My
daughters like to listen to books on CD when they are crafting. The Chronicles of Narnia (C.S. Lewis)
and the Redwall series (Brian Jacques) recordings are their
favorites since they are full productions, with actors for each roll. Redwall is delightfully narrated in
thick Scottish brogue and includes all the songs, which the girls used to sing
constantly (though now they sing pop songs, sigh).
Today, walking through the cellar to
put in a load of laundry, past their sketching and painting, I was struck by
the rhythm of the story on the CD player; as if it were written to be heard,
rather than read. I thought, yeah, I want to write like that.
Our stories began as vocal art, told
at fairs and festivals, retold year after year. Each new storyteller added her
own excitement by introducing some magic or elaborating on the description of
the castle or killing off a lesser character in a dramatic fashion. The story
changed; sometimes they were forgotten and later revived; often just forgotten
though replaced by new stories.
Whether changed or repeated verbatim,
the voice was an important part of the art. Years ago, when I ran a program at
the museum for preschoolers, storytelling was a big part of it; it was my
favorite part. When I taught elementary school, I read out loud every day. But,
these past few years, as I have started playing with writing, when I began the
journey to become a writer, I forgot all about that voice.
On my writing “to do” list this
month is to read my work out loud and pay attention to that rhythm. Fortunately,
I have two days a week when the kids go to school and the husband goes to work
and the only one who will be around to hear me is the dog. I love to tell
others’ stories to a crowd, but I’m not ready to perform my own work. I will
be, though. I don’t have bawdy ballads like Brian Jaques, nor an instantly
poetic sounding brogue, but, still, I can make all of my words sing.
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