Stories, dead and alive
Listening and Reading
The other night I went to a performance called Between Dog and Wolf, where we heard comedian Tommy Teirnan tell stories for an hour, and then Martin Shaw told a story from the Arthurian cycle answering “what do women want?” I loved every minute and have been thinking about the difference between written stories and spoken stories.
Some stories are written to be read, like a short story in The New Yorker. I can never get past the first paragraph. Then there are folktales, passed down orally for centuries and collected in books by folklorists like Ella Young and Lady Augusta Gregory. I can’t get through those either. I know that people have loved them but they seem dead as they arrive on the page. Writing is the wrong medium for stories like that. Last week Tommy told the story of Emain Macha with such righteousness and poignancy—well, I feared for those men of Ulster, so I did. (Here’s my written version of the Emain Macha story if you don’t know it.)
On my first solo trip to Ireland, I landed in a new friend’s sitting room, and she suggested we tell each other a love story from our own lives. Listening to their stories felt completely different from hearing a woman moan about her love life. And evening of improvisational literature. When it came to my turn, I heard myself telling an old story with a beginning, a middle, an end—and a reflection, all new to me.
One of the friends who listened to the stories at Between Dog and Wolf last week is going to invite a few friends over, and each of us is to give a story. I can’t wait. Let me know if you try it at home yourselves.
After Santa Cruz
In the meantime, I’ll write you this letter. When we came to Ireland we thought we’d stay three months. That was nine years ago. When we arrived I started a blog to tell stories about Ireland called After Santa Cruz, to avoid Facebook. Eventually Google’s ancient blog platform annoyed me, so last month I moved the whole thing to Substack. So far it gives me what I want: a free blog and mailing list. Costs you nothing, and it might be easier to read.
Most of my subscribers are friends already, but a few people have subscribed because… I have no idea why. Fáilte.
Fiction
Every day I’m delighted A Circle Outside is published and in the world out its own. I wish I had started writing fiction sooner. If you are in Ireland, UK, or Aus/NZ please buy A Circle Outside at a bookstore. I’m asking, and you won’t be disappointed. The paperback arrives in North American bookstores next February. (You can buy an eBook now, if you don’t want to wait.) Next winter I’ll have an event in Santa Cruz and the Bay Area with the help of a publicist who grew up in Santa Cruz. She was delighted with the mention of the Goodwill Bargain Barn in the books’s first pages. If you hear about A Circle Outside anywhere you can thank April Whitney.
In a low-key effort to raise my visibility, a few poems and essays I had written for After Santa Cruz found publishers; in Medusa Rising, Pagan Ireland, and the Women’s Poetry Anthology I post daily to instagram, a photo with comment, mostly about Ireland. I’ve written one new essay since moving to Substack, The Wisdom of Oakes about something an oak tree told me. It’s a story I’ve told orally many times, but in writing it down, I found an ending. So I guess I have a future in writing after all.
A few months ago, I wrote to you that I was working on four books and a movie. Two books are published, the third should arrive next month, and the fourth sometime next year. The movie narration is written and recorded and we’re on schedule for release next April. I got an Xbox for my birthday, but it doesn’t seem to interfere with the real world, just another medium for stories.
Just before I composed this, I read that Santa Cruz cartoonist Tim Eagan had died. His Subconscious Comics in the Express and Sun etc helped me make sense of a bewildering world when I was a young woman. A few years ago I read his graphic novel Head First. I recommend it, as it is a story about facing death, and has a great ending.
Now it’s your turn. Tell me a story.
Yours faithfully,
Linda