Calling
I’ve never labeled my words, I’ve always just done - what I do.
But I’ve been listening and I have been interested to hear Others describe what I do, what they see when they look at my words, where they fit, what they are.
I’ve heard my slice of life pieces described as being essays, which makes me think of grade school. Assignments. Most often an English Class assignment.
“Write a short essay describing the relationship between the characters Boo Radley and Scout featured in Harper Lee’s book, To Kill a Mockingbird. (I do believe that I had that assignment once.)
An essay, an assignment. I get that. What I do, it kind of does feel like an assignment, assignment to self. No class. No Teacher. No grade. No pay. Just me. Something I want to do. An assignment to - - - Self. Yes.
I’ve been listening and I have heard what I do, my words, my musings described as being vignettes. Now that sounds - - - fancy.
Vignettes, I didn’t grow up with the term vignette. No Teacher, Professor, Instructor ever asked me to write a - vignette. How about you?
The word is a little bit foreign. Sounds foreign. And so - I looked it up. Vignette (in the context of written word) - “A short, usually descriptive literary sketch.” (The American Heritage Dictionary of the English language, 5th edition)
Short, descriptive, literary sketch. Vignette. Yes, I can see that. I like that. My Wife, C, described vignette as, “a fancy word for short stories”.
Essay, vignette, short, very short stories.
All good. I get it. Yes, I think that I do that. I think that they all fit.
I do what I do. Essay, vignette, short story.
That IS what I do.
^^^^^
But now I have an idea, something bigger. Something that I want to do, to at least try - to do.
Something bigger, not essay, not short story, not vignette. Something larger, that I feel Called to do. A story that is important to me.
The word novel, as in “great American novel”, good God that is imposing. Like standing at the base of a sheer high peak, ninety degrees, looking straight up.
I want to run. I want to hide.
A novel? A novel. Like a cliff. Cliff notes, indeed. (CliffsNotes. Collect them all. I think I might. I think I should. Digress.)
How about a novella. A novella sounds nice.
Novella = a short novel, as per American Heritage. Less imposing. More warm, more fuzz. Fuzzy wuzzy. I like that. A hill to climb rather than a mountain. I like climbing hills. I have climbed hills and I think that I can still do that.
And then, I’m thinking, how about Graphic Novel?
Graphic Novel = A narrative that is related through a combination of text and art, often in comic-strip form. (Thank you again American Heritage, English language.)
There’s that sheer straight up cliff, high mountain word - “novel” again. It makes me shiver. But also, the art, the comic-strip part of the definition. Now I like that. Art and comic-strips warm me up and make me feel something. Comic strips can make me laugh. Art can make me cry. Life, it’s like that, isn’t it?
Graphic novel. The two faces of Janus. A theater image. A laugh - cry mountain.
I get it. I like that.
^^^^^
Long form writing is - hard. It’s not my thing. It’s not what I do.
But does that mean that I can not do it?
I have something that I have been meaning to share. Something that I need to share.
My aim is message. Share a message through story, mostly true, but good stories should not be held, feet to the fire of truth.
A story should not be a (dry) textbook. A story is a canvas. Good stories need color. There is no lack of color in story, the story that I need to tell.
But still, truth, truth told, truth is a hot potato, a juggling act, a hard thing to handle.
“Truth, you want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” - A great line that has stayed with me, from a movie.
As much as it can be handled, and handled with care, my aim, I hope it’s true. I want to tell hard truth in order to let others know that they are not alone.
Message is what I am aiming for. A story with a message.
Or maybe not message, but at least a story to make people think. Hard think. A hard think story.
A difficult topic to to broach. Eggshells that I have been walking around - for years. Slippery mountain slopes.
I need to go at them, my eggshells. I need to lean into them. I feel a need to share.
A tribute. A duty. A message in a bottle, tossed into the Sea.
I need to get over, to the other side of the mountain. (Will you come with me?)
Something, to (at least) try. I need to do it. At least try…
It’s hard, but it feels good. To at least try.
A message.
A Calling…
^^^^^
Photo:
1996, C took a picture of me on a southwest Colorado country road, a mountain road. I feel like this photo fits somehow.
We had an econobox rental car. We had driven across a mountain country road in the northeastern part of the state per advice from a Bed and Breakfast Owner and we loved it. We decided to try same, drive across a mountain pass road in the southwest part of the state. That’s me at the beginning of the journey. Happy, happy. Joy, joy.
We went in. We got into it. Deep. No turning back. Literally. No turning back. The road became narrower and narrower. Driving a micro Chevy shitbox. Sheer cliff, drop offs to one side. Look down and we could see next week.
At one point we were driving on a bald face rock switchback. The tires were spinning. No traction. We were rocking the car with accelerator and then one of us pushing.
This writing feels like that, as if I’m going back, a fool's errand. Back to that road again.
At one point after we somehow, God’s grace, made it over the switchback, past the road's high point, we came upon a real, honest to goodness tiny Ghost Town, a small collection of old abandoned buildings, Miners Shacks. There was a tour guide, with a proper mountain driving vehicle, a Jeep.
He asked C, “Did that Guy (Me) drive that car, over that mountain?”. He asked in disbelief. C shook her head, blood shot eyes, up and down - Yes.
He said, “I want to buy that Guy - a beer.”
I’m still waiting for - that beer Mister.
I’m a gonna go git that beer.