When
I was ten years old, I was attacked by baboons. Spoiler alert: I survived. But
it’s one of those stories I tell when people ask me to share something
interesting about myself. There are others. I once saw a UFO. I own two
chickens, Onomatopoeia and Chicken Whittle. I know all the words to Edgar Allan
Poe's "The Raven" and Eminem's "Lose Yourself" and have
recited both to my freshman comp classes. I box—very badly—but enjoy it very
much. And I once prepared to fight a grizzly bear with my bare hands.
In
isolation, each of these facts will tell you very little about me, but when
they are placed together into a context, they create a narrative. A story. A
report of connected events, real or imaginary, presented in a sequence. Your
brain loves a narrative, loves it better than a list, loves it like bees love
honey, with an instinctual affinity. This is why stories have been one of the
sturdiest building blocks of our civilization, outlasting even castles and
temples.
Storymaking
is one of our oldest skills, going back over thirty-five thousand years ago to
the Upper Paleolithic Age. One prime example of it can be seen in the cave
paintings at Chauvet Pont d'Arc in France (you can read about them HERE).
During
the dawning of our species, our ancestors eventually discovered that cave
living was a fine idea. The world was a dazzling and dangerous place, and a
cave kept out the larger hazards. Back then, every single day began with the
same to-do list: survive until the next morning. Find food, avoid becoming
something else’s food, don’t fall off a cliff, don’t step on a snake, don’t let
the fire go out, don’t mess with that other tribe across the river because they
will club you, don’t don’t don’t.
And
yet, in those dark smoky caves, after what must have been grueling,
back-breaking days of non-stop work and intermittent terror, we human beings
made art. We daubed red clay on the wall and recreated what we saw out in that
world: horses, mammoths, rhinos, lions. To our contemporary eye, these pictures
may look primitive, childish even. The images blur into each other. The rhinos
have six or seven horns, and the horses’ haunches overlap, as if someone were
trying to draw a herd and just didn't have the skill to pull it off.
This
would be an incorrect interpretation, however, a deception brought about by our
modern eyes having grown accustomed to steady illumination. In the dark of the
cave, lit by only the flickering glow of a fire, the images begin to move. In
the dance of light and shadow, tails twitch, muscles ripple, and manes toss.
The herd gallops across the plain, hooves and dust. The predator cat follows,
fangs bared. These paintings were the world’s first virtual reality, and our prehistoric
ancestors created them out of mud and memory.
Not
just a collection of drawings. A series of connected events. A narrative. A
story.
When
you write or read, you’re participating in a human activity older even than
writing or reading itself—storymaking. Stephen King called it an act of telepathy—two
humans connected by neither time nor place, nonetheless together. A meeting of the minds, he says. Magic.
Consider
this next time you pick up a book. Even if it’s too hot for a fire in the fireplace,
imagine one anyway. Imagine that dance of light and shadow on the page. Invite
your inner caveperson to move closer so that you can share the story together.
* * *
Tina Whittle
writes the Tai Randolph mysteries for Poisoned Pen Press. The fifth book in
this Atlanta-based series—Reckoning and
Ruin—was released in April. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and
serves as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website
to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional
scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.
