Author Archives: Amy Jane

Basic Storytelling & Story Collecting

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Storytelling is as simple as a, b, c.

Just three parts:

  • To start with, you need to choose a story.
  • Then, you need to get it inside you somehow.
  • Finally, you need to get it out again, into someone else.

That’s about it.

For some of you that’s all you need to get to work.
I applaud you.
For the rest of us, the following posts will dig a little deeper.

Picking a story is nearly as complicated for me as the other parts, but just finding stories to choose from doesn’t have to be. Here are some on-line links and suggestions of stories that I have found useful. Continue reading »

What is a Real Story?

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Because a site like this that takes the word Story as a proper noun really ought to have such an important term defined.

Story is not a cute (or obscene) something someone said.  It is not a physical object.

A story has a beginning, a middle and an end.

Becky is always quoting Donald Miller’s definition at me:

A story is just a person that wants something and overcomes conflict to get it.

Antoinette Botsford, in a workshop here in Fairbanks some years back, offered a memorable formula with the letters P.P.P.O., asserting this (short list of four elements) is the test to distinguish a true story from a mere anecdote.

An anecdote can be entertaining and can be valuable, but a group of words is not a story unless it contains a person, a place, a problem and an outcome.

 The basic story formula I heard James Scott Bell use  is:

Chase a man up a tree. Throw rocks at him. Get him down again

My main problem with this format is that I never could figure out why someone would end up in a tree, just to get rocks thrown at him.  So I’m always looking for motivation or reasons behind the “had to happen for a plot-point” stuff.

Could be why I’m drawn to folktales, to expand or find the why of what is required within that story.

Ultimately, I think a real story is about change.

It may be growth or atrophy, hard or harder, but if the characters are all the same as they were in the beginning, we have not experienced a story, just a storm.

What is Untangling Tales?

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Story as art;
artistry as worship.
Worship, a way of living.

Untangling Tales is meant to be a reference and resource from damp to deep for those who desire to develop skill in the art of Storytelling.

Every Tuesday and Friday I’ll post an article, how-to, folktale or story performance aimed to teach or provoke thought on some aspect of Story performance.

An aside to my faithful readers (and the random visitor who pops back in for kicks):

I’ve been praying about how to focus my ever-expanding (it seems) world, and this is one of the results.

If you have questions or comments I welcome feedback as always. Feel free to leave a comment or drop a line: snow(dot)ffairy (at) gmail (dot) com.

~ ~ ~

For years now I have been benefiting from the generous writers who blog about real, useable stuff, sharing everything from courageous hearts and open kitchens.

So now it’s my turn. I’ve felt pulled to action for months, but unsure how to apply.  Recently a few questions were set on my plate:

What can I do that “most people” don’t?
Where have I been spontaneously complemented or thanked?
What ToDos leave me with more enthusiasm than when I started?
What makes me feel alive and connected to God as if it was created just for me?

(How many of these questions make me cringe and feel as though I’m not allowed to look directly at them?
All of them.)

My answers: writing, language, ideas and Story.

Frequently in the indirect (some people call it sneaky) application of Truth.

Truth used to travel from home to home, begging to be let in. But Truth was fearful to look upon in her nakedness, and no one would allow her to come near.

Truth dressed in a beautiful robe called Story, and all doors opened wide to welcome her in.

So this probably counts as a “relaunch” of Untangling Tales, more story-focused than before, and more others-focused too, my goal.

Second-Borns and Authority

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There are many families in our church with children of similar age.

A few years back, this led to an observation that the 2nd-children of the families, while every bit as sweet (we have an *amazing* group of kids. I just love ’em), the 2nds were distinctly less compliant than the oldests.

This isn’t to imply that *all* of the oldests were compliant, just that, set on a scale the 2nds were all less so than their older siblings.

It was from this observation I came up with my current theory about birth-order and response to authority.

