I interviewed a veteran of the Iraq War today. I got some great stories, an interesting and honest perspective, and a better understanding of what life is like for some soldiers, especially those that have served in combat.
The bad news is, I feel I could have gotten so much more.
That's not just perfectionist pomp; I believe if I had a better idea of what my project is trying to do, I would have been better prepared to ask poignant questions. The problem lies in the combination of the project's focus evolving with the information I get.
The more interviews I do, the more I'll be able to recognize a pattern, something to focus on. Right now, I don't have many of those, so it seems as if there is no story. The story is there, however...it's just a matter of figuring out the common thread that holds together all the narratives I've collected.
It's a scattered approach to storytelling. I'm trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat without knowing how to do the trick. Thing is, I know that rabbit's in there somewhere.
If nothing else, I'm honing my interview skills. Establishing contact, explaining your project, getting comfortable recording and editing...all these things are important.
To use a cooking analogy, if the story itself is the final dish, I'm prepping ingredients. The oven's still preheating, so to speak.
Today's interview was a valuable experience, and the next interview I have with a veteran will be more polished, more focused. For now, I've got to let the thoughts shared with me today simmer for a bit.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Listening
Tonight, I went to a Bible study group with my brother-in-law and a friend. It was the three of us and their pastor, a pretty laid-back, unconventional man of the cloth. Given his modern/practical vibe and my disdain toward religion, I decided to ask questions. A lot of questions. It got to the point where I was asking some questions that were difficult to answer, not just for a pastor, but for anyone who knows that religion is one of those human conversations that has no end. At least, not yet (another topic for another day).
What I learned from the experience was the importance of listening.
Earlier today, I visited the National Gallery of Art. While sitting on a bench, I struck up a conversation with one of the curators. I don't know how we got to the topic, but I told him about the podcast I am trying to put together that involves interviewing veterans. It turns out that he's a veteran of the Iraq War, and the stories he told me were pretty graphic. More importantly, he was willing to share. I think one of the reasons for his enthusiasm was his desire for me to help him with his writing; but even if I had never mentioned that I'm a writer, I still think he would have shared his experiences. What got him to share? My willingness to shut up and listen, something I didn't do with the good pastor.
Everything is a learning experience -- your willingness to remain open determines how much you actually learn. Even if something is old hat, there can be something new to pick up. It may take extra effort, but nobody has the market cornered on perfection.
The same goes for listening. The most essential part of conversation is the sharing; it's two-way street kind of stuff. If I'm going to tell other people's stories, I need to learn to take in information with open ears and an open mind. But here's the thing: I'm shaping questions around a preconceived idea. The questions have to come from some frame of reference. Allowing that preconceived notion to be dispelled is what leads to fresh perspectives.
What I learned from the experience was the importance of listening.
Earlier today, I visited the National Gallery of Art. While sitting on a bench, I struck up a conversation with one of the curators. I don't know how we got to the topic, but I told him about the podcast I am trying to put together that involves interviewing veterans. It turns out that he's a veteran of the Iraq War, and the stories he told me were pretty graphic. More importantly, he was willing to share. I think one of the reasons for his enthusiasm was his desire for me to help him with his writing; but even if I had never mentioned that I'm a writer, I still think he would have shared his experiences. What got him to share? My willingness to shut up and listen, something I didn't do with the good pastor.
Everything is a learning experience -- your willingness to remain open determines how much you actually learn. Even if something is old hat, there can be something new to pick up. It may take extra effort, but nobody has the market cornered on perfection.
The same goes for listening. The most essential part of conversation is the sharing; it's two-way street kind of stuff. If I'm going to tell other people's stories, I need to learn to take in information with open ears and an open mind. But here's the thing: I'm shaping questions around a preconceived idea. The questions have to come from some frame of reference. Allowing that preconceived notion to be dispelled is what leads to fresh perspectives.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Shaping a Project
I've decided to give podcasting a try. I'm accepting that although I have strong communication skills, my verbal ability just may outweigh my written ability. I think there's more flexibility within conversation, and as a result, more topics and more ideas are touched.
I work with two guys whose fathers are in the military. Justin's father was in the Marines, a special-ops guy who was constantly away on some mission in a dark corner of the globe. Danny's father was in the Army and served two tours in Iraq; he came home and started drinking. Both fathers were negatively affected by things that happened while they served, although I wouldn't hesitate to say that both were proud of their time in the military.
Speaking with both Justin and Danny, I discovered that both wanted to join the military. Justin couldn't get in because he was diagnosed with asthma and bi-polar disorder. Danny's father wouldn't let him join. The thing that interests me the most is that both said enthusiastically that they would fight in Iraq, despite their fathers' negative experiences in the military.
The conversation was lively, and I thought there was a lot to work with. My problem now is taking that raw idea, that "hm" factor that hung over the conversation, and turn it into a digestable, packaged story. Maybe it won't be cleanly produced, but I want a connecting idea, some central point around which the conversation will revolve. And that central point should have some common quality, something to which many people will relate.
This happens to me a lot: I'll have a conversation with someone and discover something interesting about them...it could be something from their childhood, something about how they just handled a recent breakup, any number of things. I feel like they tell me these details in a natural, engaging way, and I want to capture that natural, honest expression. But I've got to do more than just that. I've got to frame their narrative in a way that means something more than just an interesting conversation.
I'm not sure how I'll frame Justin and Danny's story. I'm hoping for now, recording their feelings will lead to something else. I'm on to something, I just don't know what.
