The sixth post in the series “Stories Save My Life” is written by Claire Salcedo, who is my youngest sister and great friend.

Claire is a singer/songwriter and an amazing upcoming talent. Listen to her music here on Bandcamp and PLEASE support her, if you like the music, by purchasing her incredibly affordable EP.

Follow her on Twitter and on Tumblr and make sure you add your comments below:

What character (from any media) made you feel more secure in who you were as a child?

- Sarah

“Familiar Friends: Returning to Pride and Prejudice”

Guest Poster: Claire Salcedo

I read Pride and Prejudice when I was eleven years old. I vividly remember sitting by the fireplace in my family’s apartment, reading Jane Austen’s words as the logs crackled and burned away. This memory, of exactly where and when I read a book, was the first of its kind. I can’t recall specific books I read before that moment, but I could point out any book on my shelves that I read after Pride and Prejudice, and tell you the date and place I first read it. Something new had happened.

I had already enjoyed reading when I was very young (at four years old, I used to sneak out of my room in the middle of the night to look at picture books in the bathroom). I had loved stories in general—whether being spun a new tale at bedtime (Sarah can attest that I am still, 13 years later, asking her to write down one of those stories) or dreaming one up just to pass a pleasant day.

Pride and Prejudice, however, was my first serious book, and it triggered a hunger in me to read like I had never known before. I began to really love literature after I read it, and I eagerly devoured any book that came my way.

For a long time, I was a quiet kid who struggled to find a voice and the courage to use it. I was an observer. Elizabeth was bold, witty, and while she watched others and their follies, she knew when to speak her mind. She was never afraid just to be herself—whether that was teasing her friends, supporting her family, or tearing into Mr. Darcy.

I liked the fact that she wasn’t perfect and was very aware of it. When you’re in the throes of growing up, and most things in your life seem to be tumbling around you, it’s nice to have such a forgiving standard.

The characters always draw me in deeply. In every one of them, I feel like I see the reflection of someone I know— a friend, acquaintance, or family member. I laugh and sigh with them, and never feel like they hang off in the distance, like some awkward acquaintance I have nothing in common with. I squirm at the antics of Mr. Collins, am horrified at Lydia and annoyed at the haughty Caroline Bingley. I’m always rooting alongside the elder Bennets and muttering insults when Willoughby tries once more to ingratiate himself with Elizabeth. They’re just as human, flawed and ridiculous as you and I.

Strangely enough, that’s one of the reasons why Elizabeth Bennet became one of my heroes. She was flawed and complex, and more than just a static character on a page. So when I looked up to her and admired her, it wasn’t as if I was looking at a character that felt unreal. Emulating her was never some unattainable standard.

The kindness of that forgiving standard is why I come back again and again. It’s comforting to know that in all my moments of chaos and uncertainty, I can wrap myself up in the comings and goings of these characters. Somehow, I believe they’re real—yes I do know they’re actually fictional—and so when their troubles sort themselves out, I breathe a sigh of relief for myself too. It gives me the hope that even people still stumbling a little under the weight of their own faults find happy endings. Not perfect ones (although there are a few who have extremely good luck), but good ones. Pride and Prejudice is just so hopeful in having wonderfully flawed people live on, that I just have to be hopeful as well.

I’ve reread it about every year since, and I have to say, I think I have a much better understanding of it now then I did when I was eleven. I’ve written essays on it for English classes and college applications, watched the BBC miniseries probably a dozen times, and poured through all of Austen’s other books. There was also a point at which I could quote the miniseries, in ten-minute segments. Even today, probably to the great annoyance of anyone unlucky enough to be watching it with me, I like to say the lines along with the characters. I remember I also had a phase where all I wanted to wear was clothing with empire waistlines. And in high school, one of the few nicknames I have ever received was Claire Austen. Yet no matter how many times I read it, write about it, or am teased for it, do I ever lose my love for it. The story just stays with me, time after time, no matter what’s happening in my life.

That’s why I love Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice and all of the moments I can recall related to it. It has given me so much. It began my love affair with literature, and even influenced my decision to major in literature. It called me to be bold when I wanted courage, and gave me a hero. From the moment I first cracked open that book, I’ve had a constant source of inspiration, distraction, and comfort. I don’t think I could even really say how grateful I am for just one book that opened me up to such a wonderful place as is the world of the written word. 

I wrote An Artist’s Guide for Goodbyes about two months ago. I had been miscarrying for about a month at that point and I felt I needed to write about what was going on and how art was helping make sense of it and other recent losses. I was writing about moving on, but honestly, it was incredibly difficult even after I made the step to share what I was going through. Don’t get me wrong. Writing that post was like breathing for the first time in a month. I gave words to my pain and opened up about it, and being brave in that way, in a painful way, began the healing process. However, I wasn’t done miscarrying. Every week I had to go back to the doctor, give blood and get the call a couple days later that it still wasn’t done. 

In a way, part of me felt like posting meant it should’ve been the end of my grieving. It wasn’t. It just put me in touch with my grief in a more articulate way. I grew more despondent every week that I had to go back to the nurse, get patted on the shoulder by the sweet nurse who I came to know over the 2+ months who would always say “I hope this is the end for you” as I left the office. And every following week I’d show back up in her doorway, she’d smile sadly, show me to the chair, and repeat the same sad and comforting words as I left.

Vasant and I were struggling to not suppress, and yet not get swallowed by our grief. A few wonderful people emailed after my post. Fewer still followed up with us to see how we were getting along. I read in most of the pregnancy books that miscarriage is really difficult for people because you don’t understand it unless you’ve been through it. It’s a death, but people minimize it because the child was never out in the real world. And yet, this doesn’t really matter to the mother. The child was a promise of new life. Not just A new life, but new life for the parents. The grandparents. The prospective aunts and uncles. On top of a miscarriage being the death of promise, it’s also death within a woman. If someone dies outside of you, it’s hard enough. But if someone dies within you, and that death lingers over 10+ weeks, until all residue of what could’ve been your child cease to exist within you, it can be tortuous.

