Narratives are how we not only make sense of the world but make sense in a way that it’s more communicable, more felt. Reality, often offered with quotation marks around it, has come to feel almost wholly made up. I watch C-span.ĭidion says, “We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of the narrative line upon disparate images, by the ideas with which we have learned to freeze the phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.” No word pops up more often in my head these days than “phantasmagoria.” Fantastic. When I try to write: I write that image in various incarnations.
She knows full well that nothing will come of this but can’t stop clawing. Instead, I’ve had this image of a woman, me, presumably, in a tiny room surrounded by concrete walls, a concrete floor. In her essay, “The White Album,” Joan Didion says, in the first sentence, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” I tell stories for a (partial) living, but for months now I have not.
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