How to Find Your Story in 100 Baby Steps or How to Sing Yourself Home
Today on my walk I was listening to the On Being podcast with guests Pádraig Ó Tuama and Marilyn Nelson, and at one point Pádraig Ó Tuama read the poem Praise the Rain by Joy Harjo:
Praise the rain; the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk—
Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity—
Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep—
Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap—
Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food—
Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down—
Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all—
Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we're led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
I cried listening to the lines partly because almost anything read to my ear in an Irish brogue sounds like secret music and partly because the poem did that thing language does to me sometimes: it snuck under my defenses, my expectations, and got me at the knees.
I was walking in the fog of the morning, and everything was startling beautiful: the cobwebs, the screaming crows, the puddles. I took more pictures than I took steps. If the world I inhabited were bread and praise were peanut butter, I wanted to spread it on thick. On everything. My feet. The SLOW sign painted on the road. The road.
This, as you imagine, was a good feeling. Morning crack.
I wanted to remember this feeling later in the afternoon when I was busy spreading complaint over everything I touched. So I thought of a game, and then I realized this game could be the way into story. My story. Your story.
As a writing coach (as a human being), I hear many people (I’ve said it—Come on, Anne, be honest for Christ’s sake) they have a deep urge to write their story, but they have no idea what it is, or where to start, or what the point is, or if anyone would care enough to read it. They say they have no talent, but they still want to write.
I don’t understand the notion of talent when it comes to writing. I feel like what it really means is that some stupid teacher who didn’t write themself told you your writing was good and so then in your head you became a good writer while your best friend, who did not receive the same comment because their writing was not like the teacher’s writing, thinks they are not talented when it comes to words on the page because all they got was a big read C.
Average.
Only the stellar have stories to tell; only those who get A’s have the world’s permission to write, “I was born…”
For Christ’s sake.
Anyway. (The Christ’s sake thing is something my mom used to say and, clearly, I am getting incredible joy from using it today. Bear with me. It will fade away. For Christ’s sake, Anne, be a good girl.
(That was me making a joke, not something my mom ever said.)
(Okay?)
Here’s the game:
Write a list of 100 things, all starting with the word “praise”. The goal is to get to 100, so get creative and make the list a long walk of WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT?!
Go over your list and circle the ten things that give you the biggest charge. (A charge is a feeling of, ooooh, this is good.) Just because you didn’t circle the things you feel you were supposed to circle doesn’t mean you will end up in hell. This circling business is about what turns you on, not about what you owe others and the world.
Pick one of the ten, and write a story about it. If you feel as if you’ve hit a river of words, keep going. If you feel you are standing at the edge of a high dive, keep going. Write past what you know. Get ridiculous with language. Be wrong on purpose. Be stupid for the fun of it, for the curiosity of what will happen if I drop the corset of this is the way I do things.
Then go on to the next.
Keep going.
