“Where a walking story goes, grows no grass”, quips Eckhart Tolle, mocking the thought-bound state of the life-blind preoccupied. But what of telling stories? More stories than we can live? Maybe this curse or capacity is to burst out of our mono-narrative and provide a fictive link, some salving connection, between all the hemmed in tales. Maybe it’s a way of exposing that our stories are all interchangeable.
Experienced two or three things lately on story. The first, the sublime Synecdoche, NY, by Charlie Kaufman, showing the many, many ways in which we tell ourselves and each other stories – how these are so often inaccurate, separate and partial but most of all made-up. The film showed how impossible it is to represent the experience of living and Charlie K said in an interview that in attempting to, Caden Cotard confuses literal truth with universal truth and that ‘he never really gets past that’… Important to know what detail to choose.
Reading Hilary Mantel’s Beyond Black; about a medium haunted by ghosts, who will be heard despite her efforts to shed them. Very evocative of the state of being a writer – all the characters.
Developing the novel, the characters are changing and I’m trying to listen and to change accordingly. New things occur everyday. I try not to panic or get too worried about money.