Telling Stories Without Words

Poetry, I’ve come to believe, is a conjuring (yes, magic) of the senses. It’s vision, but with words. And it’s music without an instrument. It’s the scent of low tide with no seaweed and no sand. It’s texture with no physical object to touch. You conjure an image, a smell, a sound, a touch, a taste, using only words. It’s a kind of synesthesia – a jumble of one sense on top of (or underneath) another. So why does it surprise me, over and over again, when this confusion of senses happens in art, that is, when something purely visual speaks?

Yesterday I read an article in the New Yorker (“Quilts That Keep You Up at Night” by Nina Mesfin, 10/23/23) about a Black quilter named Michael A. Cummings. He’s a storyteller who uses fabric patches instead of words. He creates characters, populates a setting, and challenges us to stay with him as he opens a window on a scene. We use our imaginations to follow his narrative arc, and we fill in the gaps with what we’ve learned about the world ourselves and what we’ve lived in our own lives.

For this blog post, I don’t want to use too many words. I’d like you just to look at some of the work Cummings has created and to ask yourselves to “read” the stories they tell. Think of them as writing prompts. Choose one and think of it as a short story, or even as flash fiction. What’s the story in this quilt? Who is this person, who are these people? Where are they? Have hearts been broken? Has a stranger come? Has someone set out on a journey? What’s happening? What’s about to happen? What is the mystery at the core of the story (because what is a story without a deep mystery to it?) Look for details. A mermaid, a monster, a cross, a snake, bags for cotton, repeated fish, and water, water, people in water, people on ships, ships in water.

Here are photos of a few of Cummings’ quilts.

“I’ll Fly Away” by Michael A.Cummings

The last image is just part of a quilt – here is what the actual quilt looks like on a wall.

Maybe that quilt is not flash fiction, not a short story. Maybe it’s the Great American Novel.

Out of the mist…

Recently, I went a four-day meditation retreat. I didn’t actually go anywhere. I was at home online. It wasn’t the same as a residential retreat, but I did my best. My kids are gone, I have my office space, and my husband and I are both comfortable with quiet. Mostly I was on Zoom. The days were long. At times it was incredibly tedious. I was often restless, uncomfortable and impatient, but sometimes it felt good and like I was finally getting the hang of this meditation thing.

So, what does that have to do with writing? It takes me back to one of my favorite wonders: where does creative inspiration comes from? Most creative types will tell you it’s not from a conscious place, although it helps a lot to be working on your project and to have it taking up some mind space. And of course you research and you think and plan and do the work, but the best ideas, plot twists, interesting characters and perfect details seem to lie several layers deeper, coming not from a conscious edifice of reason, logic and deduction, but somehow just appearing.

I’ve written before about how rhythmic activities like preparing a meal, riding a bus, bathing or walking can lead to inspiration. When your conscious mind is occupied with a simple, familiar chore, your thoughts can often turn into the lovely state of musing—relaxed, rambling, and quietly observant. And sometimes seemingly out of nowhere, not even related to what you are vaguely thinking about, comes those quiet revelations about the right words to end a story or an unexpected plot turn or insight into character. 

Meditation can be a way of deliberately putting yourself into a similar state of mind where the conscious, chattering mind gets muted and the subconscious has a chance to emerge.

After my retreat, I did some googling. It’s clear that many other writers also meditate and some use meditation deliberately with writing in mind. Here’s an excerpt from an article on MasterClass (which by the way has many classes taught by major authors such as Margaret Atwood, Neil Gaiman and Judy Blum).

Create a mantra. When you start meditating, you may find your mind wanders. Some meditators like to give their inner voice a mantra—a phrase or question—to repeat to themselves during meditation sessions. Yours could be linked to the creative process. For instance: “I will become a better writer,” or “How can I silence my inner critic?” 

Picture your scene. Writing exercises are helpful, but seeing creative ideas through to completion often requires a little extra creative thinking. For your personal meditation program, try picturing a scene from whatever you’ve been writing. Instead of mentally writing down details, visualize every aspect as if you’re in the middle of the moment looking around. 

Write immediately after meditating. When your session is over, slowly open your eyes and take stock of your body, emotions, and thoughts. Before you stand up, open up a notebook or laptop and do some stream of consciousness writing, journaling, freewriting, or any kind of writing, really—put pen to paper while you’re creatively open and in the zone. 

Some authors also use it to overcome writer’s block or to hone their ability to focus and concentrate. Author Susan Griffin (22 books, including a Pulitzer prize finalist) has written an entire book that is grounded in Buddhist ideas, including using meditation for creative work. You can check it out here:  Out of Silence, Sound. Out of Nothing, Something.: A Writers Guide 

Although it’s clear that some writers are very deliberate about using meditation for their work, for me, it’s mostly about what it does for me after I get up from the cushion (as they say in meditation speak). As I get back into my daily routine, it seems that those deeper ideas, insights and just-right words come a little more readily out of the mysterious mist of the mind.