Back Story: Strings by Nevine Sultan
Imagine this: You are awakened at 2:19 a.m. by an inner compulsion; something has seized you by the gut. You sit up in bed, wait for your night vision to adjust, and try to make sense of what’s happening. You are reminded of the dream whose twisted images are lingering behind your eyes: A woman and a man are standing on a cliff. He trusts her completely. She sends him flying into the air with the press of a finger. He falls silently. You know you won’t be able to go back to sleep. You get out of bed. As you shuffle your way to your kitchen table, you notice the neon green of the clock on your stove glowing in the dark, reminding you of the time. You sit. You think about nothing. Your laptop is right across the table from you, lying in the jagged slivers of moonlight peeping through the blinds. You reach out and slide the laptop closer, flip open the cover, and open a gaping white page that awaits what you have to deliver.
This was how “Strings” began.
On second thought, it might be more accurate to say that this was the beginning of the end. I had been thinking about writing and writers and the dynamics of the craft for several weeks. Much of my thought centered on how the writer is a sort of godplayer, bringing people to life and eliminating them with a stroke of her pen, or a tap on her keyboard. I was also haunted by the vision of a puppeteer making her puppets do as she pleased at the pull of a string. These two entities blended to become the writer executing the action in “Strings.”
The story took form around the character of the writer. Truth and fiction became one as I indulged in thinking about what I, too, can create inside my imagination by pushing the limits of imagination itself. My mind was drawn by the intoxication of fantasy. I have always believed that we writers fall in love with the fiction, while we are afraid to admit that the fiction is often a protective membrane for the non-fiction hiding inside it. We tell stories. We call them fiction. And we believe ourselves.
Here is a blending of fact and fiction that I delivered to the white page that morning: I am a woman in love with the dream—not just as a dream—but as an unconscious mind spill of my conscious thoughts. Writing is a reproduction of the real world as I see it and perceive it and express it. The characters I create in my fiction are real.
Writing is art.
Art is artifice.
Artifice is lies.
But not just any lies. Lies that dare us to believe them. Lies that dare us to enter with them into a parallel universe where we can converse with them—and they with us. A parallel universe where we can switch places:
Can I be you for a while? I ask the lie. And the lie says back, Only if I can be you.
I am the princess and this is my castle, I tell the lie. And she tells me, You are the princess and I am your maid-in-waiting.
Lying is abstract reality.
Beautiful reality.
Outlandish reality.
Elegant reality.
Lying is sophisticated artifice.
Writing is lying… flying. It’s like driving down a road where a hairpin bend is coming up. You don’t know what’s right around that bend…
As I transitioned from freewriting about myself into writing about artifice, the first few lines of the story came together, and the plot in its entirety spread out before me like a dream. I allowed it in—all the way. And four hours later, my first draft of “Strings” was complete.
There was something about writing this story that I never experienced while writing any other story or poem. As much as I controlled it, it controlled me. It was like a massive power struggle where each of us tried to possess the other. For a few weeks, the characters became me, and I became them. And there was nothing more sublime than the moments where I gave in and let the story be.
I have to say I still feel a bit remorseful about the unfortunate fate of the nameless man in the story. But the fact that the writer—that I—chose not to name him means that, at the end of the day, he was dispensable; he had served his purpose in the narrative, after all. And, for that matter, so had the nameless woman, and the nameless writer, served theirs.
Nevine Sultan grew up in various countries of the Middle East and Asia. In her mid-teens, she returned home to Cairo, Egypt, for a while before moving to Europe and then the United States, where she and her husband currently live. Nevine’s work has appeared in The Copperfield Review and in the Notes from Underground Anthology. She blogs at Dreams, Deliriums, and Other Mind Talk. You can read her short story, "Strings," in the spring 2011 issue of Rose & Thorn Journal.
Nevine, we can call them lies but somehow I get the sense that the confabulating is a necessary ingredient for living. That might explain why storytellers have existed in most if not all societies, whether primitive or not. It is an honorable profession, this storytelling. I am glad that I am able to be present during your telling of stories.
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Judy, I agree entirely that this is an honorable profession. And I am so proud to be a part of it, as I know you are, as well. Making up stories is one of my favorite things in life to do. Without fantasy, life would be so insipid, so dry. There would be no way for us to make sense of all the events that happen in our lives and the lives of others. There would also be no playground for our imaginations. I am happy and honored to have you along on my storytelling journey, Judy.
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Fascinating to see the way your mind worked when writing this story. I've often felt that experience, when the story takes over and consumes me.
Jai
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Isn't it an amazing experience, Jai? I find myself unaware of the passing of time when I'm there.
Nevine
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Love the way you tell your beautiful lies. And loved reading about the birth of "Strings"!
Writing is an art you wonderfully master, ma belle Nevine!
Thanks for sharing;o)
***
BIZZZOUZZZ****
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And thank you, Cremilde, for always being such an enthusiastic reader! I really appreciate it... and you. But you already know that, right?
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Nevine,
Is'nt it all as a processus,
A relay.... when the truth of our reality would have liked to deal but
hands it over to our imaginations.
i mean, dealing the thrills of an unbound freedom.
Paradoxically, acomplishing it
within the limits of certain amounts of safety.
Does that makes sense?
Now as for 'the truth' i've to admit about you is... You've an amazing processus, and i'd say....it has always thrown me into the same velocity with which you yourself lance.
And indeed, is'nt that the traits of a writer....not 'just a writer'!.
You're are a writer,
a tenacious one,
never letting go till you've'nt had it!
(The truth is that i'm waiting for 'Your book'
which'll be an exceptional read.
i see it just by the corner of your mind )
Well Nevine, a portray of such fine analysis ....
it reveals your acute capacity of observations.... Especially, when you probe into the abstract, making it accessible for the reader the precision of the process,
yet, leaving enough room for personal discover within the same space.
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COL, you always probe right to the soul of the matter. That is why I enjoy not only your friendship, but also your readership. Yes, what you say does make sense - absolutely! And I'm happy you are able to find room for self-discovery inside my thoughts. As for my book... it is a dream swimming about my head. Hopefully, one day I'll be able to produce! Thank you for your kind encouragement, COL - and for your friendship!
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Oh, YES!-- "...we are afraid to admit that the fiction is often a protective membrane for the non-fiction hiding inside it. We tell stories. We call them fiction. And we believe ourselves."
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Angie, I'm happy to see I'm not the only writer who believes this . . . and who will admit to believing it!
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