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By: Dianna Dilworth,
on 10/5/2015
Blog: Galley Cat (Mediabistro) (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Authors, Henning Mankell, wallander, Add a tag
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By: Lucy Coats,
on 6/1/2010
Blog: An Awfully Big Blog Adventure (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: homo narrans, writer's brain, Storytelling, Lucy Coats, Henning Mankell, Add a tag
I read an article last week, and something the writer said struck a chord with me. Here it is:
"We are called Homo sapiens — the wise man — and perhaps that’s true. But I would say that what really defines us as a species, what makes the difference between me and my cat, is something I would call Homo narrans — storytelling man. I can talk to you — and you can talk to me — about dreams and fears. But my cat can’t sit with other cats and do those things. Life is really about the day-to-day writing of an enormous new chapter in the history of human beings." That was Henning Mankell, the creator of Wallander, considering the power of storytelling in Africa, which is something I have touched on here before, although in a different context.
I love the idea of belonging to that newly-coined species of our human race--sitting on the storytelling branch, so to speak. It's an interesting thought. Do we who make up stories have a rerouted synapse or a differently configured brain to those who don't? I'm not a neuroscientist--I have no idea, and I shouldn't think it was possible to tell anyway. The marvellous Anne Rooney might shed some light--she is a mine of information on all matters scientific. The brain and how it really works is still mostly a big fat mystery--that I do know. All I am certain of is this: that my brain 'feels' different when I am writing. It's doing it now, in fact. But it's difficult to describe exactly how, for all of my storytelling skills seem to desert me when I try. Last week I was at Birmingham Young Readers and a seven year-old girl asked me that very question. "How does it feel when you write your stories." It was a brilliant thing to ask, and I told her so (giving myself a little more time to think of an answer in the process!). I am not afraid to admit that I babbled. There were a lot of ums and wells and sort-ofs contained in my reply because I found it incredibly hard to articulate in any way that would make sense to her. I'm not sure she was all that impressed. But I wonder how many of the writers reading this could describe the physical changes which happen when the muse is visiting? Go on now--I know you'll all be incredibly precise and show me up horribly! If I really try, I can tell you that for me it feels like everything has shifted a little to the left. That side of my brain feels awake and fizzy, but somehow spongy and malleable at the same time. The left side of my face feels slightly numb. I'm aware, but not concentrating in the way that I would if I were threading a needle, say, or performing a tricky task like glueing china. I suppose it is a state of altered consciousness, and yet there are no drugs involved (well, maybe the occasional paracetamol). I'm focused, and yet disengaged from the outside world. I can be in this state and still drive safely. Feel free to tell me I'm weird. Of course I am. Weird is the storybranch this homo narrans sits on most comfortably. Preferably with a notebook at my fingertips.
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By: Dianna Dilworth,
on 10/5/2015
Blog: Galley Cat (Mediabistro) (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Authors, Henning Mankell, wallander, Add a tag
By: Lucy Coats,
on 6/1/2010
Blog: An Awfully Big Blog Adventure (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: homo narrans, writer's brain, Storytelling, Lucy Coats, Henning Mankell, Add a tag
"We are called Homo sapiens — the wise man — and perhaps that’s true. But I would say that what really defines us as a species, what makes the difference between me and my cat, is something I would call Homo narrans — storytelling man. I can talk to you — and you can talk to me — about dreams and fears. But my cat can’t sit with other cats and do those things. Life is really about the day-to-day writing of an enormous new chapter in the history of human beings." That was Henning Mankell, the creator of Wallander, considering the power of storytelling in Africa, which is something I have touched on here before, although in a different context.
