I believe I’ve talked about this before, but I’ve (almost ironically) have found myself drawn to silence in storytelling.
In storytelling, we feel the need to fill a story to the brim with detail. Having been raised in an Irish family, talking about the inane in an attempt to be interesting is something to which I have become accustomed. We often fail to talk about what is important because emotions= the devil, and so we find ourselves wrapped up in stories about things that do not matter.
I called my mother on Sunday, seeing as it was Mother’s Day, and she casually mentioned that she had yet another biopsy performed on her after her mammogram. She’s fine, but decided to keep it to herself. This is classic behavior.
The unmentionables of my family remain so, and yet, they are the things that define us, that mark our family as different from other families– though, all families are a little bit fucked up (or a lot).
I’ve become more interested in what the silence does for storytelling– the things that can be described, but are much more valuable simply by being perceived, rather than being told. Some people are masterful with their words, and thus, are able to conceal themselves and how they feel behind them. I feel that silence in storytelling makes us vulnerable– the moments when someone pauses to gather themselves, their emotions, their thoughts: these are the moments which give away the tone and true nature of the story.
That’s all I’m really thinking about tonight. I’ve learned a lot more in regards to technicality, but I realize that I can often be verbose. This is an attempt to not do that.
Pleasure,
Lauren.
lauren yarnall 