I heard David Shannon speak last weekend. David Shannon of No David! picture book fame. He's a
wonderful speaker, an organic storyteller really, and he held my
attention—along with every other person's in the room—for the 45 minutes that
he spoke. Or perhaps a better way to put it is that he interacted with my
attention for that time, because he didn't keep my attention clutched in his
hands, still and silent, but instead, he danced with it: asked questions, made
eye contact, created call and response moments, made connections…and asked for
the same in return.
One thing David said was that he puts his dog Fergus—this
cute little white terrier—into every one of his stories. And so he becomes an
interactive game for David's readers. Where is Fergus in this story? Is he in the background? Is he a toy? Is he partially
hidden? In a very clear and simple way,
Fergus has become a recurring image, a through-line for David—from idea to
idea, from story to story, from book to book.
Maybe David draws Fergus because a furry dog is fun to
create. Or maybe he includes Fergus because he loves him so. And maybe—just
maybe—Fergus has become a sort of gauge, a way for David to mark his growth as
a writer.
Who knows.
But like I said, David got my attention dancing,
and the idea of recurring images is how I dipped and shimmied and spun. I got
to thinking about the objects that repeatedly show up in my stories. (Mind you,
I am not an illustrator, so I'm not talking about visual objects but objects,
instead, drawn with words.) For instance, I write about trees. A lot. And so,
in effect, I have a long-standing relationship with trees as story elements.
I had the urge, after listening to David, to go back through
my work and search for those tree moments, to place them side by side in
chronological order, and to trace the arc of my growth as a writer along their
branched arms, from one to the other to the other. We are drawn to the ideas
and images and concepts, I believe, that have the most to teach us. Early on we
don't know why we are so curious about them, but, still, we are…and so we play
with them, repeat them, explore them. Slowly, though, their meaning becomes
clearer. Maybe we connect them, for the first time, to a piece of ourselves.
They take on a different resonance. They express more. There is something
glorious, I think, in appreciating that progression of meaning. Something
sacred and intimate and wise.
What images recur in your work? How have they evolved over
time? What can they teach you about yourself as a writer and human being in
this wide and wonderful world?
Tam
I think sometimes a good critique partner can see those images in our work long before we are able to recognize them ourselves.
ReplyDelete