If we write to please, then we won't write from our hearts and consequently we will have lost something of great value. In a sense this review was a gift because it forced me to see an area in my life where I was still reacting and gave me the opportunity to explore my own issues around legitimacy. Hopefully next time I will be able to stand my ground and not react so dramatically to the cutting words of another. I have understood that if we seek legitimacy outside of ourselves we will not find it, because we leave ourselves vulnerable and in fear, at the mercy of the indifference or cruelty of individuals or even of society, which validates some while denigrating others. No matter how hard we struggle we cannot control the reactions of others but with work we can control our own reactions. So we have to look inside for our sense of self worth, a sturdy sense that will keep us grounded through the ups and downs of life. It's not easy but if we try, then our lives will be richer for it. As Ernest Hemingway once said (along these lines): 'If you believe them when they tell you you're great then you've got to believe them when they tell you you're crap.'

Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/

What Are Writers For?

'Great art and literature give a sense of patterns, of laws operating beyond conventional thought.'

Jonathan Black, The Secret History,

Sometimes, in those down moments when the letterbox is full of bills, the children need new school uniforms and birthdays are imminent, I begin to question my choices in life. Not just why I write, but also what writers are for. As writers, are we responsible for what we write? Does that responsibility extend beyond ourselves to our readers? And does the content of our stories help in some way to shape the world in which we live, for better or for worse? These are, of course, loaded questions and difficult to answer clearly as there are numerous internal and external pressures on writers. Internally there are can be self imposed constraints, such as fear of failure (more on that in a later post) and sometimes limitations generated by a need to learn more of the craft behind storytelling. Externally, the state of our finances, as well as publishing trends and deadlines can at times play too great a role in the choices we make as writers.

In the wake of Roland Barthes theory of the 'death of the author', some claim it is no longer the author who is responsible for a novel. Instead it is the reader who must claim responsibility for the material he or she reads. It is the reader who, in a sense, creates the story. Certainly each reader does bring a unique personal, cultural and historical context to a story, which means in a sense that the reader 'completes' the story and enriches it with their own interpretation. However, in my mind anyway, there is no doubt that the writer still plays a major role in the construction of stories and I believe that in taking on the role of writer we also take on a responsibility to society, meaning that whatever our intention, our stories do help to shape the world in which we live. I believe too, that as readers, as viewers and simply as individuals, the choices we make in our lives and the stories we tell ourselves also have an effect on the world around us. The question then becomes – What sort of world do we wish to shape?

I am frequently shocked by just how damaged our world is, not only physically, but socially too. Much of our media celebrates violence and cynicism, anger and betrayal. A premium is placed on ugliness, and stories that 'tell it how it is' receive accolades from critics. When I began writing  Flight, I too was telling it how it is, depicting a dysfunctional character in a dysfunctional and disintegrating society. The world I created for Fern was a weary one, pessimistic and dark. However, as the story progressed and Fern discovered the existence of a metaphysical world, a note of optimism began to creep in and I found myself tending more towards telling it 'how it might be'. There are risks involved in this: the risk of putting one's head in the sand in order to hide from the truth; and the risk of being ridiculed, because words such as love, heart, empathy, compassion and soul, are so often labelled sentimental and derided in our society. And yet it is in the journey of the soul, in learning how to love and in discovering the capacity for compassion, that Fern remembers her self and in so doing, finds truth. Fern's journey is both actual and metaphorical. It is a journey into her self, plumbing the depths of her memory and retrieving what has been lost in order to become whole. It is a journey of remembering. A journey to truth. And ultimately to a vital and connected life.

Almost inevitably, fiction writers live on the fringes of society. In part it's for financial reasons, as so few writers actually find a publisher. Mostly though, the fringes represent a position from which to view the world, a position that is at once privileged and lonely. I believe it is our role as writers to do more than merely reflect the societies in which we live. Instead we need to question them, as well as attempt to break free of the constraints placed upon us by constructed truths which emphasise differences rather than commonality. We need to step outside the structures we take for granted, to 'see through' society, to be willing to turn our minds upside down and inside out in the quest for understanding. Our role is to question, document and sometimes even to foresee, and in the process, to create powerful and entertaining stories that are guides to life. Living stories that help us to evolve as human beings.

In her conclusion to A Short History of Myth, Karen Armstrong writes that 'a novel, like a myth, teaches us to see the world differently; it shows us how to look into our own hearts and to see the world from a perspective that goes beyond our own self-interest. If professional religious leaders cannot instruct us in mythical lore, our artists and creative writers can perhaps step into this priestly role and bring fresh insight into our lost and damaged world.'

Perhaps these are grandiose claims but I would like to think there are moments when as writers we reach out beyond ourselves and beyond the restrictions of language and culture and context, using story and metaphor and symbol to express what cannot be expressed merely through language. We cast spells with words, breaking through cultural programming and questioning the very basis of our lives. And in so doing, perhaps we make the world a slightly better place.

Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/