It goes like this:

When you’ve got an oldest/only child raised in a healthy home, s/he is interacting directly with his/her source of authority; learning about the reliability of the authority figures; learning the consistency of their motivation and the extent of their power (e.g. of enforcement).

When you add a younger child to the same environment, you have the same reliability/consistency etc, but you also now have the older child.

In my experience the older sibling can act in proxy for the adults (e.g. carrying messages), or they may freelance (offer a command based on their own authority/desires).

I contend this is where s/lower compliance comes from.  It comes from the extra layer of filtering the younger child (feels s/he) must do before deciding how or whether to act. If nothing else the extra questions create a response-lag, or a suspicious orientation toward authority.

Continue reading »

A Meme!

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How long has it been since I did one of these?

I guess I’ve not done many.

There was interviewing myself as a writer, and (the one that made em laugh the most) fortune-telling via iPod.

Both are worth checking out, but especially the iPod one.

Angela, aka Farmer Jane, from The High Desert Chronicles tagged me for this meme, but considering how long it’s taken me to find time for it, I’ll not be passing on the assignment.

1. Where is your favorite place in the world? Tell us why?

Home. Everything I want to do and be I can find here.

The tricky corollary of that is how selfish I feel when I assert that.  My kids are at the age where I expect I ought to be teaching them how to be involved in the community, volunteering or whatever; but that feels beyond me at present.

2. What person has inspired you most?

It’s hard to narrow it down– I find so much inspiration in stories (fiction or non-fiction) that show possibilities I’d never imagine on my own.

I will say my parents in particular.

I love that my dad’s on his third (ish. Depending how you count) career, that he’s excelled at them all; how he pursues his various hobbies/interests (new instruments, juggling, building, restoring) with energy and excellence, setting a precedent that validates me in my own  various pursuits.

I benefit so much from my mom’s quick mind and willingness to speak truth.  She still listens well and responds to input, modeling humility and responsiveness.

3. Who would you like to with have over for dinner (famous or not, currently living or not)?

More, I’d like to sit at table with a few interesting people, and not be responsible for the conversation, but included if I thought of something to say, or just ask questions and hear their answers.

  • C.S. Lewis
  • G.K. Chesterton
  • Ravi Zacharias

There’s probably others, but this is where my mind has been lately.

4. Where were you born?

Washington state

5. City, coast or country?

Country to live, coast for vacation, if it’s not too crowded.

6. What is the best surprise you’ve ever had?

First one that comes to mind was when one of my adopted grandmas was brought (behind my back) to Fairbanks for my wedding.  I cried as I hugged her (wedding nerves I think) and she said how she’d told them not to make it a surprise.

7. What is your favorite song and why?

Too, too many beloved songs to just have one favorite.  I do love the One Faith duet between Michael Card and John Michael Talbot.

8. What are you most passionate about?

Oh my. Another hard question.  I think the short answer might be the truest.

Freedom.

9. What were you like as a 3 year old? (as far as you know)

I think it was as a three-year-old (as the stories go) that I had my “Calamity Jane” week: getting my arms stuck in the slats of a rocking chair, attacked by fire ants and falling out my bedroom window (my 5-year-old sister caught my legs and our parents found us like that: her screaming inside the house, me hanging upside-down outside.

Don’t remember any of it (from my own POV), but I can see the scene play out like I’m in the room watching; it makes a great story.

10. Describe your most cherished photograph?

Again, too, too many pictures.  I love the ones where people precious to me have *that* smile, where it spills out of their eyes and posture and makes you grin back just looking at them.

11. What have you done that you are the most proud of?

This is a tricky one, mainly because of the word done. I have done many many things in my life already.  I don’t feel as though I’ve accomplished a lot yet.  That is, I love  being married to Jay, I really like how my kids have turned out so far (even though we’re still working on unsupervised kindness), and I’m intensely proud of the fact I “won” NaNoWriMo three times now,

but all these things are still very much in-progress, and (except for the WriMos) don’t feel particularly like accomplishments.