Not even the few people who grieve with you can understand. And even the few women who miscarry who had quick miscarriages have a hard time understanding. The loss of the child is trauma enough. But for the remainder of that loss to continue to exist within you, lacking definition and yet full of unsettling meaning. For me, my grief was transfigured into torture because of the waiting period. 

So I didn’t write like my March post said I would. I got my website back up. I returned to revising the novel I’d finished last year, which is still seeking an agent. I read and returned to poetry. I made lists of agents and small presses. But I did not start my second novel, the one about the couple who loses a child, like I said I would. I just couldn’t. I felt haunted by the loss of my own. And yes, I could’ve channeled that into my work. But I tried that. I ended up weeping as I wrote so violently that I couldn’t type. It may make me weak, but I knew I wasn’t ready to enter into that art. I knew I couldn’t until I was past my miscarriage. There would still be enough grief and pain to draw upon once I’d finished that leg of the journey.

Two weeks ago, on May 4, Vasant and I went on a trip together, paid for by family who wanted us to get some healing. We needed to reconnect and be refreshed. On the first day of our trip, I received a call from my nurse. She told me that I was finally back to normal. My body was through with the process of miscarrying. I was my own again. 

The trip, suddenly, was not just about healing. It was about celebrating being in a new phase. One season of loss and grief was over. We could focus on just each other and what our future held. And we did. It was a wonderful, restorative trip. We realized that we hadn’t laughed as hard or as heartily as we did on that trip in over 4 months. We wrote new stories, talked about our future, created art and I begun work on Reclamation. Finally. I didn’t feel overwhelmed. I didn’t cry. I wrote and it felt free and fierce and fiery. 

So I’m back now.

Back from the trip.

Back from my sojourn through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I’m back and I’m working on my second novel. Vasant and I feel amazing. We haven’t felt this refreshed in over a year. And while this time is still difficult, and we still need to finish the last stages of our grieving, we’re on firm ground again. We wouldn’t be there without each other, and it also needs to be said that we wouldn’t have gotten through this without my family, without Matt and Danielle Harris, without Will Conrardy. Many others blessed us during this time but these people carried us through, but emotionally and physically. They brought meals, provided late, late, LATE night support, called and texted constantly and without provocation, and overwhelmed us with their love. 

Thank you. You really helped Vasant and I get through this. And thank you to everyone who replied to the last post, and to those who privately message me. Your thoughts and prayers meant a lot to us. 

I wanted this post to update anyone who was interested that we’ve finally gotten closure. We’re on firm ground. And while this book hasn’t been closed quite yet, another one has officially begun being written. That’s a wonderful thing. Over the next couple months, I’ll begin writing about the new book, along with continuing the “Stories Save My Life” series. I want to thank those who’ve been reading for the good thoughts and prayers and comments. I also want to thank those who’ve commented on the Stories series and to those who’ve contributed. You make me feel less alone when you come here and talk about good stories. Whether you’re posting or commenting. Thank you Vasant, Jules, Kevin and Rae and thank you to those whose posts are coming. And if you have a post you want to contribute, let me know. I’m loving this series and I hope you love it too.

So there’s the update. Somethings are finished, somethings are beginning, and Vasant and I are grateful for those who’ve been there throughout, from the hardcore, middle of the night supporters to the people we meet and interact with online. Thanks to all.

The fifth post in the series “Stories Save My Life” is written by Rae Hanson, a Florida-based TV/media blogger. This is an amazing story of how love for a childhood story led to an adult career. This post excites me! I hope you’ll take time to read it and comment. It’s truly a unique story!

Rae is a witty writer and a great media savant. Follow her on Twitter and on Tumblr and check out her TV blog archives at www.RamblingsofaTVWhore.com.

Thanks!

-Sarah

Stories Save My Life: Meet the Teen Sleuths in My Life

Guest Poster: Rae Hanson

I’ve been struggling with what to write here. Not because I didn’t know what to say but because I’ve got so many stories to tell about the stories in my life. It seemed an impossible task to pick just one (and I didn’t). And, while it feels like a betrayal not to talk about how Buffy Summers and Joey Potter helped me through that first year of terrifying independence, I decided to focus on the teenage sleuths in my life.

They say you always remember your first but I don’t. I just know at some point I started reading those vintage hard cover Nancy Drew books and became Obsessed. Yes. With a capital O. I’m a sucker for a mystery and there was no one more capable of handling the mysterious than Nancy Drew. Oh, how I loved solving mysteries with Nancy Drew! (Always Nancy Drew, never just Nancy.) And, you know, it didn’t hurt that one of her best friend’s had a boy’s name, George. As a little girl who hated her own boy name, I was (still am!) all over stories with girls with boy names being cool.

It wasn’t long before I graduated from the hard cover books to the “newer” paperback versions, The Nancy Drew Files. I devoured those puppies. “Covet” doesn’t even begin describe my need to own ever book in the series. One small problem though… I lived in Germany. The Army bases probably have their own Barnes & Nobles these days but back then the base bookstore was about the size of an airport bookstore. I don’t remember any of them having more than four aisles, if that. As you can imagine, the Nancy Drew supply didn’t quite reach my demand. But every time we went to the PX (post exchange) or the grocery store, we’d stop in the bookstore so I could search through the stacks for the series I was missing. Finding one was so rare that I never minded when I’d get home and realize I had duplicated a book I already had. The high I’d get from the success of finding what I thought was a new book was too great. And, let’s face it, I didn’t mind solving that mystery again. Not if it meant spending more time with Nancy Drew.

