What's The Story on Your Story?
From time to time I will be the victim of the proverbial question:
Did you always want to be a playwright?
And depending on what frame of mind I am in, I will give any number of answers that segue into obscure explanations.
Example: I will say, Yes. Why? Well, you see I was an only child. When you're an only child, whatever mischief or havoc you may cause rests solely on you and your excuse-making skills. There is no sibling in which you can toss the blame.
"Well, ummm see, the lamp fell over because...ummm.. Johnny was running with scissors and I tried to make him stop and.. and.. then.. he looked at me and ran into the table, bumping it just so..tipping the lamp. Ergo, it fell and broke."
No sir. No Mam.
The art of the (non-sibling) excuse gave birth to storytelling in my adolescent brain.
"Well, see the lamp fell over because... a gypsy caravan came by offering wares and tinker trades. I refused their offer and when they turned to leave, the elder gypsy's long coat brushed the lampshade, tipping the lamp. Ergo, it fell and broke."
Now in some strange way, it is possible that this only-child-excuse-embellishment-ability did provide fodder for my imagination faculties. Maybe possibly.
Another contributing factor points to something I found while clearing out some storage bins in my basement - a dusty yellowed 8 x 10 album entitled: "Baby Record Book (Our Child's First Seven Years)" - of which my mother managed to fill up the first Four years.
It was a book provided by the hospital as a gift for new mothers, (to offset the trauma of childbirth and medical expenses I guess.) The idea of this book was to capture each new special moment in diary entries, questionnaires, and photos of your offspring.
First tooth. First words. First steps. First questioning of existence, you know, the usual.
In one chapter of this book there is a category for "Development" such as "keeping time with music" and "placing meaning to words" - and I noticed an extra note my mother wrote next to the category of "Storytelling", after 3 years old she added, "Loves to make up his own".
Honestly, I can remember this. I recall rambling on about nothing at an early age, pure stream of consciousness, as if I were a pint-sized James Joyce. I have a vivid memory of sitting with my mom and dad at a neighborhood hangout called Miller's Confectionery and entertaining them all evening with my imagination. There was a Hamms Beer advertising clock on the wall of the confectionery that had a backlit waterfall as part of its display, I remember creating a completely fictional story that related to the waterfall. It had something to do with Yogi Bear finding survivors of a car accident in the falls. I guess I was big on tragedies at the time. (Maybe as the result of the times and television - Kennedy and Martin Luther King assassinations, Vietnam, Kent State, etc..)
A side effect of being an only child leads you to ample time to spend alone. According to my mother, I created an imaginary friend named "Bobby", (I don't remember this fact) but I do remember spending time by myself lost in my imagination and I guess my imagination gave birth to Bobby. I don't think Bobby had his own Baby Record Book, but perhaps he did, I haven't found it yet. It would be very creepy if I did so, I'll stop looking.
Now I'm sure that studies will show that most children, whether "only" child or one of many siblings, share an "overly active" imagination period and once they become acclimated to larger social groups such as grade school, high school, and so forth, the "overly active" side of the imagination regresses into the background.
However, for some of us, this chain of imagination evolution doesn't happen. Either that or we continue to cultivate it throughout our lives, in essence, keep it alive as we continue through life and it manifests itself through each of us in different forms: Artist. Writer. Actor. Musician. Filmmaker. Playwright. So forth.
Our craft in a sense becomes our imaginary friend and we simply choose the outlet or profession that accommodates this friend.
Did I always want to be a playwright? Well, no. I just found a place that I could spend time by myself and tell stories. I just found a branch of that world called theatre. So, that my long answer. That's my story. And it's not a tragedy.
