Let me tell you a story. I could tell you the story of an ambitious writer in high school, a creative “awakening” of sorts freshman year of college, and constant improvement since that moment. I could tell you that story – and that story would be true. However, that’s not the story I’m going to tell.
The story I am going to tell is about a person who learned how to tell stories. My brain still acts like a roulette table at times – one day I wake up believing I’ll make it as a successful fiction writer and other days that my destiny lies through the doors of business school. Once I really thought I had a chance to make it as a professional golfer, but that’s a whole different tale all together (actually, it’s not – I’m not that good at golf – end of tale). Whatever career I choose to follow, though, or more likely perhaps, ends up finding me, there is one thing I know – I will always continue to write. This story isn’t so much about awakening, as it is about growth; not so much regarding ambition, as discovering success; and not so much concerning improvement, but harnessing the ability to control and to create. This is my writing evolution:
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Let’s take a journey back to the year 2006. Give yourself a moment to venture back – America is three years deep into the war in Iraq, the first iPhone is a still year away, and the Miami Heat just won the NBA Finals four years before LeBron James takes his talents to South Beach. It was also the year an anxious, chubby kid began 7th grade. At this point, and through the next six or so years, writing did not mean anything to me. I used writing as most other middle and high school kids do – as a means to turn in whatever assignment we were given. Though I found myself to be competent at the process of word production, writing was not some means of escape for me, nor was it some secret skill I believed I possessed. I didn’t keep a journal, start a blog, or write stories on the side. I just wrote things, and I didn’t really think about it.
There was this one time though – one occasion I remember more than all the others. It was my sophomore year of high school, and my English teacher, Mrs. Solomon, assigned us to create some sort of “parody.” Having just read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I thought the story fit well for a parody. I came up with a pretty stupid 2,000-word short story about a scientist who changes his appearance in order to spend weekends away from his wife, who then ends up cheating on him with his alter ego. I titled it The Strange Story of Dr. Heckel and Mr. Jyde.
Here’s an excerpt:
It was at that moment that Harry Heckel knew what he was looking for when he decided to change into Robert Jyde. He wanted adventure, he wanted danger, he wanted to find out if he was really happy, and by god he wanted something different. But, after doing all of these things and going on the wildest adventure of his life, Harry Heckel realized that what he truly wanted was the very routine he had been living for the previous 25 years, with the same woman he had loved for 25 years. He had just lost sight of it over time. So, Harry Heckel returned from his “convention” to hear his wife tell him a story of a bad mistake she made in Miami and how it only made her realize how much she loved him. He knew he had to act somewhat mad, because his wife had just technically cheated on him. So he did, and he soon came to forgive her. But in time their lives returned to normal. Harry Heckel woke up at 6:30, took a shower, eat his English muffin with the very same orange marmalade and went to work just like he had every day for the past 25 years. Only now it was different, as he appreciated every miniscule second of his normalcy. And if you ask him today, Harry will tell you his newfound happiness is due only to one man and one man only: Mr. Robert Jyde.
The first time I had ever tried anything of the sorts, I remember finding creative writing to be thoroughly enjoyable. I also remember coming into school the day it was due and realizing everyone else in the class apparently took the assignment far less seriously than I did – mostly a paragraph or two mocking some aspect of pop culture. I recall being slightly embarrassed, not wanting my friends to find out how much I overachieved. So, I concealed my story as much as I could, and frankly I’m not even sure if anyone besides my mother ever actually read the thing. I certainly never received any comments on it from Ms. Solomon (I’m not still bitter about it or anything – don’t worry). But, even more valuable than any grade I could have possibly received, I discovered my ability to create – and also the command of narrative.
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There is a certain level of control writing allows for that cannot be matched by anything else. In life, I often think, people search for control over things for which they have no control over. Life is often uncontrollable, which in part keeps life interesting. But, that also presents its share of challenges. We cannot determine our height, bone structure, or naturally given intelligence. We cannot make ourselves beautiful, athletic, or funny with the flip of a switch. But, when I write, and when I create – these entities are controllable. Such is the power of narrative.
The second semester of my freshman year of college I wrote 30,000 words of a thriller novel, entitled, “A Perilous Game.” The story revolves around a CIA Agent Curtis Graham, who tries to track down a terrorist with a plan to blow up Washington D.C. I had the basic idea for the story for some time, and this semester’s “creative ambitions” themed class gave me the perfect setting to explore it. It’s partly based on some of my favorite books to read, like Nelson DeMille’s “John Corey” series, and attempts to be a fast-paced and enjoyable read. What I sat down to write that first chapter, I only had a very general sense of who I wanted the character of Curtis Graham to be. My first immediate thought was, “macho, witty alpha-male.” Then I started to write, and as I began writing, I realized I could make this person whoever I wanted him to be. He could be a 6’5” former athlete, or a 5’5” ninja with an inferiority complex; he could be the ultimate handsome womanizer, or a well natured and devoted husband with a complicated family dynamic. I had complete control over everything.
