The Art of Storytelling

Part One (Originally published in Words Matter Publishing Quarterly Journal)

‘ONCE UPON A TIME’

BY

LAZARUS CARPENTER

On a cave wall, gnarled fingers etched images with a fragment of flint across rock. A deer pursued by hunters brandishing spears springs out of the granite. In another image, the deer fallen pierced with spears surrounded by hunters. Yet further along the cave wall, hunters are seen carrying the fallen creature hung between them on a pole. Next we see the hunters sitting around a fire, the deer roasting on an ancient spit. The art of storytelling begins.

Stories depicted in this way were experiences of adventures recorded for all to see. A beginning, a middle and an end, a journey through time. As language developed so to an oral tradition of sharing stories between folk. All indigenous cultures without exception began in this way, the most ancient being the Aboriginals of Australia. Passing through thousands of generations, stories told around the camp fires have recorded ancient history. Many years later, as alive and vibrant as the day they were first told. The storyteller illustrating the story through engaging language entertained and captivated their audience.

With the advent of the written word, ink and scrolls of parchment, stories could be recorded to be read at any time, but were only available to the rich and educated, whilst the oral tradition continued for common folk. The oldest known manuscripts are dated around 2100 BC. But some scholars believe that these could be transcriptions of earlier Sumerian texts. Integrated versions have been found dating from around 2000-1700 BC. The most complete “standard” version written on 12 clay tablets sometime between 1500 – 1200 BC.

The ancient Egyptians had wax and wood “notebooks,” but the Romans were the first to create bound books from paper (papyrus). By the 2nd century, this type of codex was the preferred writing tool among early Christians. The Diamond Sutra is now considered the oldest known printed book, its contents are central to Indian Buddhism, and are believed to have been translated from Sanskrit to Chinese in about 400 AD. The development of printing in China in the 8th Century paved the way for this book.

In Europe the first book ever written that we know of is The Epic of Gilgamesh: a mythical retelling of an important political figure from history. Years later, in 1454, a German man called Johannes Gutenberg built his very own printing press. And thus in Europe the ‘book’ was born as the pages printed were bound together.

The plays and sonnets of William Shakespeare appeared in the Royal Court of Elizabeth I in pamphlet form. There are many great storytellers from the past, perhaps the most famous and prolific being Charles Dickens (1812-1870). He wrote more than fifteen novels, short stories, plays and many journal articles based on social commentary of Victorian England.

It is said ‘everyone has a story to tell’. So you have an idea and would like to write your story, where do I start I hear you ask? A story has five basic but important elements. These five components are: the characters, the setting, the plot, the conflict, and the resolution. These essential elements keep the story running smoothly and allow the action to develop in a logical way that the reader can follow. I feel it is crucial the opening line and first paragraph are engaging and memorable so the reader becomes hooked. You may have written an excellent story but if the reader becomes bored by the first couple of pages they may put the book down and not finish it at all. There are many excellent books with engaging beginnings and here I suggest some of my favourites for you to consider.

For example in ‘A Christmas Carol’ (1843) a novella written by Charles Dickens we read.

“Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. … Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.”

JRR Tolkien in the ‘Hobbit’ (1937)

‘In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.’

Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka (1915)

‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect’

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813)

‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’

1984 by George Orwell (1949)

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen’

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams (1980)

‘The story so far: in the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move’

Moby Dick by Herman Melville (1851)

‘Call me Ishmael’

Harry Potter by JK Rowling (1997)

 “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.”

The Prophecy by Lazarus Carpenter (2018)

‘For ten years past, I have been an apprentice to Llwyd ap Crachan Llwyd and have learned the ways of prophet and seer.’

In all of the examples we are hooked as the narrative engages our interest by introducing a theme and suggesting questions raised, yet to be answered. Have a look at novels by your favorite authors for other examples.

In the next edition of Words Matter Publishing On-Line Journal with part two of this series the ‘Art of Storytelling’, I will introduce ideas and concepts looking at the five basic elements of writing your tale: the characters, the setting, the plot, the conflict, and the resolution.

‘THRICE TOUCHED BY A SAINT’

Back in 1992 my German Shepherd, Macduff nibbled at a dead fish on the beach. Later in the day he began to bleed profusely from his rear and a visit to the vets was imminent. He was admitted as an emergency and put on a drip, diagnosis, mercury poisoning. The prognosis was very poor and the vet did not think Macduff would last the night and told me to be prepared for the worst. In my wallet a picture of Saint Padre Pio with a small relic of stigmatic bandage on the back, sprung to my mind. With the vets permission I hung the photograph in the kennel. When I returned home the whole night was spent in prayer to Padre Pio asking and pleading for intercession. Next morning without any sleep behind me, the car found its own way to the surgery. As you can imagine my heart was in my mouth when I walked through the vet’s door.

