Tag Archives: Paul Ricoeur

Do Over–Let the Story Go

The Daily Prompt today suggests a do-over of a past post. My first thought was – aha! I should be able to whip that out quickly. Not so. I chose a post I had done months ago, soon after I started blogging. I found it needed extensive editing. In earlier blogging days, I didn’t know how or when to hyperlink. Now I do. I added more photos this time around, a strategy that helps lead the reader through the text.

All in all, I’m quite pleased with the reworked version. I give you – Let the Story Go.

I often work with CBC radio podcasts on my laptop for background noise. Now and then something IMG_3468catches my attention. The other day I jotted down a snippet of words on the edge of a scrap of paper. No matter what you’re trying to create – if you’re not scared you’re not really doing it.

These two phrases capture one of the bitter pills a writer must swallow – the risk of letting our stories (translation – our babies) go. We must send our creations into the world where people will judge, evaluate, and horrors of all horrors, possibly not understand. That is quite the frightening prospect. I find myself screaming inside – not my problem child – as I refer to Disappearing in Plain Sight.

 

Paul_Ricoeur[1]There is no way around this dilemma. If I want my work to have meaning, other people must see it. French philosopher Paul Ricoeur wrote extensively about hermeneutics – the art of interpreting written text. He tells us that the act of fixing anything in text is the beginning of that text’s journey away from the meanings the original author may have intended. The text is freed from the creator, as well as the circumstances in which it was created. It enters the wide world of interpretation.

I realize that what Ricoeur describes will happen to me with every word I write. I cringe and shy away from ever allowing my text to go free. But this act of fixing a story in the written form is not just a hobby. It is something that has become an imperative. There is just this story, and it must be told.

Human beings have a driving need to tell and understand stories as a way of making senseAVT_Kearney_4836[1] of the world. Telling a story lets us pull the threads of our life backward in contemplation and then forward as we create new ways of being. Richard Kearney (2002) writes that telling stories is as basic to human beings as eating. In fact, it may be more so. Food makes us live; stories are what makes our life worth living. And the remarkable thing about all of this is that each story needs to be told. Each becomes a bell echoing out and beyond the storyteller to change every person that hears. This even includes those who may not like the story. They too are changed in some way.

I know I must let the story go. The story must move beyond me. Interpretation is the work of the reader, not the writer. I do all that I can to tell a well-crafted story. Then I sit back and allow the reader to choose the angle of insight.

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Kearney, Richard. (2002). On Stories. NY: Routledge

Kearney, Richard. (2007). Paul Ricoeur and the hermeneutics of interpretation. Research in phenomenology, 37. 147-159.

(The image at the top of this post is of the graveyard in Gravelbourg, Saskatchewan where my great-grandparents are buried.)

The Characterization of a Blog

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I’m feeling a bit reflective on this Northern Vancouver Island, mixed weather day – a patch of blue sky, snow low on the mountains, a bit of rain, a touch of wind.

I’ve been blogging for ten months and I recently put up my 100th post. If I Google my name, I find a whole world of me out in cyberspace that never existed a year ago. When I was out tramping the wet trails in the rain and cold yesterday, thinking about the blog, an analogy came to me. The blog has become like a character in one of my novels. It is me – yes (even more so for the blog than any of the characters I have brought to life), but at the same time it has become more than me. It’s now a fully formed, three-dimensional character out in the world. If I listen closely, the blog has a voice and it isn’t always what I would call my voice. It has a personality that has gone beyond me.

Before the reader begins to think I’ve take leave of my senses, consider what Paul Ricoeur has to say about the act of fixing anything in text – it is the beginning of the text’s journey away from the meanings the original author may have intended. The text is freed from the one who created it and the time and context in which it was created and enters the field of interpretation. I’ve written about this before – the idea that the writer writes – the reader interprets. Neither controls the process of the other. Once in the hand of the reader, the text takes on a life of its own that is beyond what the writer may have intended. Over time, with an accretion of text out in the world, the blog has entered into its own life. Part me, part readers, part who knows what.

At about that stage in my thoughts of yesterday, the wind and rain picking up and even the dog starting to lose enthusiasm with the idea of a walk, I had an aha moment – as the creator of this blog/character, I owe it a level of consistency. The blog cannot begin to act in ways that the readers would not find fitting to the character they have come to know and maybe even care about. If it does, there better be a darn good explanation or the reader will not be stopping by again.