Every summer, we’d return to the States for two weeks. Though we primarily spent those two weeks in Maine, occasionally we’d visit one of my sisters who lived elsewhere. I can remember going to visit my oldest sister when she lived in Ann Arbor. She took me to Book Heaven. To this day, I cannot tell you the name of the bookstore. I just remember that it was three stories and filled to the brim with books. The children’s section was on the third floor and I remember sprinting up those stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me, barely able to contain my glee. (True Story: To this day, that glee’s still there, knocking against my insides when I’m climb the stairs or ride the escalator at multi-level bookstores.)

Let’s all take a moment and imagine the wonder that must have passed over my face when I finally got to that top floor and got my first look at the shelves of Nancy Drew books. Yes, shelves. God only knows how many books I conned my family into buying that day. I’m sure I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the store without all the books I was missing from my collection. After all, it’d be at least another year before I’d have this kind of access to them again! Freaking kids these days, they have NO IDEA. Oh, the havoc I could have reeked if I had had Amazon back then!

I understand the reluctance people feel towards e-readers. I love my Kindle but looking at it doesn’t give me that same sense of calm and nostalgia looking at my Nancy Drew collection lined up on my shelf does. You didn’t think I’d gotten rid of them, did you? As if! I need to pass that legacy on! Who knows if I’ll ever have kids (seems more and more unlikely as the years pass) or they will even like reading (Can you imagine my horror if they don’t?! I might disown them.) but, if I do, I want these mythical kids of mine to have physical proof of just how much Nancy Drew meant to me. That I’d haul her books around with me through dozens of moves, from country to country, across oceans. Because you can’t just throw away the person who gave you so much joy and taught you that girls can solve mysteries too and that sometimes the most important things in life are good friends. She may just be a teenage sleuth on paper but, to me, she’s so much more.

“Wow, you suck at this Nancy Drew stuff. You should get a new hobby.” 

CUT TO A “FEW” YEARS LATER

I didn’t like Veronica Mars at first. Shocking, I know. It took me about four episodes to come around. Never have I been so happy that I stuck with a TV show. I cannot imagine my world without Veronica. Surely I would have given in eventually, right? Because who can deny the awesomeness of this show. Nancy Drew clearly had an influence on my young life but Veronica Mars was a life raft. I was going through a rough patch when this show entered my life. I needed an escape, someone else’s world to get lost in for a bit. I was consuming a lot of books at the time but I needed something more. A story that wasn’t over so quickly, one in which I could truly immerse myself. The mystery of who killed Lilly Kane was just what I needed.

After Buffy (and Angel) ended I was adrift. There were plenty of shows I loved but none that sunk their hooks into me and wouldn’t let go. None that got my creative juices flowing quite the same way. Until Veronica. Not only was I actively trying to solve the mystery along with Veronica, I could not get enough of all the characters on the show. They were all so complicated and three-dimensional. For the first time ever, a show made me want more.

I generally have absolutely no interest in fan-fiction. I don’t begrudge anyone the need for it; I just prefer my stories to come from the canon. But with this show I was not only seeking it out, I was writing it!! I had these characters chattering in my head and it was the only to shut them up. Suddenly I understood the motivation behind fan-fiction. Good or bad, it’s one of the only outlets fans have when they find characters who speak to them.

More importantly, I had to talk about the show each week. My friends weren’t watching it so I wrote about it online. Which led me to other people who also needed to discuss each episode (in a sometimes disgusting amount of detail). It didn’t matter if something was just a throwaway prop; we analyzed everything to death (Lilly’s!). And I loved it. There it was, my escape route. The more I “talked” with other fans about the show, the less I stressed the cruddy chaos that was my career. It was no longer the focus of my life and that was a godsend. It happened gradually and took me much longer to see it but that was when I realized what had been missing from my life: Stories.

Oh sure, I was reading tons of books and watching a lot of TV and at the movie theater as often as possible. But that was just me unconsciously trying to plug the hole. I was shoving stories in left and right hoping they’d fill it. But there’s only a minimum amount of creativity needed for the consumption of stories. It keeps your imagination active but it’s not forcing you to stretch and really use those muscles.

I wish I could say I had some big epiphany about this. Alas, that wasn’t the case. I mostly just kept obsessing about a TV show online and got lucky. Timing is everything right? This was pre-social media but blogs were taking off in a big way and PR companies were paying attention. I still have no idea what led them to me but I got invited to a blogger set visit… to the set of Veronica Mars.

If I were famous, I’d have suspected I was beingPunk’d. But Ashton was nowhere to be found and the invite was legit. I have no research to back me up but I do believe it was the first ever set visit of that type (and if it wasn’t the first, it was definitely one of the first).  I did, however, spend the whole trip pinching myself to convince myself it was real. I held on to my disbelief until we were actually standing in the courtyard for Neptune High.

My actual experience on the set is a story for another time but was it. This story with its characters who I had fallen in love with had led me to this moment in time. Where I got to watch the people behind the show bring it to life. And the seed was planted. Because I left that set with the memory of how much I loved creating stories myself. Reminded of what it was like to take an idea and create something wonderful with it. I didn’t really understand those feelings immediately. I just knew I was drawn to the energy on that set and that I wanted it in my life.

This story would be so great if I could now tell you how my whole life changed as a result of the set visit. But I can’t. Oh, it did change. The chaos is certainly gone. I’m not sure the calm that replaced it qualifies as a good thing but it’s not an entirely bad thing either. It was just the tip of the iceberg as far as blogger set visits. I now have a bunch of exciting experiences I wouldn’t give up for the world.  And with each set visit, I’m once again reminded that it’s still out there. That elusive creative energy I want in my life is out there and I know I’ll eventually find it. Thanks to an annoying tiny blonde teenage sleuth who opened my eyes to the possibilities.

The fourth post in the series “Stories Save My Life” is written by Seattle indie director, Kevin Sabourin. You may’ve seen his work on the outstanding PBS series, The Artist Toolbox, and next year, if you love independent film, you’ll hear about Fetch, which is currently in post and set to debut sometime next year. Follow the film’s Facebook page to keep tabs on it!

