A friend of mine is a songwriter and in a band. We’ve talked a lot about the craft of writing, comparing lyrics to novels. He was a bit startled at the similarities; the inner demand of a story that won’t leave you alone until you release it to paper. Or, in his case, to music. He hadn’t thought about how the story doesn’t care if you share it in a poem, an essay, a novel, or a small piece of bluegrass.
There is an old abandoned hotel from the 1800s that is supposedly haunted by a young woman whose husband was killed in a mine explosion. When she learned of his death, the story says she hung herself. People swear they have heard her, have seen doors open and shut, and so forth. But this isn’t about the hotel or a scary ghost.
My friend was a bit haunted by this story. He wrote a song about the young woman, and what haunted him was not her death (real or apocryphal) but the need to release the song. When I say ‘release’ I don’t mean ‘publish’. He felt an overwhelming urge to sing the song in the old hotel. He wanted her to hear the lyrics.
We talked a lot about the reasons why we feel the urge to capture lives and emotions and all the myriad details that float around and coalesce into stories. We talked about how some things resonate so strongly that you just know there’s a reason you have to create that piece and bring it to life.
Yet this hotel was falling in, sagging with years of standing alone in mountain weather. It wasn’t exactly a safe place to enter. My friend also didn’t think it was a place this young woman’s spirit should be. He wanted to sing her to release, to tell her it was okay to move on, that there were better places out there. So he braved the creaky old building, braved his nervousness, and braved that spirit of the past. He went into the building with his mandolin and sang to a young woman who may never have existed, but who needed to hear a story.
Today he told me that he wasn’t sure he could do it alone. He obviously was able to, but he said that he thought about all the local people he knew and decided if he couldn’t make it, I was the one person he felt he could call, who would go into the building with him.
Not because I believe in ghosts, but because I believe in stories and understand the need to share them.
I think that’s one of the best compliments I’ve received in a very long time.
It doesn’t matter how we tell our stories, whether to an audience, a publisher, a multitude of readers, or a solitary ghost. Or even just to ourselves. What matters is that we listen when something inside urges us to speak. Or sing. Or write. Or paint. You never know who is nearby that needs to hear.
10 thoughts on “The Ghost of a Story”
I love it. . .now tell us about what it was like inside!!!!
I didn’t go in as he didn’t need me; he told me this after he had managed to go in at night and sing his song. It will be interesting to see if there’s any ‘activity’ after this though.
That’s what I was wondering too!
Love it!!! That is so you! And yeah, I can understand why the guy thought you are the one to take with or to share it with….
well put, lisa. and you are so right about the audience being however you perceive it…and just as valid as if you were playing to carnigie hall!!!
And I think many forget that. Sometimes the only audience we need is the wind, or the mirror, or the paper.
This gave me shivers. Shivers! What a story. Everything about this– your words, what happened, the echoing implications, is thrilling. (If it happened to me, I’d have to turn it into a short story.)
Stay tuned. I’ve asked my friend to give me the lyrics to the song he sang. I can’t figure out how to link the actual song here, but I’ll at least post the lyrics. I’m going to record him singing it, and figure out where to post it. Never thought of it as a short story…
You know, I wonder about this sometimes. I feel the urge to get things down on paper (or its digital equivalent) but I have so, so many ideas, and I don’t really feel that any of them call to me so much more strongly than the others. They all fascinate me so much that I end up not writing any of them, because I can’t do them all and don’t know how to choose. (This feeling is a pattern in all of my life, not just in creating!) It makes me wonder if I’m not meant to be a writer. I don’t know. Still trying to figure that one out.