Ever wonder how it got this way? How every discussion ends up with spittle flying, faces red as fire, voices shouting one another down, when all that's really needed is sensible talk? Ever wonder what happened to sensible talk? Guess what? It never existed, except within the telling of stories. That's the stone truth, and it lays to rest most of what we can find on the vaunted and pernicious interweb. I present this opinion as the only thing I know for sure. I know nothing else like I know this thing. Stories, told properly, take us in, share the other's truth, and make us understand. If we understood this, the national blood pressure would ease some, and conversation would once again become possible. Faint hope. Why do I know this? Because I've just finished a novel and it's on it's way into the wide world. Writing it was a revelation. Writing it reminded me of that telling a story is the only way to the truth.
When I heard that "The Lord God Bird", the Ivory Billed Woodpecker had been sighted in Big Woods Arkansas, in an item on "As It Happens" on CBC radio, I grabbed my notebook and wrote... "Lord God Bird-- Book?" ... and went on with my supper. The phrase had captured my imagination. What a title. "The Lord God Bird". The metaphorical implications are profound.
As time passed, I closed in on the story. I investigated what had happened, where it had happened, what the place looked and felt like. I read every word ever written about the bird. I knew, though I have no idea why, that there was a book in there somewhere. This began in 2004.
A few years later, I was aboard my schooner in Lunenburg Harbour, ready to ride out "Hurricane Earl". I was having a hard time taking a storm called "Earl" seriously, but I'd done all the work. I'd pulled the halyards away from the masts and tied them off. I'd gasketed the sails. I'd doubled up the mooring pennants, provided them with lots of chafe gear, and had two big anchors ready to go if things got stupid. And I had a bottle of rum, lots of grub, and my notebook and favourite pen at the ready. I was a moderately concerned, but deeply happy old sailor. I love this stuff. Fifty thousand deep water miles and a half dozen hurricanes had me ready.
As the storm made it's way up the coast, and darkness fell, I lit the lamp, sipped the rum, and opened my notebook. I wrote the first chapter of "The Lord God Bird". It just fell out of the pen. Then the wind started to blow, the old girl started to tug and dance, and I got busy with nautical matters. Earl had some rage in him, and I was busy for an hour or two. You need to be in the middle of a hurricane to know what I'm on about here, but the thing passed, and all was well.
I read the chapter I'd written as Earl approached over and over, and realized that I had landed, somehow, on the correct "voice" to tell the story that was brewing inside. So I went to work. I rose every morning before the sun, made a pot of espresso, and went to my desk and wrote. I was on fire to find out what happened, what I thought! Because I hadn't worked that out. I didn't know what I was on about. I only knew that these characters were real to me, that there was something in that man and that bird that would lead me to some kind of truth. If it didn't, I'd throw it in the trash. I've done that before. But in this case, I didn't. In this case, I found truth in what I'd written. I was humbled.
I learned as I wrote the story that I was grieving for the planet, it's creatures, it's flora and fauna. That their lives were exactly equal in importance to ours. I learned that I know war as the ultimate stupidity. I learned that I respect above all else humble human endeavour, unmitigated by the lust for money or fame, but directed towards getting a safe place for loved ones, building beautiful things. I learned that I respect every living creature. I was glad to find this out.
When the book was finished, I sent it to the one publisher I know who's reason for being is making "beautiful books". Quantuck Lane Press, which is the imprint of Jim Mairs, who spent most of his career making wonderful books for W.W. Norton, is a small, independent house that clings to the idea that a book is a treasure beyond saying. He loved it. And so it exists. Cloth over the boards. Stitched bindings. Original oil painting on the slip cover. Archival paper. I have a copy on my desk. My heart is full.
But that's not the point. The point is, that as I began the story, I didn't really know what I was on about. I just knew that there must be a story there. And as the story unfolded, I came to know what I thought. It was a gentle, slow, respectful process. This is how we should address this life we're living. Shouting gets us nowhere. Storytelling opens us up.
Now... in the politics of the day, there are those who call for war, who deny climate change, who disrespect women, who continue racism. All of these things are repudiated in the book, and I promise you that there is no better way to make the case. The story rings true. No spittle flies from it's mouth. No anger seethes. Life happens before your eyes, and allows you to draw your own conclusions. If you love the characters, you will get the point. If it is something you never knew or felt, you now know it and have felt it. You have been told a story. And every story has a reason.
And that, my friends, is how we make our case. Let's stop yelling, and start telling stories. If you'd like to read the one I've just written, it'll be out there. Look for it in an independent bookstore, or if you must, on Amazon.com. But please, for me, go to a bookstore. It's distributed by W.W. Norton. They'll get it for you. You'll talk. Maybe make a friend. Life will be sweet.
Go to www.tomgallant.com to find out more about the book, if you're so inclined.