I’ve known Kevin for years and one of the best things about him is how passionate he is for a good story. Naturally, his post is going to be centered on filmmaking and story. It’s perfect that his post, which discusses the impact of Star Wars on his life, falls on Star Wars Day, and no, it wasn’t planned. 

I hope you enjoy the article and leave comments below talking about your favorite films and why you think they impacted you the way they have.

Thanks, and May the Fourth be with you.

-Sarah

Just Give Me a Straight Answer!

Guest Poster: Kevin Sabourin

Whenever you ask somebody what their favorite movie is, you can never get a straight answer.  First comes the knee jerk response with something like “Star Wars” or “Lord of the Rings”… Then after a moment of silence comes a rattling list of four or five more absolute “favorite” movies.  “I’d have to say Shawshank Redemption, orRebel Without a Cause… well no… that’s not my favorite but definitely in my top 5… no top 10!” 

And on and on it goes.

But as much as I loathe indecisiveness, I find myself in the same predicament when the question is posed to me.  And I think I’ve figured out why.

First we must start with the basics.  What is story?  Story is an account of a person’s experience, fictional or otherwise.  Let’s go one layer deeper.  Storytelling (specifically filmmaking) is an art.  What is art?  Expression.  Art is a human being creatively expressing himself through a given medium.  The reason we gravitate toward art is because when we hear others express themselves (and when we learn to express ourselves through our own art) we not only learn about our humanity, but we come to find we are not so alone in the universe.

And “Story” as an art form, being an oratorical experience, lends itself to the masses in a more obvious way than say “abstract painting.”  Not to say one is more important than the other, but it is obvious to see why movies have a broader appeal than some of the finer arts where the thematic elements are a bit subtler. 

On a side note, what’s interesting is that movies being the modern “storytellers” of our day, are actually communicating to us in a different way then the wise old sage around the fire telling stories.  In film, we can SHOW YOU the story, not just tell you the story.  Allowing our own intellect to piece everything together compounding the impact of the story’s revelation (i.e.: Chinatown).  The movies that give you the pieces and allow you to assemble the solution are more impactful then the movie that bangs the answer over your head (i.e.: Star Wars ep1-3)… but I digress.

So if in fact we gravitate toward stories that relate closest with our own human experience… When you ask somebody what their favorite movie is, you are (in a way) asking them about their own life.  The three films that have always been on top of my list are Star Wars: A New Hope, Rudy and 12 Angry Men.

What appeals to me about Star Wars is Luke Skywalker.  Here you have a humble farm boy who feels deep down that he is destined for something more, yet his Uncle Owen has doomed him to mediocrity in the desert of Tatooine.  The specific scene in which we see Luke’s plight is when he goes outside one evening after arguing with Uncle Owen and peers out into the double sunset.  The music, the cinematography, the acting, the scenery… all come together in this tender moment to convey a sense of longing.  Luke knows he’s destined for more than the hand he was dealt. 

George Lucas then creates an event (Uncle Owen & Aunt Beru die) and we see Luke reach deep within himself to go fulfill his destiny (stop the empire).  I saw this scene as a young dreamer while sitting on my living room carpet eating Butter O’s (Cheerios with melted butter because we couldn’t afford more milk) and Luke Skywalker became my champion.  When he fled his homeland, trained to be a Jedi and defeated the evil empire… it was if it were me.  It gave me hope that I too could escape and go on to do something greater.  Though I was not conscious of this at the time, it was a process happening internally nonetheless.

It’s not hard to understand why Rudy also became a favorite of mine.  To see Rudy (who came from a factory town where he was expected to follow his brothers into the trade) sitting on a bench reading his acceptance letter into Notre Dame, reminds me once again that this longing I have to achieve my goals is not being shared by myself alone.  Somebody else out there looked around at their life and said I want more out of it and they got it.

12 Angry Men appeals to me for a different reason.  I had a childhood which made “trusting” people difficult.  Truth was paramount to me.  Henry Fonda’s absolute dedication to find out the truth of the alleged murderer despite what his fellow jurors thought greatly inspired me. 

Here is a man that is so secure in himself his first loyalty is to the truth, not acceptance.  I watched this film in high school for the first time and it resonated with me like few others did.

Most people don’t go into deep analysis of why they enjoyed a movie.  They just watch a movie likeAmerican History X or Gran Torino and say “What a great movie”, not realizing it’s speaking to the universal values of equality and the ability to change one’s life.  But that’s ok.  The point of story is not to walk away with three talking points of how it impacted you.  The point is that the impact happened.  You’re heart was softened.  Seeds were sown that will no doubt be fertilized by other expressions of humanity (art) down the road.  And most importantly, for a moment in the story (if it’s a good story) you looked at one of the characters and said, “There I am.”

One of the reasons why I believe movies have become our society’s primary means of storytelling (and one of the highest grossing art forms commercially) is because of their unique compounding nature.   When you walk the streets of New York City and see the vast landscape of detailed architecture, it conveys a grand sense of majesty.  A boy’s choir can sing a hymn with angelic phrasing communicating control and harmony.  A model with the latest fashion sense can express innovation and rebellion.  One photograph framed perfectly with the right lighting can be worth a thousand words!  In a movie, you can have all of these art forms and more.  Movies are the melting pot of the arts, brewing a delicious stew (separate but cohesive) of intellectual and emotional stimulation.

So why can’t I give you a straight answer?  For the same reason a parent cannot tell you which child they love more.  They all bring something different to the table.  They all appeal to a different facet of our humanity that we cannot live without.  The moment we show favoritism toward one we are immediately reminded of another because both have equally put there proverbial arm around us when we felt nobody understood. We’d hate to overlook that type of loyalty!

Story is important because it reminds us we’re not alone.  Somebody else has braved this path before.  Anybody who has the honor to be apart of this delicate and beautiful process should feel proud of the hope they are bringing to the world… even if it’s just to a young boy sitting on the living room carpet eating Butter O’s. 

