STORIES 'R' US . . . .

As writers on writing frequently point out, the hunger for Narrative is as primal, as fundamental to us as the need for food, safety or human love.

Story, the "how" of life, is not only a source of emotional, intellectual and spiritual sustenance, it's also a virtual manual for survival in this world.

It's how hunting wisdom was passed down between men, as they sat around that timeless emblem, the camp fire. I've seen it done, having had the privilege of sitting at such fires myself.

It's how small children were taught about big, bad wolves -- animal ones and human too.

It's how ineffable truths were imparted, often inscrutably, between elder monks and their bemused acolytes.

It's how reputations were built, others broken, as the avarice for information raced through communities with the speed of a detonation cord.

Life is Story. And Story is Life. And I have always marvelled at articles on writing that make an actual subject of "Where To Find Material" and the like.

Stories are everywhere. Not only are they not difficult to find, they're literally impossible to avoid. We trip over them at every turn, and even our very tripping is Story itself.

It is the matrix we move in. The algorithm, the DNA of our very existences.

We are Story, and it is us. And through it, we are as the clocks of history. Through it time is never truly "immemorial".

I say this, but I myself am guilty of failing to see the richness of life's Narrative.

I can't imagine how many times I've strolled into my local tap room, to be asked, "Well, any news?" only to respond with "Oh, y'know. Same old same old" -- without having made the slightest effort to think.

Of course, some of that comes from plying a solitary craft, and choosing to spare others my fictional -- and possibly quite lunatic -- obsession of the day.

Last night, once again, I gave the same answer to the same question. But the irony was that there had been nothing "same old" about my day.

I'd just had excellent script contest news. A director requested samples of my work. A producer was showing tentative interest in one of my scripts. Even an agent resumed contact, out of the blue!
(I almost wondered if an item hadn't appeared in the media claiming "Irish Screenwriter Awarded Massive Funding -- For Whatever The Hell He'd Like To Do!")

But my mental laziness went much further than this, dear reader. (I'm assuming someone out there is actually reading this. We live in hope.)

Because I have the rather asocial habit of hanging out in my drinkery's smoking room, calmly quaffing and occasionally (very occasionally) poring over some wallet-sized notes. All of which creates the amused  -- and completely mistaken -- impression that Brian is "out there, having deep thoughts".

Brian is doing no such thing. Brian's brain, which has probably been "on the computer" since 6 or 7 A.M. is now happily in neutral -- for the night.

Brian has achieved the "mind of no mind". Those monkish mentors would be thoroughly impressed.

He's capable of carrying on the most anodyne and pointless conversations with complete strangers.

You can whisper national secrets to him that would cost him his life, and he won't remember them the following day. Or, in fact, hour.

When later last night my good wife asked me, "Anyone out?" I answered, "Oh, usual suspects" as I often have. No news. Same old same old.

And then I shook myself. What was the matter with me? There was news. There was Story. There was Life.

D----- and his partner had just had their first child together. A local wildboy was going through one of the Seven Ages of Man, transformed by the responsibility of fatherhood.

S---- had just passed up a big work opportunity, and spent 24 agonising hours, torn between his financial imperatives and the wisdom to face the limits of his own ability.

It was a cruel decision, and it hurt him both materially and emotionally. But it was the right decision. He had held to his wisdom. The better man in him had won.

B---- could feel the cold wind of redundancy clawing at his door, a situation that might force him to leave the Peninsula and trade this rustic life for the clamour of the cities. I remember him gazing intently out into the night. Yet there was a strange and subtle buoyancy to him, as if some transformation was already at work.

Each was a life story -- in a moment. A micro-cosmos. A slice, a sliver of the Totality.

Each a tale that could be told with such poignancy that it would break the heart. And I had missed it. All of it.

All these lives moving ceaselessly. Threads in the Great Yarn that is existent, woven together in this rich fabric, this vibrant tapestry that is Life.

Each and every one us, the Story of the world.

It is not a secret I will forget again.

(Originally posted, WritersCut.net, 21/10/2012.)