A story is like a bull, and storytellers are like bull riders. The inexperienced storyteller full of inspiration and a bit of pride embarks with a mixture of courage and faith. He or she has a fleeting thought; something profound that is currently propelling them. Maybe they saw a particularly beautiful sunrise, had a monumental argument with a loved one, or broke their routine and in so doing had forgotten memories and dreams rush to them with intense clarity. They hastily make their way to a computer or a note pad but something trips them up along the way. Associated with their newfound clarity is the image of a setting that is paramount to the successful portrayal of their story.
Nascent bull riders do not set out with only a cowboy hat and faded jeans, calmly climbing into the cage with a one ton beast ready for whatever it gives. No, they start small by being around bulls, riding other animals, and, when ready, begin on a colt with a full cage helmet, elbow and knee pads, and something akin to a bulletproof vest. Storytellers are like this. They have studied and likely done well on a school paper or two. They write for fun and pursue stories where they know them to be. Places and people spark something in them that is both difficult to describe and the only thing worth speaking about. They have read Hemingway but understand that top floor Paris apartments are no longer cheap due to the advent of air conditioning, and that Hemingway is not the author that good authors admit to reading anymore. More often than not they also realize that alcohol does not a writer maketh. But still, the draw of the capital R-Romantic writer beckons. So, they do their due diligence. In search of the maximum level of inspiration and to maximize their diminishing talent, they go from coffee shop to bar to park to closet to kitchen table before repeating the process. But slowly, inevitably, the storyteller, whose story may be a true and even noble story, begins to fade.
The inciting event that spurred the particular sense of joy or sorrow or desire loses its edge. They forget that they are not bull riders who require protection. Nor that it is not obligatory for them to find the perfect setting to ensure maximum inspiration as it might be for a rider to feel sufficiently capable before hopping on. By the time the storyteller is sufficiently comfortable, and confident, they are left sifting through scraps of the original story in their mind. The real trouble is when they begin frequenting the location they felt most comfortable writing in, but do not write. This must be the reason some coffee shops can sell coffee for $7 and retain a client base so long as they contain teak benches and a nice soundtrack. It is also why rodeos have plenty of spectators wearing cowboy hats who have never ridden anything at all. The idea of riding a bull is often more enjoyable than riding a bull itself.
The inexperienced storyteller who is determined enough to sit and scribble is often tossed by the weight of the story they are trying to tell. One slip of phrase can redirect the whole narrative in a manner that overwhelms them. This leads to unfinished works and broken laptops. Moving loose and free, conveying story from the soul with clear-eyed direction is not easy and takes practice. The chunkiness of sentences that must be organized and new thoughts that are multiple steps away from the current sentence are jostling when a storyteller does not know what to do with them. How the storyteller approaches what they have to say determines everything. It is a gentle and tempestuous relationship between words and ideas. Most do not realize that their thoughts are not actually linked to language, and that when they try to connect the two, the idea ceases to exist.
Watching a bull rider handle the animal up close, when you can see the details of both their eyes, you see the personification of something much more powerful than man determining a man’s every move. Like looking at a moonless and cloudless sky, taking in the ocean on a stormy day, or looking out an airplane window, the eyes of a bull make men feel small. This smallness is not meek, but rather inspires man toward something deep in his soul that only reveals itself in those moments. On the back of a bull, one slip or jolt spells disaster or coalesces into man and bull as something other than at odds. Under orange and blue skies, when clothes are sticky and people seem happier, a bull rider does what every author dreams of. He captivates and he dazzles. He holds hostage those in the crowd for as long as he remains in control, but deep down each person knows it is a fleeting exercise. The control is a mirage. The giant beneath him is in control and gives him the semblance of it, but only 8 seconds worth.
Andrew Witt 