Here is the third post in the series, written by Julia Fishwick, a friend from Twitter, Tumblr and as of last fall, real life. She is an amazing friend, a lover of good books, good television and good people. Do yourself a big favor and check out her blog over at Tumblr. 

Also: make sure you get in on the commenting. What books have inspired you and the person you want to be?

Thanks!

- Sarah

A Look at My Favorite Literature

Guest poster: Julia Fishwick (check her out on Tumblr!)

When Sarah asked me if I would like to contribute to her series, I was simultaneously intimidated and delighted. I had no idea where to begin! But …I also cannot resist talking about literature any chance I get. 

The books I have read throughout my life have helped define who I am by clarifying who I want to be, as well as who I do not want to be. I grew up reading all the books I could get my hands on, and yet, I still feel tremendously inadequate as a reader, and every day my to-read list grows!

Part of the reason I have not read all of the books I would like to have read by now is my love of re-reading. When I fall in love with a story, I want it near me all the time. I want to be able to pick it up at a moment’s notice and fall back into the familiar tale. My favorite stories are at once a well-worn security blanket, comfort food, a favorite sweater I curl up with when I’m feeling unwell, a hug from a friend, and a reminder of who I am.

I have a list of comfort stories, which consists books as well as television and movies, filed somewhere in my mind. These are the stories that I turn to when I need cheering up, or when I need an emotional outlet.

I read a lot in my youth, as I said. When recommended a book to read, I always asked if it had a happy ending before I would commit to reading it, until I was able to understand what I wanted well enough to phrase my request a little more accurately and ask if it had a satisfying ending. What really mattered to me was that, if I fell in love with the characters, I wouldn’t be left wondering and worrying about what might or might not have happened to them. (This is still important to me. That unfinished feeling will nag at me for weeks, or longer… and while I don’t seek out books that will break my heart, a happy ending is not a requirement, but a conclusion that wraps things up effectively is definitely necessary in my reading material.)

I fell deeply in love with the L.M. Montgomery books (not just the Anne series, though I love it with all of my heart and have always lamented the shyness and predictability that made me feel I was more of a Diana Barry than an Anne Shirley), Girl of the Limberlost, and Jane Eyre. In early middle school, I became acquainted with science fiction, reading first the Tripod series by John Christopher, then the Hobbit, and Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man… followed by everything I could find by Bradbury. But more than anything, I loved Jane Austen’s stories.

I’d read most of the Austen books before I was 14, and I loved that there was a female character I could relate to in every story. It wasn’t always the main character, of course… as shy, insecure, and passive as I was, I wasn’t the type of personality that people would write stories about… and, much like with the Anne of Green Gables series, I often identified my more familiar traits in the character of a friend or sister rather than in the heroine. But that never matters in the Jane Austen books, because she pairs her characters with the people who suit them best, and they could not be happy any other way. Of course, not all of them were happy in the end, but I felt they couldn’t have been happier in any case. Through these stories, I found hope that I would be able to spend my life with the people who suit me best, as her characters did.

 I found myself at a loss for what to write when contemplating this post, because I did not think I could put into words what stories have meant to me. There is still so much to say, and I am not convinced I have done justice to what I have tried to say here, but that’s okay.

I have long had a suspicion that reading so much has led me to feel insecure about my own writing, I have never been very competitive, and so instead of saying, “I could do that!” I often think I could never express myself as well as the authors I love have done.  Even so, I wouldn’t trade for the world the experiences I have had through stories, or the comfort they have given me.

Stories are so subjective, their meanings and impact will change depending on what is going on for me when I’m reading them. I have never liked trying to summarize things for people when I tell them about a story I love. I know that the things I noticed about it, or the significance those things (or the story itself) held for me will not be the same for everyone, and I worry that telling my version will influence how they watch or read the story themselves and what they get out of it. This aversion to summarizing (or even filling in gaps) when someone misses part of a TV show, drives people crazy, unfortunately… so I have resigned myself to doing recaps when we can’t just rewind and let them see the story for themselves, but I tell them to read the book themselves so I don’t have to fill them in. 

I still worry that they are missing out on things that would be meaningful for them if they watched it without my influence. 

In any case, I hope I continue to re-read my favorite stories all of my life. They feel like coming home, but I instead of getting sick of them, I always notice something new, or experience things differently nearly every time I read a story. 

Here is the second post in the series, written by my husband and filmmaking partner, Vasant Samudre. I hope, once you’re done reading the article, you’ll respond in the comment section about specific characters you’ve really gotten to over the years. 

-Sarah

From Arthur to Aragorn: The Evolution of My Favorite Character

Guest poster: Vasant Samudre

When Sarah came up with the idea for this series, I knew that, when I wrote my post for it, I wouldn’t be able to write about just one story. I have always been extremely fascinated with stories, telling them, listening to them, watching them and playing them out.  But for me, no one story caught my imagination, more than one particular character has: King Arthur. I discovered him as a child and I’ve found every story having to deal with him equally fascinating. Every Arthurian legend instantly hooks me and it’s not so much the type of story, but the hero at its heart that draws me in. As I grew older, Aragorn in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings fed became part of the fascination for this particular character.

My interest in Arthur actually started with an incredibly cheesy cartoon called King Arthur and the Knights of Justice that aired in the early ‘90’s. It was a short lived show, but at eight years old, I fell in love with the character of Arthur- everything he stood for, what he fought for, how he fought for what he believed in and above all, fought and ruled with selfless-justice for the people. The notion of fighting for a greater purpose is something that resounds within me on a deep level.  I bought books that were meant for kids which synthesized Arthur myths into an easy to read format. I waged pretend battles with Arthur at the head of them. In my mid-twenties, I read T.H. White’s The Once and Future King and soon after Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Artur and found myself just as captivated with the king as I had been so many years ago. Within the last couple years, I’ve read Tennyson’s Idylls of King and read through the wilder myths surrounding the British King in The Welsh Triads. No matter how different the story, the image of the king battling for his people fanned into flame the sparks of my imagination.

