Welcome back to Graphically Minded, a (for now) entirely free every-other-Friday publication about writing and storytelling, relating the lessons I’ve learned in a 20-plus-year career as a comic book writer and author.
On those occasions when I am asked to teach creative writing, I usually start with one lesson that is foundational to the way I approach my work. And that lesson is this: Writing and storytelling are different crafts.
This might be something that you find obvious. But in case it isn’t, here’s a simple proof. You can tell a story without writing. And, as most every email in your inbox will reveal, you can write without telling a story.
So, then, the task of creative writing is twofold. Become skilled at writing. And learn how to tell a story.
We (culturally) talk a great deal about writing craft, but the storytelling part of it often gets lost. We assume we know what makes a good story, but then the components never quite cohere into a whole.
I recommend specifically studying storytelling, and there are some great resources out there. The most exhaustive is The Seven Basic Plots by Christopher Booker. Right now I’m reading Into the Woods by John Yorke, which is a shorter and more accessible volume that has similar lessons. Both aim to explain why we tell the stories we tell, and why they come in the shapes they do. All stuff that feeds toward outlining, a topic that I want to dig into in a future edition.
Today, I want to talk about another way to build up your storytelling muscles. And it is this: Tell stories.
Get Your Reps In
All skills require work, repetitions, to master. The more the better. So, in your daily life, make a point to tell stories. Take the things you see, the experiences you have, and relate them to others in a way that feels like a whole, that has at least some element of beginning-middle-end.
I was lucky. I grew up amid two families in which stories were the currency of trade, the way we communicate. Reunions would be everyone sitting around, taking turns to spin yarns, the others listening. It was better than any school I could’ve attended.
I still tell stories all the time. (ALL THE TIME, my friends and family might say.) I tell my kids the stories of my childhood, and the stories my dad told me about his childhood. And as I do, I watch the way they react. I think about whether there would be a better way to shape things, fine-tuning, learning from what entertains them and what doesn’t.
There’s your homework. But, in the spirit of sharing, I’ll give you this. The best story I’ve ever told.
The Owl Story
If you know me, you know I grew up in a tiny town. Three-hundred people in rural Nebraska. In my grade, there was just me and one other boy (whom I’ll call “Chris”). Chris and I were as different as could be. He was cool and athletic. I was chubby with glasses, my nose buried in comic books. But it was just the two of us, so we called ourselves best friends.
When we were maybe 10 or 11, one day Chris came out to our house in the country to play. It was the summer and warm, and we had our Super Soakers. I had the most basic model, but Chris had a giant one that was like a water bazooka.
My family lives on a massive plot of land with woods and a creek and a yard larger than a football field. Chris suggested we go look for animals to blast with our squirt guns, and I was relieved that he didn’t want to shoot me.
See, I was always a pretty passive, quiet kid. And Chris… I didn’t understand it fully, but he was mean, more than a little self obsessed. There was a vague feeling of disconnect, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning of it. After all, we were best friends.
There we went, off into the woods. We saw squirrels and songbirds and the family cats and dogs, and Chris blasted them all. I joined in, not that my squirt gun caused any real damage.
We ventured farther, up north of the house, to a row of cedar trees that my great grandfather had planted long before. And as we walked, Chris suddenly stopped. “Look,” he whispered.
There, about twelve feet off the ground, a great horned owl sat in the tree, eyeing us. It was beautiful. A massive bird, eyes wide and piercing.
In one motion, Chris lifted his Super Soaker and unleashed a torrent.
He hit the owl flush, knocking it clean backward out of the tree, plummeting toward the ground. At the last second it spread its wings, righted itself and soared silently away.
Chris crowed. It was, I had to admit, an incredible shot. I didn’t say it, but I felt horribly for the owl. And all at once my glee for this sport was gone.
We searched around for a while longer for more prey, but it seemed the animals had gone into hiding. After an hour or so, we reloaded our squirt guns and Chris suggested we go back to the cedars. “Maybe the owl is back.” And so we went.
I led the way this time, and I was secretly hoping I could spook the owl off if it had returned. But, relieved, I saw that it was gone. I turned back to tell Chris our hunt was in vain when I noticed something. Above him, in the sky, some distance back, was… something.
Something moving closer and closer. A speck that grew larger. Formed wings and a head and beak and talons, claws that stretched out, ready to grasp or shred.
The owl.
I watched as it bore down without a noise, a few seconds that seemed like minutes. Chris had his eyes on me. Had no clue what was happening. And me… I said nothing. Offered no warning as the owl glided in right at his head.
And then it shat.
Yes, shat. A great white rivulet descended from the owl, an amount of shit that seemed impossible, more shit than the owl had space within it by a factor of ten, shit that fell upon Chris like carpet bombs — boom, boom, boom — detonating against his back and left shoulder first, then in his face as he turned, his eyes and nose and mouth all at once coated in what looked like ivory paint, then on down the front of him.
The owl pinched off, and the stream of shit fell to an end right at my feet as it glided over my head and out of view.
Chris cried. Sobbed, really. It was the only time I saw him like that. Saw him weak. Defeated.
We went inside and my mom cleaned him up. In the months and years that followed, we drifted apart, as hard as that is to do when you are the only two boys in your grade. I had seen a truth about him, and about myself. We were not best friends. We were not friends.
The owl had shown me that.
As always, I hope this is helpful to you as you write and tell stories. If you’d like to learn more about me and my writing, please visit vanjensen.com. Comments or questions? Please share them below. See you in a couple of weeks.
Damn, that’s glorious.