I love the idea of belonging to that newly-coined species of our human race--sitting on the storytelling branch, so to speak. It's an interesting thought. Do we who make up stories have a rerouted synapse or a differently configured brain to those who don't? I'm not a neuroscientist--I have no idea, and I shouldn't think it was possible to tell anyway. The marvellous Anne Rooney might shed some light--she is a mine of information on all matters scientific. The brain and how it really works is still mostly a big fat mystery--that I do know. All I am certain of is this: that my brain 'feels' different when I am writing. It's doing it now, in fact. But it's difficult to describe exactly how, for all of my storytelling skills seem to desert me when I try. Last week I was at Birmingham Young Readers and a seven year-old girl asked me that very question. "How does it feel when you write your stories." It was a brilliant thing to ask, and I told her so (giving myself a little more time to think of an answer in the process!). I am not afraid to admit that I babbled. There were a lot of ums and wells and sort-ofs contained in my reply because I found it incredibly hard to articulate in any way that would make sense to her. I'm not sure she was all that impressed. But I wonder how many of the writers reading this could describe the physical changes which happen when the muse is visiting? Go on now--I know you'll all be incredibly precise and show me up horribly! If I really try, I can tell you that for me it feels like everything has shifted a little to the left. That side of my brain feels awake and fizzy, but somehow spongy and malleable at the same time. The left side of my face feels slightly numb. I'm aware, but not concentrating in the way that I would if I were threading a needle, say, or performing a tricky task like glueing china. I suppose it is a state of altered consciousness, and yet there are no drugs involved (well, maybe the occasional paracetamol). I'm focused, and yet disengaged from the outside world. I can be in this state and still drive safely. Feel free to tell me I'm weird. Of course I am. Weird is the storybranch this homo narrans sits on most comfortably. Preferably with a notebook at my fingertips.
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Fascinating! When I'm in the midst of a good write I notice that I'll be hammering away at the keyboard, thinking, 'I'm hungry now.' A bit later I'll think, 'I'm really hungry now.' Then about 3pm my brain seems to snap me out of it and says, 'Go eat!' But I usually eat at my desk, still reaching to the keyboard to make the odd change, shoving my plate out of the way once I've finished so that I can carry on writing... If I'm too busy writing to eat, I know I must be really on a roll. Eating is VERY important to me!
Gosh, that WAS a good question that girl asked! I must prepare myself for that one! It can feel great - and it can feel horrible. But that may not be quite enough to describe it properly. It can feel like being transported, can't it? And I'm not sure if I am safe to drive...
Karen--I know just what you mean about the eating thing. Manners totally out of the window--food is purely fuel for the writing brain. I wish I had a pound for every time I've had to brush absent-mindedly dropped crumbs out of the keyboard. Luckily I've never spilled tea on it. Yet.
Nicola--yes, transported is right too. Perhaps somewhere just an inch into another dimension--that idea of all the worlds being layered over one another. The driving thing is weird for me. I don't know if it's because driving is such an automatic skill, but somehow it frees up that writing part of my mind and I often get really good ideas or work out plot problems in the car. I am concentrating on the road properly (I promise), but the enclosed silence and the passing countryside seem to trigger things off, somehow.
Flippant answer: Backache!
Non-flippant answer: When a story is going well, when it feels like it is telling itself and I'm just writing down dictation, then it's a similar feeling to riding a horse at a gallop over unknown terrain: exhilarating, terrifying, and you want it never to stop.
And when it does stop, you have backache.
When it's not going particularly well i don't feel that different I peck at it, write a sentence, stare out of the window, make a cup of tea, flick through facebook. When it's going well I am so lost in the story, concentrating so hard I emerge as if from a sleep or a long exam, often with little idea of what I have just written. That doesn't feel like anything at all because I am not that self aware. It is much more like being lost in someone else's book.
My biggest problem is staring. I get really funny looks from people in coffee bars. I'm mid-flow, the brain is working overtime, I'm staring blankly into the distance dreaming the route forward and I get a glare from someone across the room. Must remember to look down when I lock into a staring phase!
Oh yes, Miriam, I stare, too. It can be embarrassing if I am sitting in a cafe or on a train.
When it is going well- I have no idea because I'm not really aware of anything else but the story or being the character I am writing dialogue for.
When it's going badly it always reminds me of that great line in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves where the sheriff of Nottingham threatens to dig RH's heart out with a spoon.
That is what it feels like, as if I am carving it out slowly and painfully from within myself... sorry a bit grizzly that!
I'm really glad you said that Linda. Makes we feel less weird!!