It’s never mattered to me whether Arthur was a plastic figurine, a customized Lego character, watched on TV or read in a book. I’ve been drawn to all aspects of his character, to every story and every plot (which is unfortunate at times because a lot of Arthurian movies are awful).

I rediscovered Arthur long before I delved into the books surrounding him in my mid-twenties. I was introduced to Aragorn (a.k.a. Elessar, a.k.a. Strider) in The Lord of the Rings in 2001 (yes, I watched the movies before reading the books- I’m not ashamed to admit it).  The added characteristic of a king who refuses to be a king because he is afraid of his own weaknesses hits me to the core still today. 

Aragorn, to me, embodies all the complexities of character that are found in multiple Arthurian tales. He is as reluctant as T.H. White’s Arthur, as headstrong as the Welsh Arthur, as mighty as the Malory version, and as noble and chivalrous as Tennyson’s. Both receive swords that are destined to be wielded by them and only them, and with these swords they command great power. Both have encounters with goddess figures (The Lady of the Lake for Arthur and Arwen/Galadriel for Aragorn). Both return from exile to accept the roles that they were destined for.

Both heroes descend from an evil king. Arthur, in most tales, is the son of the ruthless Uther Pendragon and it was the fault of Aragorn’s forefather, Isildur, that the evil ring of Sauron had survived .  His forefather’s corruption brought war upon to an entire world. The interesting thing is that Arthur’s lineage is almost always just a stated fact in most myths. It rarely comes into play in any plots or presents a problem for Arthur. Aragorn is haunted by his family failure.

Aragorn fears that he could be corrupted and fail his people, just as Isildur did. It’s this fear I admire in Aragorn the most.  It keeps him humble, keeps him in line and focused on the greater good.  But this fear isn’t something that Aragorn could hold onto. For the sake of Middle Earth, he had to “put aside the Ranger and become the man” he was meant to be. He had confront his fears, answers for his failings and rise up to the task of being the warrior king who would mend the world.

Arthur captured my imagination as a child because he embodied the strength and purity of heart that I wanted in my life.  But as I grew older and dealt with my own darkness and father issues, I began to fear that I’d never be the man I wanted to be. Enter Aragorn, an Arthurian character who answered my fears by simply acknowledging them. He was broken down with guilt and self-doubt. He was honest with the weakness and fear within himself. The strange thing was that none of that compromised the purity of heart I’d grown up admiring in King Arthur. So, with this tale, a childhood character evolved in my head into one I could identify with as an adult.

Joseph Campbell writes in A Hero with a Thousand Faces of the universal hero’s journey (the hero found in every culture) has a three step phase: separation-initiation-return.  It’s here, as Campbell explains, that the hero must journey on his own, find his accomplishment and return a changed man (or woman).  As I’ve grown into my manhood, I’ve seen this cycle of separation-initiation-return something that is used in films.  The main character must leave his current situation in order to grow, that is to learn and become something more by initiating the “there’s no going back now” moment.  Once the point of victory is reached, the main character of the story must return, changed, to bring to the people a forgotten aspect of their humanity (freedom, love, peace, etc). 

I think a good story is an adventure in itself. It gives you the same opportunity as the hero has. You get to retreat into it, exiled from the real world for a moment. The narrative initiates you: you experience things within the realm of the story that real life doesn’t give you the time or the right way to think about. Then you return. You turn off the TV. You close the book. You walk out of the theater. You grow too old for Lego battles (not there yet, I’ll let you know when that happens), but the story sticks with you, on some level. For me, Arthur and Aragorn have stuck with me on the deepest level, I love being able to return to their stories as an adventure of my own, hoping that I will, again, be changed for having gone through the stories with them.

This is the first post in the Stories Save My Life series. I’m really excited about the guestposts we’re going to get and the comments they’ll hopefully generate on the impact stories have on our lives. Personally, I will probably write about many stories, from many mediums, while this series is running. I would be remiss, however, if I began it with anything else other than the stories which Anne Shirley inhabits, chief among them: Anne of Green Gables.

Backstory: I was an odd child. From an early age, I had an incredible vocabulary, a vast (and at times, overpowering) imagination and not many people knew how to take me. I was interested in things that other kids found boring. When I tried to talk with adults, they were put off by a child of ten who wanted to discuss philosophy, theology and politics with them. I made up stories and talked incessantly, cracking jokes, composing poems, talking about movies, stories and books. I was constantly getting into trouble, letting my mouth run off. I had such big ideas, and such a fire in my belly, that whenever I felt anything, I said everything.

I believe the word to politely describe me was precocious . I believe the words more commonly used were “weird”, “brat”, “know-it-all”, and “strange”. Everywhere I went I felt like an outcast.

All of this, combined with being a late-bloomer, meant that for me, childhood was painful. Sometimes still, I feel sick thinking back to showdowns on the blacktop, being pushed into walls, down school stairwells, hit with dodgeballs (outside of any game) and laughed at by peers. I remember adults scolding, teasing and laughing derisively. I remember wanting a way out of my life by the age of twelve, tempted by thoughts of suicide. My saving grace was my imagination and the stories I both fed it and created within it. It was necessary to retreat into my imagination to get away from being bullied by my peers and elders.

My dreamworld became a refuge and I built it with good music, good books and good movies. One character in particular, Anne Shirley, the heroine of many books by L.M. Montgomery, showed me how to build that retreat and promised that one day, eventually, I wouldn’t need to hide there.

I first read the Anne books when I was very young. I can’t even remember how early the books came, but I know that quotes from L.M. Montgomery’s works were working themselves into my conversations by 4th grade. I read through the series several times, but especially through the first three books: Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea and Anne of the Island. I rewatched the PBS mini-series over and over. Anne Shirley was a friend to me. She made me feel valid.

