Why Write or Read Stories?

"The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in your head."— Tim O'Brien

by Christopher Meeks

Why look at the stars? Why make banana bread?

Last month I gave an overview on structure, speaking about essays, mythic structure, and narrative. One question that started to emerge is why write or read stories? Why learn story structure in the first place? Using the Web to buy and sell objects is one thing—and interesting, well-written text can certainly help commerce—but what's the big deal about stories? How does that help you get ahead?

These questions led me, in part, to teaching English at a local college. I hated English classes in high school and most of college. It was only after one brilliant teacher encouraged my writing that I stumbled onto a passion and a career, and now I feel I'm returning the favor. My goal isn't to create a legion of fiction writers or playwrights but simply to show people that, hey, reading can be incredible—and writing is something you can do.

What writing can do for those who read it

I don't try to cover any historical period of English literature. I only want people to discover that reading fiction can be an experience. What kind of experience? That was my single question on the final test, after we spent the semester reading The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien, In Country by Bobbie Ann Mason, and "Soldier's Home" by Ernest Hemingway, among other pieces. The Vietnam War was our main subject. What follows are some of the thoughts by the students.

"Many history books talk about history as if it were some kind of game with written rules; this is way wrong. History involves people, and you can't talk in just facts and numbers. History isn't an exact science," wrote Gil. "With Vietnam, not a lot of us knew what it was like to be there, to wake up everyday into this terror, to walk around the woods with the feeling your next step may be your last. Stories bring us the cultures we never had a chance to be a part of, and they give us an opportunity to live the lives we never had. Stories are the least we can make for the next generations; stories are the most we can give the world."

I like that. Gil is suggesting stories are both an obligation and a gift. He makes a good point, as does Jose: "After reading The Things They Carried, I asked myself, 'How would I handle being sent to a war I did not believe in or did not want to fight in?' How would I handle facing the prospect of my death? Am I ready? We are all going to die—me, you, the whole class—but if we begin to discuss it openly, many would probably feel uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it. These were young men full of romantic notions, carrying guns, fear, anger…and the possibility of death. In life, everything is temporary, even life."

Wow! Jose is right. We are just temporary. Are we meant to buy so many fruit baskets from Harry and David on-line, then call it a life? "I shop, therefore I am?" Who knows—maybe. Good fiction has us consider these things. You must realize, there is no one answer. Jose walked into class the first day worried he was not "a writer," and just trying to figure out how he was going to make it through the semester, and he left with such thoughts. I'm impressed.

Eye-opening

"When you are able to write believably, your reader will fall gracefully into your story, awaiting the next twist," wrote Lori. "If you don't believe in your own story, don't expect anyone else to. This confidence can only come from experience." Further in the paper, she added, "I can't express the shock I felt as O'Brien shared his inner struggle in 'The Vietnam in Me.' He expressed his suicidal thoughts so vividly, that I found his instability alarming, much as people must have felt when Hemingway took his own life. Men with such talent and so much torment: truly eye-opening."

Lori ended her paper with a poetic image of her own: "The journey through literature is a solo flight."

Tim O'Brien in The Things They Carried speaks of story, too. He writes, "Forty-three years old, and the war occurred half a lifetime ago, and yet the remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for. Stories are for joining the past to the future."

Later in the book he writes, "The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in your head."

I encourage you all to read, if not write, stories. Make spirits in the head.

About the author

Christopher Meeks writes for and teaches creative writing at CalArts, and he also teaches at Santa Monica College and UCLA Extension. He has published four nonfiction children's books and written many short stories. His stories have been published most recently in The Santa Barbara Review, The Southern California Anthology, Rosebud, and Writers' Forum. His plays--Fiveplay, Suburban Anger, and Who Lives?-- have been produced in Los Angeles.  Who Lives? earned several grants for its production, including one from The Pilgrim Project, a group that assists plays that "ask questions of real moral significance." For seven years, he was a theater reviewer for Daily Variety, and for two years he wrote a column for Writer's Digest. His screenplay, Henry's Room, won the Donald Davis Dramatic Writing Award.

Illustrations: Phillip Dvorak Theater Classics for Artville.com