Still deciding what that means.

Thanks, Angela for inviting me to play.

There’s More Than One Kind of Writers’ Block

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I don’t know why I never thought of it before, but it’s true.

For the longest time I enjoyed a smugly self-satisfied sense that (due to my limited writing time or imagination or some wonderful gift) I almost never suffered from writers’ block.

I made this determination based on the fact that I was never at a loss for words.

Because I assumed that writers’ block was like artists’ block: the literary equivalent of staring at a blank canvas and not knowing where or how to start.

Hint: for writing– especially with a computer– you just start. Put words down.  Make a muddle.  Build of your chunk of marble so that you have something solid from which to carve out your masterpiece.

But I was wrong.  Because I have struggled with finishing. With delivering.

I like to say (just because it sounds cool) that my Super Power is instant extrapolation. But what that really means (as I hinted in the last post) is that I react to things before I need to.  I anticipate, flinch, before the burn.  I call that way of life exhausting! because it is, but didn’t really see an alternative and got a bit fixated on the exhausting! (Because it really made me feel like I was working hard.  That’s what makes you tired, right?)

Well, here’s one alternative to consider.  It’s in a free ebook called The Flinch, and can be summarized like this:

  • Name this gut-reaction that is not very (if at all) useful. They call it The Flinch.
  • Recognize that the purpose it serves (keeping you safe), done too well, can hold you back from anything meaningful. Can keep you from taking good risks that will grow you.
  • Overcome the fear of The Flinch by reminding yourself failure isn’t permanent, and pain doesn’t last forever.
  • Use the momentum, the speed and impulse of The Flinch to react forward rather than cringe away.

Anyway, it was a short read, and brought up some good thoughts.

Best question it raised for me:

“Have you ever asked yourself why your stomach tenses up and your can’t watch imaginary characters on a television screen to awkward, embarrassing things? You should.”

Continue reading »

Is there a way to stop caring if I look like a fool?

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I’ve been (re) reading the bit in Chesterton’s Orthodoxy about the logic of Elfland, and how the wonder that exists in that story-world is to remind us of the wonder we forget of our own world.

And I’m filled with this surge of remembering. Of my capacity for wonder and delight.

Then just as quickly it is checked, by the cost of that wonder and delight.

To immerse without reserve means there is no net when I fall through the broken parts of this world.

I lost a whole litter today.  Mneme’s, that I just mentioned on Monday that I was eagerly looking forward to. My first litter since just after Christmas.

At 7:30 this morning I found nine naked kitsicles.  Three on the straw outside the nest were misshapen, and one was bit open and laying on the wire, but the other five looked perfectly formed.  On a last wisp of hope I immersed those in a bowl of warm water, up to their noses. My wonder expanded with my hope when four of those five began to kick weakly, and make gasping motions with their tiny mouths, revealing incisors as delicate as toothpick tips.

But the motion gradually slowed.  They were so cold the water cooled almost at once, and I couldn’t leave them to refresh it or their little noses would sink under the water.

I did what I could but eventually dried them and returned them to their nest, warming in front of the fire. But I knew I’d lost another litter.  And I grieved it.

And I hated grieving it, because it wasn’t necessary.  There were other things I’d expected to get done today.  I also wanted to not-care because if it can happen now after what I’ve learned, it can happen again any time.  And if it can happen any time, I am continually vulnerable.

And since I had just let two new babies into my heart, I did not want to be reminded of my vulnerability.  I didn’t want to think of all the ways I could lose these delicate little lives.

~ ~ ~

But what reading Chesterton tonight reminded me of, was that I am exchanging– surrendering– deep delight for the cheap payment of neutrality.  That is, in exchange for connection, and awe, and wordless wonder, I can now anticipate the worst and practice being numb both before and whether or not it happens.

I don’t limit my pain to events that are actually painful.

But the other cost of the delight– of indulging it– is being willing to look (or at least feel) like a fool.

