In a world without morals I would be a con artist. I have come to this realization slowly - over a few months, really - and have very mixed feelings about it. (Probably because I do live in a world with morals.) It's so intriguing to me, and yet so very, inherently wrong. I take some comfort in the knowledge that I wouldn't con people out of necessity, or addiction (as there are people addicted to the con out there). It wouldn't be because of the rush I would get from selling the con. It would be for the simple joy of telling the story. It's an intense story, when you think about it, and demands plenty of detail and attention, yet for obvious reasons must be simple and vague. Yes, the life of the con has always fascinated me. Maybe that's why I love storytelling.
I took a storytelling class in college. It was the easiest class I had, although my professor told me straight up that I was the best storyteller in his class - the storyteller with the most promise, the most knowledge of fairy tales - and because of this he would grade me on an entirely different scale than the rest of the class. I gave a non-committal sort of nod, tried to wipe the confused, yet frustrated expression off my face, and found my revenge in doing spirited impressions of him for my classmates. (Well, that and acting out the piano-playing scene from Big in the middle of class. I was horrible, really.) Two of my roommates were also in the storytelling class that quarter, although they had the other section, and while they weren't too stoked on the assignments I was. The textbook we had on using stories in the classroom and using tales as tools was strangely interesting to me. And although I had little respect for the teacher - despite the fact that he handed me plenty of compliments with my sub par grading and asked me to tell a tandem story with him (yeah, I know I have some brown on my nose) - I did, and do, have great respect for storytelling.
When I was telling a story it took my entire focus. I wasn't up there putting on a show for my classmates. I wasn't wearing a costume, although I did put a lot of thought into how my outfit might best portray some small aspect of my story. It wasn't a game, although it was very fun. I had rediscovered a story (one about the "hedgehurst" and another about Brer Rabbit) and needed to handle it in the best way possible so it might reach each listener and hit her in the same place it had hit me: my soul.
Stories are interesting things. They are like wild animals that are tamed but never broken. There's danger in telling stories. We've all learned that lesson, whether we witnessed, felt, or caused the hurt stories about other people can inflict. When I approach a new story, whether it is a retelling or an original, it is with a cautious sort of delicacy: How will this story react when I take it in my hands? When I mold it? When I retell it? Many stories demand a certain tenderness throughout. One rough press and the entire piece crumbles. Some require tight pressure and a heavy hand when it comes to molding. Without restraint the story can become too formless or unmanageable, or both. And once a story has become molded into the correct form it needs to be harnessed. A runaway story can become a wildfire where it should be a simply a candle.
I lose myself in stories all the time. My cousin (in her life of a dreamer blog - go look at it) wrote about how she is constantly creating stories. Every moment in her life, every passerby becomes caught up in the whirlwind of creation. I loved this post especially because I do the same thing. I lose myself in a moment. It must be disconcerting for the people around me: I am sitting with a child, trying to help him build with blocks, when a character forces herself into my head. She tries to show me part of her history, whether it is based on my work or totally random, and I am off, following her into Fairyland. When I come back to the real world, usually only a second or two later, I am struck by an uncomfortable vibe I get from the kid's parent. I was there in body but absolutely not in spirit. The body was an animated but empty shell for that second, holding a block suspended for a child to reach and then with a sharp intake of breath and quick blink of the eyes was suddenly refilled. I have been in the middle of saying something to a friend and will trail off because I am shooting off toward the stars, wondering how the world looks different when seen from above. A soft, "Steph?" or redirection to the conversation usually brings me right back to Earth and with a shake of the head I get back into it.
I come by my storytelling honestly. (At least, I assume it's honest since it so obviously runs in the family.) And like my cousin I so strongly dream of being a published author. And while I was definitely inspired in this post by her blog, it also came from my readings on fairy tales and their tellers that I have recently jumped into (well, that and a couple of books about art fraud). Fairy tales absolutely have their place in my life, and that's where my interest is right now. So don't be too surprised if I write more about them in the near future. After all, it's better fairy tales than cons, right?
