Is Storytelling Embedded in our DNA?

A couple of weeks ago, I happened upon a new television show, Who Do You Think You Are? - the premise if fairly basic, take a celebrity and using all means possible trace their family heritage. I am not one for reality shows, in particular celebrity reality shows, so I was surprised how quickly I became engrossed with the program. In fact, afterwards I went online and started searching for my own family tree.

My family is the quintessential stoic, stiff upper lip New England family, so very little family history has been passed on down since our motto has always been, no matter what happens - good, bad or indifferent - keep moving forward and keep it to yourself.

As a writer, I have a hard time keeping things to myself - to put it mildly, so in many ways I have always felt like I am an odd fit for my family. If I was not the spitting image of my father, and more closely his mother, I might wonder if I were adopted or a random stray picked up along the way.

My quest for my family history is not unique, but as I searched and found connections to people I have never met, I was struck by how swiftly I started picturing my ancestors in my writer’s mind; how easily I could imagine their lives and their stories; and how alive they felt to me as if they were characters cast in my current work in progress instead of long forgotten relatives lost to an unknown history.

Then, I realized why the reality show and my searching had such an impact on me - both elicited an emotional response. The very point of storytelling.

My research proved fruitful in more ways than I could have imagined. My Dad, whose parents died when he was very young, now knows more about where they grew up, what their childhood nicknames where, when they married, where their families are from.

On my Mom’s side of the family, I learned that there are other storytellers in my family, in fact my grandfather used to write stories. He also played minor league baseball with the Pawtucket Red Sox. Pretty cool!

Like real life people, our characters are alive. They live in our writer’s hearts and minds and then upon the printed page. We want our storytelling to matter, to leave a trace on this Earth, to have a lasting impact of some kind on our readers, just like we want to leave a trace in our own lives.

I am comforted to know I am not the only one in the family who enjoys telling a story. I don’t feel as out of place now. I also got a kick out of the realization that I used the first name of my great-great-great grandmother in my current work in progress without even knowing it. Maybe just a coincidence, but something tells me there is more to the story - no pun intended.

I have had a lot of ups and downs with my writing, and I’m sure my journey towards publications still has a few more bumps in the road before I hopefully find my way to a contract, but my need to tell a story, to leave a trace, is revitalized.

Who knew a reality television show could do all that.

To learn more about your story, go to: http://www.ancestry.com/. Good luck!

Two Creative Muses

I love writing, but sometimes another creative muse pulls at me. During these times, I set aside my laptop to pick up a paint brush. I've always been an amateur artist, taking numerous classes and dabbling in several mediums from graphite to charcoal, pastels, and pen and ink. Then I discovered Winslow Homer's paintings and fell in love with watercolor.

I love the beauty of the flowing, merging washes. I love its transparency. I love how it can be extremely detailed like some of Edward Hopper's works or incredibly loose like those of Maurice Prendergast. I love the wet, luminous qualities of J.M.W. Turner's London sunsets and the dry, scraped, churning seas by Winslow Homer.

I recently signed up for a writer's conference and after finishing a two-day watercolor workshop, I couldn't help but compare and contrast these two creative outlets.

Okay, if the truth be told, after sweltering all day under the hot August sun painting this beautiful garden, it crossed my mind that writer's workshops were a tad easier. Standing before my easel eight hours later and feeling the sweat drip down my back, I yearned for a comfortable chair and air conditioning.

I went to clean up my stuff, and it took a couple trips to the car to lug easel and umbrella, the finished painting, the paints, brushes, water jugs, and paper towels, etc. I won't be complaining the next time I have to slip my laptop in its case and carry it from library to car.

While the logistics involved in writing have an advantage over painting, there is still nothing like seeing a finished picture at the end of the day. Seeing a painting I've worked hours on come together is like magic. And -- there are no edits and revisions aside from a small touch up here and there. Toss it in a frame, and everyone can admire it.

There are also many similarities between the two. Surprises can be found in both. In writing, characters can go off script and yet these detours often enhance a story. Sometimes what I believe to be a mistake in my painting, like two colors inadvertently merging can make a picture beautiful. Similar to story ideas popping into a writer's head, I'll see a beautiful scenic vista and yearn to capture it in paint.

Best of all, in both writing and painting, I can get blocked. It's at these time that I'm lucky to have two creative outlets to which I can turn. If both outlets are blocked, I simply pick up a book and dive into another love.