The Story I Want to Write Some Day

Everyone I’ve ever met has a story they would love to write some day, a great and perfect piece of art that will take the world by storm and finally bring them the stability to live in a cabin by a lake in the mountains with a big friendly dog.

Maybe that particular fantasy is my own, but the part about creation is universal, I’m convinced.

I’ve lost count of the number of people that, when I’ve told them of my authorial dreams and 4 completed draft manuscripts, have told me how they would love to write a story. Luckily none of them have offered the ever-irksome, “I have this great idea, write it up and we’ll split the profits.” And therefore I was able to maintain their friendship; I mean, have you ever heard of a sillier idea? But they all have a story that they would love to write some day.

Reasons for their, and my, not having written it yet – or not currently writing it – are legion. They range from time commitments (kids, work, ill relatives they have to take care of) to skill issues, or even the illusive ‘oh, you know, reasons.’ Oh how those reasons are unconquerable; the unnamed, nebulous force keeping me from fulfilling my dreams.

Luckily, the majority of my difficulties, and the reason that I have a story I would love to write some day, are in the second category. I have sufficient time, and am thankfully devoid of ‘reasons’ that prevent my creative endeavours; what I lack are the skills to tell the stories I want to tell. One story in particular, though there is an other that I think is held back by the same worries so one explanation will suffice for both.

Skills are a complicated issue, and one over which I have gotten into heated debates with a good friend of mine several times. There is one school of thought that insists on the supremacy of natural talent; these people are completely bonkers as they discount hard work and dedication completely. (There is also the odd insistence of society at large to call everything talent, which likewise dismisses passion and hard work.) Next we have the school, the one to which my friend belongs, who believes that natural talent or inclination do not exist or are otherwise not to be considered.

People have a strange tendency to get rather bent out of shape about this if pressed, then again maybe I just have friends prone to arguments. Or, since these people tend to be friends with me, maybe I’m the problem? Dratted philosophy degree causing issues again.

I am attached to, as with most things, a more moderate view distinct from the above mentioned schools. Speaking from the nature perspective, I am and always have been drawn to stories and storytelling. I love the act of telling a story, I take a lot of pleasure in disassembling the narratives that I enjoy and seeing how they work. And, if my parents are to be believed, I have a natural aptitude for storytelling that had been evident my whole life.

Additionally, I’ve put a lot of work into it. I took a talent and honed it into a skill through years of practice. That practice was not constant, through most of my public school career I wrote very little but never stopped consuming stories. (Mostly in the form of audiobooks.) During my time learning how to be pretentious in University (Go Gaels!) I quite naturally spent a lot of time writing for my classes and got back into reading. And I got aggressively back into reading.

But, throughout all this time, I tried my hand at writing several times. I would get chapters deep into a novel before losing the thread completely and having the story crumble in my hands. Getting a little further each time. I would finish a short story, reread it and cringe at just how terrible I was. Or at least, how terrible I thought I was.

But all of this was effective practice. Every step along this journey got me closer to the stories I wanted to tell some day. A few of those stories have now been told, though not as well as I would like and thus the magic of a draft two. Or a second attempt. But there is one, my white whale, that is out of my reach; maybe forever.

None of you will know this, but I have the artistic ability of a particularly literate teaspoon. My ability to draw or otherwise create aesthetically pleasant things peaked some time in primary school when I discovered stick figures and motion lines. An even greater sin is that I don’t even like visual art all that much; to me it’s like really fancy chocolate, once it passes a certain point of quality, I stop being able to distinguish the differences.

Good from bad? Easy. Good from better? A little more difficult. Better from spectacular? Maybe. Spectacular from truly amazing? Nope. Haven’t a clue most of the time.

Maybe that marks me out as a plebian for life. Much like how I don’t connect well with music or poetry, I am a lesser creative for my generalized disinterest in these art forms. Or maybe it doesn’t matter and I’m just overthinking – a trait that is never applied to creatives who study philosophy with any regularity, I’m sure.

So, I cannot draw worth a damn and have told you before that I have a story I want to write some day. But how do they connect? Yes, it is a graphic novel. I have no difficulty in believing that many of you have consumed a different form of media and thought to yourself “I would love to create something like this. In fact, I already have an idea.” What holds us back is our lack of skill.

Please notice I don’t say lack of talent, again I’m in the middle and have met people who I believe have little talent in what they do but a passion and dedication that have allowed them to develop truly amazing skills. I have no talent for visual art, I’m not ashamed of that and know that if I were to put enough time into it, I could perhaps become skilled enough to tell my story. The question I am left with is this, what would I have to give up to make that dream become a reality?

To help me illustrate my point, let me explain just a part of the story that I want to tell some day.

Opening scene: a view of an open grave on a rainy day, with a closed casket beside it. Surrounding the site is a crowd of people in mourning wear under large black umbrellas. A young man, handsome yet haggard, approaches a weeping woman and, handing her a stained leather journal, says “he would have wanted you to have that.” Standing in her kitchen later, she opens the book with trembling hands and begins to read.

Naturally there is more to this scene, it would take several pages to tell properly in the graphic medium I think, but with my inherent creative paranoia I’ll keep the rest of the details to myself.

What I will say is that this story, as I have envisioned it, would require multiple art styles to be most effectively told. One would first be seen during the prologue, with a heavy and somber atmosphere as the coffin is lowered into the waiting grave. The next would take over, with the same character design but a more upbeat and hopeful air still containing a touch of darkness, and last up until the death of the man in the box. A third would then replace the second and carry it through to the ending, with darker overtones and less of the lightheartedness that characterized the second. Much closer to the first, if not the first style reasserting itself completely.

A story that I would love to write, and one that I can learn half of the skills necessary without starting from the ground up. Instead of needing to learn a whole new form of art and storytelling, if I were to partner with a skilled artist, I could simply learn how to write for this medium. It is possible to make that transition, Neil Gaiman and Sandman are one good example, from strictly prose to graphic.

In order to learn how to draw to the needed degree, I believe that I would have to either invent time travel and force my younger self to do something he desperately hated, or else start now and neglect my other passions. Where would I fit the hours upon hours needed to learn this skill into my current life? And what would I have to give up?

Storytelling in general is a great passion of mine, I love dissecting them and seeing the moving parts. Looking for plot devices, even if I can’t always recall the names of them in the moment, is incredibly fun for me. I do it now, for free, as a hobby. But the creation of visual art has never been like that, even when I was young, my memories are all of trying to avoid art class because I did not like it. While I have my own theories as to why, the point is that it is not something I enjoy. And not something I can see myself learning to enjoy.

The story I want to tell someday is held back by this lack of talent and inclination. Visual art has never been a love of mine, so far as I can remember, nor have I ever put much effort into it. As with many people, I learned what I had no interest in or aptitude for and refocused my efforts elsewhere. Yet still I lament it, I have an idea that I cannot give life to yet.

Future days might yet bring me to a level where I can, however.

Do you face similar issues to me? What is holding you apart from the creation of your own white whale project? And do you agree with my stance on talent versus skill?

As always thanks for reading and please check out my other works if you have time!