Episode 1.4 In Which The Concept of Family is discussed
Neil Gaimen has said that in writing, you have to be true to your own references. He mentions that writing in the style of his favorite writers was easy, smooth. That it took no effort. But then he realized it was fake writing, for it was in someone else's voice, not his. Not good.
Find your voice, he says.
At the moment I am listening to my husband, his younger brother, and their 85 year old Father have one of their first conversations, in the same room, in years. They are visiting our house. The sporadic thunderstorm rumble around the valley.
I am not in the room, but it is obvious that I hear them, and the sway of their conversation. It is filled with laughter, low-level argument, and joyous agreement. Fueled by red wine.
But.
Each one of them has their specific memories of specific events. They quibble and laugh over their various remembrances of an event, a home they used to live in, an incident that caused disruption. And they are each quite sure that their version is correct. They are following what is the most familiar to them, But what is happening, in their conversation, is that they are following their favorite author--themselves. But what I hear, from a distance is a woven fabric, of individual stories that each person is convinced to be true. And together, these separate stories, yanked together, piled one after another on top of each other like the pancake stack from Hell, make a History.
A true voice. The real story. But it takes, sometimes, several voices to make the truth.
Once Upona.
Neil Gaimen has said that in writing, you have to be true to your own references. He mentions that writing in the style of his favorite writers was easy, smooth. That it took no effort. But then he realized it was fake writing, for it was in someone else's voice, not his. Not good.
Find your voice, he says.
At the moment I am listening to my husband, his younger brother, and their 85 year old Father have one of their first conversations, in the same room, in years. They are visiting our house. The sporadic thunderstorm rumble around the valley.
I am not in the room, but it is obvious that I hear them, and the sway of their conversation. It is filled with laughter, low-level argument, and joyous agreement. Fueled by red wine.
But.
Each one of them has their specific memories of specific events. They quibble and laugh over their various remembrances of an event, a home they used to live in, an incident that caused disruption. And they are each quite sure that their version is correct. They are following what is the most familiar to them, But what is happening, in their conversation, is that they are following their favorite author--themselves. But what I hear, from a distance is a woven fabric, of individual stories that each person is convinced to be true. And together, these separate stories, yanked together, piled one after another on top of each other like the pancake stack from Hell, make a History.
A true voice. The real story. But it takes, sometimes, several voices to make the truth.
Once Upona.
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