More than that, after I settled in on whom I wanted this character to be (mostly the first parts of those equations), I found myself actively switching my brain into the character’s mindset before I sat down to write. Then I wrote things, and what resulted was a first-person narrative somewhat akin to this:
“Good morning!”
Uh-oh. I looked over to my right and saw a women across from me I was fairly certain was not my girlfriend. At least she was attractive – very attractive in fact. Huh, maybe not so bad after all. She appeared to be about 5’6 with dark hair, blue eyes, and a great body to go along with it.
“Um… Good morning…” I said in a somewhat confused and awkward tone.
“Yeah if you wanted to call it that I guess,” she replied while putting her clothes on.
This was not good. My name is Curtis Graham by the way. I’m 35 years old and live by myself in a place called Washington D.C., working for this small organization called the CIA. Last night, after getting into a fight with my girlfriend Lauren, I went out to grab a drink at my favorite bar St. Arnolds. Apparently, one drink turned into a lot of drinks, and somewhere along the way I became acquainted with my new brunette friend here (allegedly). I checked my watch – 11:30am. It was Saturday, and Lauren would probably be here any minute now for lunch. On second thought – did we break up last night? Yeah, let’s go with that. This wasn’t going to end well.
This was the very first chapter in which I introduce the character. In essence – he’s pretty much an asshole. He ends up having a clear good heart and pretty specific reasons for being the way he is, but yeah – he’s an asshole. Now, I’ve known more than a few assholes from my time on this earth, and I can definitively say I am not one. Sidebar: does an asshole know he’s an asshole, or does he simply enjoy being an asshole? But, moving on – writing from this character’s perspective gave me an opportunity I had never had before: to be a wholly different person. And furthermore, to continually create this person however I chose to do so. It was a cool feeling, especially considering where I was in my life at this point.
The second semester of my freshman year was one of the more interesting times of my college experience. I was pledging a fraternity, dealing with the hurdles that come with that, while also not completely sure if it was the right fit for me. I was introduced to new experiences, new friends, and basically a new life – essentially forced at the same time to abandon much of what I knew before. I was confused: I didn’t have much of an idea of where I was going, or more importantly, if I even wanted to go there. I felt a large lack of control not only in the present life as a fraternity pledge, but also in what my future held. I could stay, but I would be continuing down a path I was not sure I liked. I could also quit, but it would be difficult to regain the time I had lost, and there were many parts of the fraternity life that I did enjoy.
No matter what I was dealing with personally at the time (I chose to stay), I soon realized I gained an invaluable skill writing those 30,000 words of that novel. I learned how to tell a story, and I eventually grew to understand this extended far beyond the depths of fiction writing.
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What is narrative? Sure – it’s pretty easy to say the short story I wrote in high school and the novel freshman year classify as narrative. But, can an academic political science paper classify as narrative, as well? As I came to learn – the short answer is yes. Narrative can be employed in different contexts and quantities. In a persuasive communication class, we discussed how the average person is much more likely to give mental attention to a narrative-based message than a purely informational one. Pretty soon after freshman year, I started to write everything more like a story, and it wasn’t even a conscious decision.
The first time I encountered this was my sophomore year English 225 class, which focused on some pretty fascinating ethical conversations. For our term papers, we chose a particular ethical debate, presented both sides of it, then progressed to argue our personal opinions. My paper was on the ticking time bomb scenario – essentially whether or not to torture a suspect when a nuclear bomb is…well…ticking. I was making the argument that in such a given scenario torture was actually the most ethical course of action. Here is how I chose to begin that paper:
A nuclear bomb is loose in New York City. CIA Agents do not know the location of the bomb; however they have just captured a leader of the organization planning the attack. Furthermore, they have strong reason to believe this man has knowledge of the bomb’s location. They offer deals of money and immunity, but the man is not swayed; he will not talk. As it stands, a nuclear bomb will go off in the heart of New York - killing millions of Americans in the process. The question: what’s their next move?
I began with effectively a vignette, and I think it served multiple purposes. One: it was a jarring, engrossing beginning that immediately pulled the reader into the central conflict of the paper. Two: it actually let the reader imagine what they would do in such a terrifying situation, an effect I do not think is easily accomplishable with traditional academic jargon. In essence – it worked.
