Week Two
Welcome to the second instalment of Three Things. This
week's offerings: “Loving the Wolfman,” “Lost” and “Memory Wars.”
Loving the Wolfman
This week, a Facebook friend posted a link to a stunning
photo essay in The Atlantic entitled simply, "The Wolf Man." The subject of the
essay—the work of wolf researcher and conservationist Werner Freund—makes for
compelling images, to say the least, but one photo in particular planted the
seed of fiction in my brain. Picture number ten (the only one that shows Werner
in the company of non-lupines) is rich with narrative
“leads.” How on earth did Werner and Erika (or Christian and Imogen, or Jimmy and Sarah-Lynn) meet? Maybe those wolf portraits behind them are
her work, and he fell for her not long after he found her sketching just
outside the sanctuary grounds. How did she feel the first time
she saw him hunker down to share a carcass with the pack? Is she ever jealous
of the wolves? Has she ever attempted to make inroads into their society herself?
Later, another friend responded to the initial post with
a recommendation to read Wild Harmonies: A Life of Music and Wolves by world-renowned pianist and co-founder of the Wolf Conservation Centre, Helene
Grimaud. I have yet to get a copy (it’s on the list, soon to be on the pile), but
even the summary of the book got me thinking along a new tack. What if the wolfman in my story was a woman? What if something happened that led her to
neglect various elements of her life—friends, family, work—in favour of
spending more and more time with the pack . . . ?
Lost
Sometimes fictional stories originate from a single
source, but often they come about as a result of imaginative
“cross-pollination.” This week’s example: a narrative thread from the CBC radio
show, Wiretap meets up with one of those missing persons notices on the Toronto
subway’s information screen.
In this week’s episode of Wiretap, “Modern Love,” author
Davy Rothbart speaks to host Jonathan Goldstein about falling (and staying!) in
love with a character from the movie Gas Food Lodging. Not the actress, mind you,
the character. Talk about the power of story!
So what if a young man—perhaps one who was suffering from
the kind of existential loneliness Rothbart refers to in the interview—were to
fall in love with the picture of a missing girl? To begin with all he knows is
her name and a few physical characteristics: 120 lbs, brown hair and
eyes, 21 years old. How would he go about finding out more? Would he somehow
infiltrate her circle of friends, or
perhaps even her family? What would happen to him if she remained lost forever? Or indeed—and here’s a scenario loaded with dramatic potential—if she was found?
Memory Wars
A few days ago, a friend emailed myself and two other
writer-pals to let us know we must read neurologist and author Oliver Sacks’s
essay, “Speak, Memory” in The New York Review of Books. It’s a fascinating
read: upon learning that one of his most intense childhood “memories” happened
to other members of his family while he was away at boarding school, Sacks was
moved to investigate the neurological differences between memories true and false. His conclusions are
of particular interest to fiction writers: “We have no direct access to
historical truth, and what we feel or assert to be true . . . depends as much on
our imagination as our senses. . . . Frequently, our only truth is narrative truth, the
stories we tell each other, and ourselves—the stories we continually
recategorize and refine.”
This article got me thinking in many directions, one of
which led me to a memory of my own. Years ago I wrote a fictional vignette
based in autobiography: two children start out playing an innocent game and
end up chasing a runaway tire down through their hillside hometown. My brother
(and childhood partner in crime) surprised me with his response to the piece.
“I’d forgotten all about that,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I hardly
remember anything from when we were kids.”
“Really?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yeah. I remember that tire now, though. I can see us running after it clear as
day.”
I like this idea: one sibling (or paren't, or
daughter/son) acts as keeper of a shared past, while the other lets it all
go. How might the “recaller” use/abuse this collection of recollections? How
might the “forgetter” prosper, or suffer, or both?
One final thought about Sacks’s conclusions regarding of the power of
story: when it comes to mimicking experience, not all tales are created equal. The key lies in his brother Michael’s revelation about the “false
memory” that started it all: "'You never saw it,’ Michael repeated. ‘We were both away
at Braefield at the time. But David [our older brother] wrote us a letter about
it. A very vivid, dramatic letter. You were enthralled by it.’”
Vivid. Dramatic. Enthralled. Take the time to "paint a picture." Don’t just tell the reader what happened, transport him/her deep into
“scenic” time. Cast and hold the narrative spell.
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