Needful Tales

“... The rarest and most cultivated luxury [is to] have someone write a novel about you. But it’s a treat we should in a sense all be granted and perhaps secretly crave. We don’t need to give up our jobs and become writers because this book of ourselves is one we’re writing already. We’re at work on it in the early hours, when we can’t sleep, when we daydream, make plans, go over the past and give ourselves over to re-telling as best as we can what’s really happened to us and what it could all mean."

A video from The School of Life , "The Book You Really Need to Read Next"

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Dear Kate,

I like the video, for the one concise point it's trying to make is well made: we are all living out a story, whether we speak about our life this way or not.  So why not pay better attention to how we live as a way to make better sense of it?

Even to say our life has no meaning, no narrative trajectory, is to acknowledge there is a state of living meaningfully and somehow we are not there, at least not yet.  It is a simple yet universal frustration, to see how we have fallen short of a certain glory.

But aren't we all quite aware of our own storied presence?  Like, how many selfies do we have?  Social media posts?  Messaging via multiple platforms?  Aren't these the new languages for us to tell our stories?

Yes, the tools are there.  (Better tools than what the cavemen and women had?  I am not too sure, and let's not go there today.)  But what are we saying about ourselves, and how are we saying it?  This has everything to do with meaning.

We could go through the motions of life and, for that, see no significance of our own personal presence in the unfolding of events.  We hope for the best, fear for the worst, and usually land somewhere in between to accept the leftover, which for most of us is mostly good enough.  Would I read a novel written about me?  Are we worthy of words?

There are many deep ironies in this.  A person who cares not the stories of others can hardly find herself in the unveiling of her own.  Why else?  We don't live out our stories in isolation.  One who can't gracefully and graciously negotiate differences, conflicting needs and desires in a community, can never find satisfying meaning in her own life.  The too-many selfies we take might be a way to deny what we know all along to be true: our lack of a singular, significant personal existence.  You are you and here is me!  And YOU can't deny ME!

The Bible talks about how the whole creation has been "groaning in labor pains," for a meaningful way forward, in search of a proper end to her story, a restoration of her aspired glory, in hope to be "saved" from the often hellish state of affairs.  It is in this universal sorrow and travail that we find the frustrated narratives of our own, at once intimate and cosmic, mundane and towering.

Our story is anything but dull or unworthy.

Yours, Alex

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Dear Alex,

A cocktail of our storied lives in fluid and full exposure may be too wickedly bland to swallow. I am average among the ordinary, typecast as a mid-age, mid-class, muddle-headed mind of one. I barely have the right words to say, let alone draft a book of anyone or me.

Earlier today in your evolving novel online, you unstacked a roadside bundle of stories, shuffled them in a playful order of disorder and re-packaged the characters and events with a photo in captions - newspapers, fish and chips, body odor (BO) quite exclusively and exquisitely. BO endows me with the boldness to write a bit more about me.

My daily personal drama reeks of BO. No deodorant or perfume can mask the stink. I keep a distance from those who can sniff out my hypocrisy. I cower by the roadside, blending in with trash and weeds. If you find this confession humorously foul, I invite you to laugh with me.

Those who joined me in today’s morning conference may tell you a different story of me. Outfitted in navy blouse and trousers, I presented a sizable key document to a key audience. Things went well. My teammates seated next to me could vouch for my fragrant appearance. In official terms, this is where the show ends: on the cliff of appearance.

Writing a novel about ourselves is a perpetual novelty in motion, shaving the superficial, staving off the ridicule, diving deep into the naked odor of vulnerabilities and self doubts. Words in pristine halo may elude us, mocking our repute. No wonder restless nights keep me wide-eyed. I have become infatuated in the act of presenting self rather than being present in the presence of me with others.

I will pause from telling more of my stories now because I need to en-joy, engage in some roadside work, shuffle along the periphery to linger a little longer with the coarsely tangled vines and messes of life, spliced by the risk of re-telling you about me.

Yours, Kate