We were both bullied. She was rarely described as “precocious” by anyone except her readers. By the adults in her world, she was described cruelly. She was misunderstood by 98% of her peers. We were both teased for our freckles. Her hair was her most hated feature, as was mine (although her’s was for its color, and mine was for its sheer size- no matter what length I chopped it to, it was big enough to warrant its own zip code). That picture above… is not of Hermione Granger.

Anne relied on stories like she relied on air and used everything in her path to fuel her imagination. After a life that, when the reader meets her, consisted of being an orphan, being beat and used as a servant, she arrives on Prince Edward Island and experiences joy that the average adult can’t fathom. She and her new guardian, Matthew, drive down a blossom-filled avenue she dubs “The White Way of Delight”, past a pond she calls 
“The Lake of Shining Waters” and she feels like she’s arrived in heaven itself. All of a sudden, to me, the brown hills that served as dreary walls for my hometown of Fremont, California, had changed. They were covered in velveteen gold, rolling away towards other valleys and opening up towards the north and south. The smog on the horizon disappeared, eaten up by the blue sky. The cracked sidewalks became canyons in my mind. Little green blades of grass became like cedars of Lebanon to me. I made the best of what I had. I reveled in what little “scope for the imagination”, as Anne called it, that my hometown afforded.

So try to conceive of the bliss that bowled me over when I moved up to the Pacific Northwest. My gigantic hair, vocabulary and imagination made things almost as difficult for me in my new state as it’d been in California. But here in the Northwest, I finally had the beauty that Anne had when she arrived in Prince Edward Island. Behind our house was a forest that descended into a valley, away from the housing developments. The forest there was dark and mossy. There were pines, cedars and maples. Down the winding trail, once you reached the valley floor, the tall trees retreated to a circle around a tiny meadow. It was as if they were guarding this secret place. A spring bubbled up in a cluster of birch trees on the southern end of the valley. Best of all, every August, the meadow filled up with Queen Anne’s lace, a flower I’d only, until that point, read about in the Anne books. It looked like a cloud had settled down on the valley floor for a quick nap before rejoining its brothers in the sky. I named it Anne’s Valley and escaped there whenever I could.

As silly as that may sound, it was the first dream of mine that had ever come true. After years of reading Anne books and wishing that I had more than cracked and dry surroundings, I finally had my version of P. E. Island. It reinforced my desire to hold onto the books as a beacon. Maybe, if both Anne and I had found a wilderness to escape into, and a town set amongst the blossoms and lakes of shining waters, then maybe other things would happen too. Maybe I’d grow into my features. Maybe one day, I’d write a book of my own and my wordiness would make my way in the world, rather than making me an object of ridicule.

And wouldn’t you know… all those things, after many awkward, character-building adventures, did come to pass. My hair became manageable around eighteen, darkening and reddening at the same time so that my hair was auburn, like Anne’s became. Instead of frizzy, it was silky. That may sound vain, to have worried about something like that, but trust me: my wild hair gave me more than one nickname over the course of my childhood and teen years. In 2001, I started writing on a blogging platform called LiveJournal and people started liking me, for the first time in my life, for the way I had with words. I started to seriously work on my fiction and poetry in my early twenties and just finished my first novel in 2010, at the age of 28.

When I was heading into the final chapters of my book, I had a morning when, as I sat down at my desk, I looked out of the window and into the forest. I saw the mist curling in through the woods, cutting amongst the trunks of trees and curtains of moss. I looked down into the flower beds and saw the purple, fuschia and yellows wildflowers rioting up from dark soil. I looked back down at my desk and saw my book, almost finished, open on a Word file. Tears filled my eyes. I had become who I wanted to be when I was little. Whatever else becomes of me, in that moment and since then, I am the adult that my childhood-self desperately wanted to be. I am loved by a man with dark hair and dark eyes. My hair is now one of my favorite features. I’ve learned to control my temper and wicked tongue. Many people actually appreciate the way I have with words and the way that my mind works. I’ve written a book and I have dozens more books, poems and screenplays burning a hole in my heart to get out onto the page. 

I am so lucky that Montgomery’s Anne Shirley was there to promise this all for me. I knew that if someone had written this book, then that person knew what it was like to be me. That meant that I was not alone. As young as I was, I knew that if this book was popular almost a century after publication, that there were many who read it and loved it like I did: not as a distraction, but as a life preserver.

I would return to the series many times, in childhood, my teenage years and in my twenties. I suspect I will always return to it. When my idealism is threatened, when I feel alone, or when I need to be reminded that a few kindred spirits are better than a hundred fake friends, I’ll take up the series again. It may not be the best written series. I understand why some marginalize it. For me, it’s literary defects are outweighed by the world that it creates and the character at its center. Without her, I wouldn’t have had the strength to stick out two awkward decades in hopes that someday, I’d hit my stride. And I have. And that is why the story of Anne Shirley is the first story that saved my life.

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As I said in the introduction to this series, if you have a story (from film, books, comics, short fiction or television) that impacted your life, let me know. Several people have already contacted me about posts and they’ll be posted here over the next couple weeks and months, but I still want more. Maybe you’ve never thought that a story defined you, or maybe you think the story that meant the most to you is too silly to write about. Trust me, there is no snobby cut-off for this series. If it’s a story and it’s influenced you, let’s get into it. This series will only be as good as the interaction we get on it.

On that note, I hope that all of you who are reading this will take the time to comment:

What are some stories that defined your childhood?

From our first day out in the city, I found that I have more of a fascination for the little hidden details down alleys than I have for any monument in a large piazza. The walls, faded frescoes, and graffiti that I’ve found speak to me about the city, its continuity with art and the way even a crumbling wall can still be important to the structure of a baroque building. It’s easy to ponder a large iconic statue. But the walls are rushed past. Only the studious traveler will stop to consider what they are saying as you make your way to those many famous piazzas. The pictures that follow are a few that I’ve chosen from my favorite walls from the our stay in the city. Hopefully, they give an idea of the kind of Rome that is easily missed but worth hunting for.