When the opportunity came to “remediate” as assignment a year later in Writing 220 – my first class in the Minor in Writing – my brain immediately turned to the ticking time bomb scenario. I decided to turn the previous academic paper into a fictional short story. I attempted to keep the foundation the same – that torture could be ethical – while “inserting” the reader into the story, much like I did above. That idea resulted in a short fictional story entitled, “The Last Resort.” Here is the ending:
The Director looked up at the clock. It was 2:07 PM; this bomb was going off and going off soon. Though he was portraying an attitude of confidence, he was in reality deeply conflicted himself about how to proceed. He had always stood up for human rights and couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice that stance easily.
But – even he understood the possible consequences of inaction. There is nothing humane about millions of innocent civilians burning to death; and there is nothing humane about women and children with chemical burns and radiation bad enough to turn them beyond recognition. He also knew how this would change the world. The United States, dead fast on revenge, would not relent until terrorism was utterly destroyed – it would be the only way to defeat the enemy once and for all. That could be millions if not hundreds of millions more lives lost.
And, what was that truly against? Possible reprimand from the international community? It was the brief pain of a known terrorist in order to possibly save millions of lives. Though the act of torture was unethical, he at last relented, the consequences were simply too great to ignore. Agent Miller was right – there was no ethical option here – just the least unethical one.
“Fine,” Director Price finally consented, “do what you – ”
The sound and feeling of a nuclear bomb going off is unlike anything else in the world. The entirety of the building shook with an unrecognizable fury; everyone was thrown off their feet into the air and screams radiated through the room for just a short moment; then simply darkness.
Making the same argument through fiction, as opposed to academic writing, allowed me to explore the concept in a new and exciting way. No matter how persuaded a person may be through the academic argument – it is a different experience entirely to be thrusted into the scene via fiction. In this sense, the effects of different forms of narrative come to light. On the academic side – framing an intellectual argument through narrative heightens its persuasive effect. Meanwhile, through fiction – narrative allows the reader to think about the situation in a more emotional manner, and ask the questions difficult to raise otherwise.
Throughout the rest of my academic career, I continued to employ narrative more than most. Though perhaps not frequently to the extent of the examples above, I wrote more and more papers almost like “academic stories.” Even when writing a research report on voting trends, or an argumentative essay on NSA wiretapping practices, I learned that even an argument also has a story.
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The day was July 21, 2015, and it started off like any other day during a pretty boring summer. Working as a digital media intern for Comcast SportsNet MidAtlantic, I mostly did the classic intern grunt work nobody else wanted to do – such as sorting through hours upon hours of video clips in order to form a 30-second montage. Sounds fun, right? Nonetheless, sometimes at the desk I did get to write a number of articles posted on the main CSN website, and this was one of those occasions. Earlier in the day, the beloved former Redskins tight end Chris Cooley made some comments on his radio show that he was considering a return to the NFL. With everyone else busy at the time, my boss said I could run with it.
Here’s an excerpt:
Chris Cooley has been away from the field a few years now, and it appears it may be a few too long.
In a nine-year career all with the Redskins, Cooley established himself as a fan favorite and became the team’s all-time leader in receptions at the tight end position.
“If I went to camp, I could be anybody's third tight end, worst case," he said. "I have no doubt. Any team in the NFL, I could be their third tight end. There's not a question in my mind."
There's no guarantee if he were to return, that it would be for Washington. It would be difficult to imagine Cooley in any uniform other than Burgundy and Gold, never having taken a snap for another NFL team.
I distinctly remember coming into the office the next day and sitting down across from one of my bosses, Dan. It was the late shift, at about 5:00pm, so we were discussing what went down during the day shift. “Man,” I remember him saying, “that Cooley article is killing it.” My head perked up. “You mean the one I wrote?” I asked.
“You wrote that?” he replied with a somewhat surprised and amused look. “Hey JP – ” he called out to the head of the department, “Slade wrote the Cooley article?”
“I know,” JP replied. “I’m just as surprised as you.”
Finally I asked, “Why? How well did it do?”
“Reached almost 400,000 people on Facebook,” he said. “Over 5,000 shares. That’s our best-performing article all month.”
My eyes widened slightly, not really knowing what to say. That many people read my article? It was an exciting and powerful feeling – not only did I have a voice, but now people were hearing it. I wouldn’t come close to reaching that level of circulation the rest of my internship. Seriously – like not even close. The popularity of that article was very likely due to Redskins fans’ collective and somewhat strange obsession with Chris Cooley. I really don't get it – I mean they fucking love Chris Cooley. He wasn’t even that good. But, I digress. Though it was perhaps more Cooley than myself – I still remember the feeling it created. I had reached people, and it is a feeling I hope to get back.
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When I first attempted to discern what my “evolution as a writer” truly meant – I wasn’t quite sure. Should I talk more about academic writing, creative writing, or journalism? How much might they all affect one another, and do they even have anything to do with each other in the first place? As I thought more and more about this, with the help of a glass of whiskey or six, I came to the conclusion that they’re all one and the same – they’re all representative of who I am. It’s all one big story.