I work with two guys whose fathers are in the military. Justin's father was in the Marines, a special-ops guy who was constantly away on some mission in a dark corner of the globe. Danny's father was in the Army and served two tours in Iraq; he came home and started drinking. Both fathers were negatively affected by things that happened while they served, although I wouldn't hesitate to say that both were proud of their time in the military.
Speaking with both Justin and Danny, I discovered that both wanted to join the military. Justin couldn't get in because he was diagnosed with asthma and bi-polar disorder. Danny's father wouldn't let him join. The thing that interests me the most is that both said enthusiastically that they would fight in Iraq, despite their fathers' negative experiences in the military.
The conversation was lively, and I thought there was a lot to work with. My problem now is taking that raw idea, that "hm" factor that hung over the conversation, and turn it into a digestable, packaged story. Maybe it won't be cleanly produced, but I want a connecting idea, some central point around which the conversation will revolve. And that central point should have some common quality, something to which many people will relate.
This happens to me a lot: I'll have a conversation with someone and discover something interesting about them...it could be something from their childhood, something about how they just handled a recent breakup, any number of things. I feel like they tell me these details in a natural, engaging way, and I want to capture that natural, honest expression. But I've got to do more than just that. I've got to frame their narrative in a way that means something more than just an interesting conversation.
I'm not sure how I'll frame Justin and Danny's story. I'm hoping for now, recording their feelings will lead to something else. I'm on to something, I just don't know what.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Test Run
I'm at an impasse.
Have you ever heard of Radiolab? It's a radio show broadcast from NYC by these two guys that speak on matters of science, technology, and other stuff that I have yet to hear. The first episode I heard was on the topic of choice. The person who told me about the show presented this argument: when it comes time to make a decision, the act of choosing is more important than the choice you make. In other words, it doesn't matter which option you pick, just pick something.
Imagine a single bacterium, and imagine a chunk of food some distance away from it. The bacterium is trying to make its way to the chunk of food, but doesn't know the exact path...as a result, it takes a squiggly trip full of wrong turns and backtracks and looping detours, but it eventually finds the chunk of food. To an obeserver tracing its path, the route appears to be all over the place. But step back, and keep going back...from the right distance, the right perspective, the wayward path looks more and more like a straight line.
I quit my job as a software developer about a month ago, opting to launch a writing career. Do you need some time to make comments about what a stupid, irrational, scary, quixotic, cliche, not-too-well-thought-out move that was? I'll wait. Actually, you're probably just shrugging your shoulders, a "whatever, I don't know this guy" kind of reaction. I realize the truth; the only person that feels as strongly about my move is me. It seems to me to be ground-breakingly, earth-shatteringly significant because...well, because it's happening to me.
I've grown tired of thinking about all the details that frame this as a bad decision. I made the move because I couldn't stand coding: I couldn't stand the rigidity of logic, the condescension in almost every message board comment when I searched for help, the expectation of technological omniscience from anyone who found out I was a programmer. I sucked at it. I loved the people I worked with, but they couldn't sit down and bang out code for me. And in the end, neither could I...so I quit.
And now here I am. The comforting thing about "here" is that it has substance. I can look around and see the surroundings of my sister's house, where I'm staying, and count the dwindling dollars in my bank account. "There" isn't as clear. Trying to imagine it is both unsettling and exhilarating. "There" hasn't really been seen or experienced by too many people, if any at all. "There" is where I'm trying to go -- to find a niche in this crazy period of time in which we live, when so many things are changing at such a rapid rate that history's stenographer is wishing for speech recognition.
Details to come, but it felt good to get something out there for right now...thanks, Penelope.
Have you ever heard of Radiolab? It's a radio show broadcast from NYC by these two guys that speak on matters of science, technology, and other stuff that I have yet to hear. The first episode I heard was on the topic of choice. The person who told me about the show presented this argument: when it comes time to make a decision, the act of choosing is more important than the choice you make. In other words, it doesn't matter which option you pick, just pick something.
Imagine a single bacterium, and imagine a chunk of food some distance away from it. The bacterium is trying to make its way to the chunk of food, but doesn't know the exact path...as a result, it takes a squiggly trip full of wrong turns and backtracks and looping detours, but it eventually finds the chunk of food. To an obeserver tracing its path, the route appears to be all over the place. But step back, and keep going back...from the right distance, the right perspective, the wayward path looks more and more like a straight line.
I quit my job as a software developer about a month ago, opting to launch a writing career. Do you need some time to make comments about what a stupid, irrational, scary, quixotic, cliche, not-too-well-thought-out move that was? I'll wait. Actually, you're probably just shrugging your shoulders, a "whatever, I don't know this guy" kind of reaction. I realize the truth; the only person that feels as strongly about my move is me. It seems to me to be ground-breakingly, earth-shatteringly significant because...well, because it's happening to me.
I've grown tired of thinking about all the details that frame this as a bad decision. I made the move because I couldn't stand coding: I couldn't stand the rigidity of logic, the condescension in almost every message board comment when I searched for help, the expectation of technological omniscience from anyone who found out I was a programmer. I sucked at it. I loved the people I worked with, but they couldn't sit down and bang out code for me. And in the end, neither could I...so I quit.
And now here I am. The comforting thing about "here" is that it has substance. I can look around and see the surroundings of my sister's house, where I'm staying, and count the dwindling dollars in my bank account. "There" isn't as clear. Trying to imagine it is both unsettling and exhilarating. "There" hasn't really been seen or experienced by too many people, if any at all. "There" is where I'm trying to go -- to find a niche in this crazy period of time in which we live, when so many things are changing at such a rapid rate that history's stenographer is wishing for speech recognition.
Details to come, but it felt good to get something out there for right now...thanks, Penelope.
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