After a conversation with one of my neighbours, it dawned on me that I should be telling this story that I have been bringing here, as a story. The words, “It was a dark and stormy night,” seemed to be almost the perfect metaphor for dealing with the “Creation Myths,” especially that of the Bible that I have been drawing upon. And as soon as those words left my mouth as we travelled to deal with my neighbour’s computer issues, we both laughed. Yes, a novel, one that has a sense of humour, is perhaps the best approach for me to take. After all, I don’t want to be so serious that it closes so many doors between the story and whoever might read it. And so, with this post, it begins.
* * *
It was a dark and stormy night. “Erase that, you can’t write that. I hadn’t invented night yet in the beginning. Everyone knows that to have a night, there also has to be a day with morning, afternoon, and evening thrown in for good measure. All that comes later.”
“Okay, okay already,” Rainier grumbled. How about, “It was dark and stormy.”
“Geez, can’t you just write what I tell you to write?. It wasn’t stormy. You can’t have storms without planets, atmosphere and weather systems. Just write. “It was dark.”
“Boring,” stated Rainier with exasperation. “I heard what you said. Yes, it was dark and that is the whole story for so long that you finally got bored of nothing but darkness. Do you really think anyone will want to read a story that basically talks about nothing else but being dark?”
“That’s not fair. You know that there is a huge story that follows.”
“You talk about being fair?” exploded Rainier. “If there was fairness, I wouldn’t be writing this crap that no one in their right mind is ever going to believe, even as a fiction story.”
It wasn’t as easy as he thought it was going to be, to write this story, especially since it wasn’t his story, nor his idea to write the story. Rainier thought he was going to write a follow up story to his last novel about the Camino de Santiago. How the idea for this new novel ever got into his head was a complete mystery. Rainier was used to mysteries as a Jungian psychotherapist working with all sorts of people who had found life difficult as the boundaries between the world they had carved out for themselves and their inner world came into conflict.
It wasn’t easy as the voice in his head was determined to control every single word that was to be put on paper, well, the keyboard and screen. Rainier had been reluctant to give in to this impulse to write this particular story as the voice wanted the “truth” to be told as it had never been told before. When Rainier had protested that it couldn’t be a novel if it wasn’t fiction. And if it was fiction, then the words really didn’t matter as long as the story was told. That response to the inner voice only resulted in a headache that didn’t let up for several days.
Rainier took his concerns to Frieda, the woman who had become his significant other when he had walked the Camino the year before, an event that had resulted in his first novel. All that she had to tell him was to just go with it, trust that the inner voice, to trust it as his muse. After all, what did he have to lose other than a headache whenever he resisted that muse. Rainier had to admit that Frieda was likely right about the whole mess. After all, when the story was done, he sure as hell didn’t have to publish it. Conceding a defeat of sorts, Rainier returned to the keyboard to let the story be told.
It was dark. Darkness was all that there was, an infinite darkness that was unbound by time and space and place. The darkness was anything but empty. All that was to be, all that would never come to be, everything was already in the darkness simply being unformed. It was dark, always had been dark. And, it was boring. “Boring? I didn’t tell you to write ‘boring!'”