The first photo in this set was the first photo to really attract me in Rome. We had set out from our hotel (days before we got keys to our flat) to get lost in the city. With a GPS-enabled phone, this is a favorite pastime of mine, so I dart down as many alleys as I can to really get to know a new city the way a local might. This wall came out of nowhere, southwest of the Giardino di Quirnale, and is (I believe) the backside to the Palazzo della Consulta, which is right across from the Palazzo Quirnale (from the front, this a beautiful baroque government building).  

It is a bit overexposed towards the end of the alley, but it’s a cell phone taking a picture at midday. I was drawn towards the plant is growing out of the red Roman brick. The wall, to the touch, is porous and soft. Dirt comes off easily on your fingertips. I absolutely love that this large wall is the backside to a baroque government building. It speaks to the way Rome coexists between the architectural ages unlike any city I’ve ever been to. 

The second photo in the set was taken in Il Cacere di Mamertino, the Prison Cell of St. Peter. The site, while very historically important and holy, is now a tourist trap. You’re required to go through it at a pace set by a ridiculously cheesy audio-guide.  You’d have to be an arrogant American to hold up the group so you can steal a moment in quiet corners to yourself to reflect and take a photo of something not lit up by a grandiose light show. In this case, I decided to be that arrogant American.  

The above is a fresco, faded in the corner of the chapel. According to legend or history, whichever you prefer, St. Peter baptized his prison guards here before being crucified. On his way out of the cell, he bashed his head against the stone wall and a spring gushed forth. The prison became a chapel and has been a pilgrim site ever since. (This is according to the audio guide. I doubt that at ten euros with a thirty minute audio guide that it is still a pilgrimage site). 

This shot is taken with my iPhone, like the first photo. I like it because it feels like a secret. You aren’t directed to look at it or dwell on it and, like photos later in the set, it is a type of graffiti meant to express the sentiment of the people that lived in Rome at the time. Even though it now sits in a tourist trap, it still speaks to the joy and hope those pilgrims felt and communicates to me in the midst of a commercialized audio tour. 

The third photo is very much like the first. It is a shot of the back of the Palazzo Farnese, which is the palatial home of the French Embassy. Like over by the Quirnale area, this is down a small alley and it is a night and day difference from the Palazzo’s baroque façade. Because of this, I’m in heaven. This is one of thirty pictures snapped with my iPhone as we headed towards Trastevere for dinner. To think that this kind of wall functions structurally today is amazing enough, but to think that it also vanishes into what most tourists see as the Palazzo Farnese blows my mind.  

The fourth photo reminded me very much of the fresco I’d seen in St. Peter’s Prison cell. It’s a stones-throw away from the alley in the prior photo. I love the color composition for both this wall and the fresco in St. Peter’s cell, the way they are both peeling from the walls and are both remnants of Rome’s ideas, expressions and events. I took a wide angle shot of this graffiti as it sat in the alley, but then I remembered the fresco, got close to the wall, and took it in as detailed a way as I could. 

The fifth photo was taken with my Nikon (yes, I do have a real camera). It was one our way down the Via Marguta on Thursday, towards Fellini’s home. Again, I have a penchant for Rome’s graffiti and the way it speaks to what is really going on in the city better than any tourbook can. This photo, like the other two graffiti shots, is peeling. Also, like the two wall shots, there is something growing over it, doing damage to the poster, but enhancing it aesthetically. 

This photo is not a wall, but the Ponte Sisto. It’s the oldest bridge connecting Rome to Trastevere, an eclectic neighborhood across the River Tiber from the main historic area of Rome, is magical. It was ignored by popes for centuries and so retains it’s medieval architecture. Alleys are narrow and wind up a tall hill from the banks for the Tiber. Food is as good here (or better) than it is on the other side of the river, but it is also a third of the cost. There are pine trees and vines climbing buildings and you can smell the difference the profusion of plants make in the air. Here you see graffiti everywhere and it adds to the beauty of the city.

I love the above picture. It’s such a subversion of the typical “picturesque” Italian door. It has the hanging flora festooning the walls, the virescent paint against coral-colored walls, but it’s also covered with graffiti. Not exactly what you would expect. And yet, as common as ivy-covered walls are in Trastevere, graffiti is even more common. These next four are graffiti found on the walls in Trastevere. 

These photos not only demonstrate the way art is used on walls in Rome, but also how they speak to a certain attitude of this particular Roman neighborhood. The graffiti in Trastevere is different from the rest of Rome. It is thoughtful. It lets you know that you’re now in the Bohemian part of town. It also re-impresses how important street art is to Rome. The silver she-wolves on the bridge, in particular, are a remnant of a museum-sponsored graffiti project that covered the entire city months before we arrived. 

This ninth shot is in Vatican City, five minutes up the way from Trastevere. The poem says (roughly translated) “A white page is a hidden poem”. I loved finding poems in unexpected places. Similarly, this next shot, though it isn’t on a wall, is another graffitied poem.

It says, (again, very roughly translated), “After another year we will be here to speak of love.” I bent over the marble rails at Pincio Hill and there it was. Another unexpected encounter with street poetry.

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These are just a few of the walls that captured my imagination. I loved that way that frescoes are still preserved but also still current. I love that art is thrown up on streets to speak to the character of the city, its thoughts, its conflicts and its values. I love how you pass a polished baroque facade on one street, then pass a corner and enter and alley and see that the same building does not date back four centuries, but almost twenty centuries. It feels like the owners of the building are trying to hide that fact, facing the antiquated side into a dark alley. But when you find these things, and notice the details, you feel like you’ve uncovered that secret and gotten to know this well-known city much better than any guidebook could tell you about.