Where was I thinking?

"Daaad." It's the petulant cry that any parent knows. "That's not a story!"

Yeah, he's right. Even my six year old son knows when a group of actions with a bit of dialogue fails to make a story.

I encountered this protest the other night when I was trying to calm my kids down. I often tell them stories that include strange characters and more than likely I will include their ideas. But this time "That's not a story!" fit perfectly.

I find it strangely satisfying that it's so easy to tell bad entertainment from good. Now, I almost wrote that it's easy to tell bad art from good (actually I wrote it and then erased it). But there is a real difference between art and entertainment. Just like friendly Mr. Square and Sir Rectangle, entertainment can be art, and art can be entertaining, but these two words are not synonyms. And more often than not you will find that art that moves your soul or inspires you to greater heights can bore most people to tears. Understanding art takes skill and training. Art is like a secret code to anyone who has read the right book. But some art, and I like to aim for this kind whenever possible, speaks to those who haven't read the right book as well as those who have.

Entertainment on the other hand, and all the art that falls into this category, lends itself to understanding from even six year old children who barely know how to add 6 and 20 (just so you know, that's 26).

So, that's not a story. We all know it, and sometimes we're willing, like the six year old, to hold the supposed story teller accountable. In fact, criticism comes easy. We all know when we come away from something unchanged. Art is an interpretation of life, and the secret behind life is that everyone in your audience has that trait...the being alive trait. So everyone is an expert. That makes my job hard, but it also makes it worth that much more when I recieve a different response like, "That story stinks."

Hey, at least it's a story.

Moderation in All things

The late spring sun strains against beige window blinds to force warm lazy light through a western facing window. Heat resonates from the blinds as they block the attack. To the north, the window blinds sit half turned to allow the less offensive indirect light. In front of the northern window a short book case struggles to contain books whose titles range from Rights of Man to Lord of the Rings to Winnie-the-Pooh's Baby Book. In the cramped corner between these two windows I find myself typing on seven year old keys atop a fifty to sixty year old sewing desk.

The top of the desk, once used to hold fabric and pins, now barely contains the struggle for space between a great white monitor and a now defunct color ink-jet printer. With desktop space at a premium, I hold the keyboard in my lap. The desk was designed before the advent of personal computers, but seems very forward looking in matters of size. I sit, dreaming of a slim new monitor and laser printer. While dreaming, I imagine a larger bedroom or even a larger house.

Piles upon piles of paperwork find themselves precariously perched atop stools, dressers, and shoes. The struggle for neatness feels futile against the encroaching wood pulp avalanche.

Somewhere inside this already stuffed space I find myself. Within these cramped walls I find scraps of paper filled with notes written from every direction. Inspiration filled shreds stand as wardens against insanity. Symbols of a forthcoming masterpiece, works in progress. All hoping to find ultimate and final fruition on a folding chair less than 7 inches from my bed.

And thus it began

Billy's knee jerked, and he looked around cautiously. His right kneecap always tickled when someone was about to pass gas. It wasn't a particularly useful prognosticative talent, but it had saved him a bit of olfactory discomfort more than once.

Just as he suspected, Billy's older brother, Reginald, rounded the corner masticating in content. In his hands lay the uneaten half of a chili burrito. The other half hung screaming and clamoring from his mouth.