An interesting thought exchange with ClassicalSass about “why post/publish your writing?” led me back around to the idea of being a writer vs. being a storyteller.
Yes, of course, there is critical overlap there. I’m not talking about hard definitions, or the semantics of how the words can be used in literary criticism. Instead, I’m talking about identity, and so necessarily I mean how it applies to me.
I call myself a storyteller — I am, actually, not very good at spoken-word storytelling, although I can read aloud entertainingly. What I mean when I identify as a storyteller is that the stories I write are merely meant for enjoyment. Oh sure, deeper meaning can always be pulled out of a fun story (ref. fandom meta about every movie/tv show/comic ever) but I don’t write my stories with deeper meaning in mind.
I write stories I want to read, not because I feel I have something important to say as a writer.
This is arguably a pointless fuss over definitions, but it’s important to me because it helps separate my work from the expectations that were placed upon me as a child. When I was about six, not long after I started reading, Mother (somewhat rashly) assumed I was some kind of writing prodigy and felt that the most appropriate use of my talents was to follow in the footsteps of greatness — her heroes, such as Austin and Lessing and Herman Hesse and (of course) Shakespeare.
Meanwhile, I watched Star Trek on reruns and gorged on the Black Stallion book series.
Mother loved Emily Dickinson, I loved Indiana Jones.
Yes, of course, she enjoyed Indiana Jones and I appreciate Emily Dickinson’s poetry. But what I’m talking about is how a creative work resonates with your soul, the work you can read or watch repeatedly and always find something new and fantastic about it.
Given that for Mother that was Shakespeare and for me it was Star Wars: A New Hope, it says a lot about our respective depth of character, but whatever. I own it.
We were always going to be at odds. She wanted me to be a writer, someone who would tell important stories about the human condition. I think, honestly, that is what SHE wanted to do but felt unable to do so because of a wretched combination of insecurity and mental illness and bad health. So like a rabid “sports dad” pushing his son onto the field whether the boy likes football or not, mother pushed me into the realm of literature.
The predictable result was that I pushed back.
I am still pushing back, so many years later, but it’s hard to admit being a disappointment to your mother, even when she’s long dead. I work around that by calling myself a “storyteller”, in hopes that lends some credence to my efforts.
Probably not, but I have nothing to lose here.