For example (this is in no way a judgement of others who have created a character for their blog that is different from what I have set loose in the world – vive le difference, as the French would say) my blog wouldn’t start putting up advertisements. I know WordPress can do this and our only alternative is to pay them to stop, but this blog wouldn’t willingly participate in third-party advertising. By the same token, the blog would never begin a campaign asking readers for money. That would not be consistent with the character the readers have come to know. The blog would not start to scream vitriolic into cyberspace related to current events, people, places or lifestyles. It would not, out of the blue, give the readers a sampling of x-rated content – they wouldn’t be prepared for such behaviour and the blog has no right to take them by surprise.

This blog, much like any of the characters I have created, strives to speak with a consistent voice. The reader should not be thrown for a loop without a good explanation, or be nagged by loose threads.

Not to say that the blog should get stagnant – there needs to be character development over a story arc. No dull blogs or interesting character/blogs caught up in dull life events – to quote Alfred Hitchcock, “A great story is life with the dull parts taken out.”

I’ll throw out a good research term here as well as a personal opinion – a blog worth sticking with should have validity, which simply means the reader deems the content plausible, credible, and trustworthy. The blog, like any good character, will rarely say things exactly as the reader would – but the voice should still make sense.

Enough reflection – perhaps the weather will be a little less wet at walk time today. I know the dog would appreciate that.

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A rare view of the cabin from the water. Maybe you can just see me through the window with the light, sitting by the kitchen table writing while the fire in the wood stove decides to smoke away in a crazy fashion, totally ruining this photo. Well, at least in Bruce’s opinion. I say it is totally plausible.

Feel the fear but do it anyway – Let the story go

I often write with CBC radio podcasts streaming on my laptop for background noise. Now and then something grabs my attention. The other day a few words jumped out at me and I jotted them down along the margin of a page of editing notes: No matter what you’re trying to create – if you’re not scared you’re not really doing it.

graveyard angel

Gravelbourg, Saskatchewan graveyard where my great-grandparents are buried

Those two phrases capture one of the bitter pills a writer must swallow – the fear of letting the story go – sending it out into the world where people will judge it and evaluate it and horrors of all horrors, maybe not even get it. That is quite the scary prospect. I find myself screaming inside – not my story – my baby – my problem child as I referred to Disappearing in Plain Sight the other day to my editor.

There is no way around this dilemma, though. If I want my work to have meaning then other people will have to see it. French philosopher, Paul Ricoeur wrote extensively about hermeneutics – the art of interpreting written text. He tells us that the act of fixing anything in text is the beginning of that text’s journey away from the meanings the original author may have intended. The text is freed from the one who created it and the time and context in which it was created and enters the field of interpretation. When I realize that what he describes will happen to me with every word I write, I cringe and want to shy away from ever allowing my text to go free. But this act of creating, telling a story, fixing a story in the written form is not just a hobby – it is a need – something that becomes an imperative. There is just this story and it must be told.

We really can’t help but tell our stories. This is true even if we never commit a single story to the written word. As human beings we just seem to have this driving urge to tell and understand stories as a way of making sense of the world we live in. Telling a story lets us drag the threads of our life backward in reflection and then forward as we construct new ways of being and interacting. Richard Kearney (2002) writes that telling stories is as basic to human beings as eating – more so because while food makes us live; stories are what makes our life worth living. And the amazing thing about all of this is that each story needs to be told. Each becomes a bell echoing and echoing out and past the storyteller – to influence and change every person that hears it and yes – this includes even those who don’t like my work – they too are changed in some way.

I know I must let the story go. The story must move beyond me. Interpretation – getting it – is the work of the reader, not the writer. I will do all that I can to facilitate the interpretations, the understandings, and the connections that I want readers to make, but ultimately the reader chooses the light of insight that will shine from the story – if indeed they find a light at all. No one will ever understand my story from the inside the way I do – but that’s OK. That’s the way it should be. Each reader will understand through the lens of their own unique story. In this way – my story – my baby – will bounce around leading others to all kinds of thoughts and places I could never have imagined – and the true power of story will be released.

Kearney, Richard. (2002). On Stories. NY: Routledge

Kearney, Richard. (2007). Paul Ricoeur and the hermeneutics of interpretation. Research in phenomenology, 37. 147-159.