To be surprised, burnt or wounded by something any pessimist or “realist” could have told me would happen.

I want the delight.  But I’ve forgotten the road. And I still care too much what others think.

But  am praying about what to do about that.  And what not to do.

Creativity and Depression

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Have I ever mentioned here (on Untangling Tales) that I wrestle with depression?  Usually seasonal, and usually manageable, but there are times and varieties that just eat my mind and (as a result) basically freak me out.

Well, this post is a chewing on that variety.

Last summer I went back to Weight Watchers for a while, to see if their new system was a good match for me. The first group I visited was a  convenient time for me, but I was “twilight zone” weirded-out by the emphasis of the majority on consuming.

That is, they never talked about recipes they were discovering and trying out with their own twist (what I was used to from my old group) so much as they talked about the right websites and recipe designers.

Now, this is a subtle distinction, so it took me a while to decide what felt so off.  These were women who were not (as a group) creative people.  They didn’t experiment on their own (at least from their talk). They were good at sussing out the “perfect” recipes and following them exactly for perfect results.

Objectively I see nothing wrong with this, but it is (to use an Alaskan analogy) like warm dark.  I know it exists, and is even normal to some people, but it is so far from my life-history I can’t be all that relaxed in that environment.

Shifting groups actually helped me stick it out longer in WW.  My later group was (as a whole, at least in what they shared) much more creative.

~ ~ ~

I have found a fairly tight correlation between creativity and managing depression. That could be why a non-creative group felt dangerous.  Depression feels like zombie-mode to me, so being surrounded by folks who didn’t need it… Well yeah, was just creepy.

Continue reading »

Speaking of Homeschooling

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Here’s a reprint from about two-and-a-half years ago.  Because the idea of ambassador is one I want to keep in front of me. For many reasons.

I mentioned  that life will be getting even busier soon since school will be starting, then added the clarification that we are homeschooling.

“Oh,” says Person-A, “Will Jay be teaching them math?”

“He could,” I said, surprised at the question and not wanting to make Jay look bad by saying he’s not currently planning on doing any of the teaching.

“I was just thinking he ought to be able to,” Person-A finished.

Then (this was my moment of lucidity) I realized Person-A had just insinuated it took an engineer to teach 1st-grade math.

“Are you implying,” I asked, genuinely hoping to embarrass him, “That I can’t teach 6-year-old math?”

Yes, that’s what he was implying.  He didn’t even try to defend himself.

I was surprised, but shrugged it off.  It wasn’t important to me what he thought.

It wasn’t until later that night, thinking again of the leggy Darwin fish on the car in his driveway, and remembering the sign during voting season for the local fellow I wasn’t voting for, that I began to feel something about our interaction wasn’t right.

And then this morning I realized that I had gone into the conversation utterly unprepared.

I had gone to admire a delicious new baby and prattle family small-talk and keep up positive neighborhood relations.

It was not in my mind that I was entering as an ambassador of Christ, and Homeschooling, and Conservative Thought, and Purposeful Parenting.

Lord-willing, that will never happen again.

I acted as though I was a friend among familiars, being sloppy in my explanations and imprecise in my reasons.  In short, I did more to reinforce any (diminished) view they may have of those things than to correct it.

And maybe it wasn’t that bad, but the problem is that I didn’t enter as an ambassador, aware of what I represented.  If I’d had the right mentality going in, I know I would have done better (If I’d only know this was a job interview…).

I might have recognized the “playing” of me and my ideas before the next day, and maybe refused to play.  I want to think I’d still not be offended (it never serves a diplomat’s goals or purpose to be offended), but I could have been more “professional” and less of an airhead.

Again, not that I’m sure I was the opposite extreme, it’s just that I muffed a fine opportunity to muck up their stereotypes.

And I find that disappointing.

All the same, I haven’t yet learned how to respond politely to subtle insults, and it occurs to me that had I fully known what was going on I might have been a poorer representative of Christ than I otherwise was.