‘He is still with us!’ I was told as we both walked towards the kennels.

A sigh of relief, but as we entered the kennel I saw my huge dog, a shadow of his former self. The vet told me he had lost over half of his body weight in the last twenty four hours. Nevertheless, Macduff lifted his head from a cushion and weakly barked at me. He was over the worst and the vet was speechless. Padre Pio had heard my prayer of that I was sure. After a few days of hospital care he was home and craving cucumber and toast and after six months he was back to his old self. I left my photograph of Padre Pio with the vet and he put it above the operating table.

His parting words to me were. ‘Only a miracle could have saved him, and we have witnessed one!’

Macduff lived for a further four years and passed away at the grand old age of twelve.

Moving forward to 2003 my partner at that time was diagnosed with ovarian cancer after positive smears. Again, I turned in prayer to Padre Pio but I did not tell her what I was doing, such stuff had a tendency to freak her out. So for three nights running sitting in vigil and praying to Padre Pio, I pleaded for intercession. Around ten days later, she told me strange sensations were happening in her head and visually a signature kept appearing every time she closed her eyes. So blue, gold and purple shafts of light were all around her when she closed her eyes and combined with the sight of a strange signature, she was anxious. I knew what was happening or thought I did, so I asked her if she was able to reproduce the signature. As the pen scribed across the page, my questions were answered, it was the signature of Padre Pio.

I fell to my knees in tears and told her she had been healed. Needless to say her anxiety overtook what was really happening, and it was not until the following week when she was informed by the oncologist, ‘there was no evidence of cancer’, she finally believed me.

Fast forward to February 2021, I awake in the early hours unable to breathe, and in the midst of a massive heart attack. Deb called an ambulance and fortunately it arrived very quickly and off to hospital I went. By the time I arrived, to say I was frightened is an understatement, I was petrified, especially when the doctor told me what was happening to me. It is decided a stent needs to be fitted in one of my coronary arteries, and I find myself in the theatre surrounded by machines and a lot of folk milling around. Of course by now I was a little calmer, thanks to medication to numb the pain and relax my muscles. Laying there watching a huge screen as my heart went boom de boom, I was mesmerized by the procedure. It really is quite a surreal experience watching your own heart, and various arteries working in real time as a catheter is introduced to put the stent in the damaged part of my heart. However, all seemed to be going as well as it could be and the surgeon completed the procedure and started to withdraw the cannula.

Suddenly, a gasp from the surgeon followed by a cry of ‘Shit!’ The pericardium had been nicked and I witnessed a dark shadow spreading across my lungs on the big screen, I was bleeding out into my lungs. For the first time in my life, I prayed for me, I was probably going to die if they did not get this sorted properly and quickly. In my mind I silently screamed for forgiveness to Padre Pio, never would I sin again in any shape or form if I could be saved, just this once. Whilst the surgeons busied themselves with trying to stop the blood loss from my heart, I prayed and prayed for Padre Pio to save me. I felt calmer and could swear I felt hands on my head. An aroma drifted around the operating theatre and at first I thought it was fresh air spray, but it was not. Jasmine filled my nostrils and others too remarked on the strong fragrance.

The immediate danger was over but I remained very poorly and was admitted to coronary care, where they put me in a private ‘goldfish bowl’ next to the nurse’s station for observation. For three days I floated in and out of consciousness with the Discovery channel echoing from a television on the wall. Every time I woke up there was some program or other reflecting times and interests throughout my life, almost as if various times were being replayed. The aroma continued until I was moved out of observation, but the emotion of the experience did not, and even today I can remember almost every moment of the experience.

I am so glad to be here and I know it was a miracle I survived, but I did. I think there is much for me to do yet!

Padre Pio, also known as Saint Pius of Pietrelcina, was an Italian Franciscan Capuchin, friar, priest, stigmatic, and mystic, now venerated as a saint in the Catholic Church. He compared weekly confession to dusting a room weekly, and recommended the performance of meditation and self-examination twice daily: once in the morning, as preparation to face the day, and once again in the evening, as retrospection. His advice on the practical application of theology he often summed up in his now famous quote: “Pray, Hope, and Don’t Worry”. He directed Christians to recognize God in all things and to desire above all things to do the will of God.

‘Crach Ffinnant – Justice Prevails’

Book Three in the Crach Ffinnant series, ‘Ravens and Dragons’ is due for release shortly and thus, Book Four begins, it is 1402. Here is a short extract.

CRACH FFINNANT – JUSTICE PREVAILS
BOOK FOUR

Of course, Reginald de Grey protested at his treatment, being manhandled and verbally abused, but Emrys reminded him that a sharp knife would soon stop his moaning.  De Grey became silent and morose, not at all his usual arrogant self.  Sitting alone isolated from the others with his back against a tree, closing tired eyes, trying to block out the catastrophe he found himself to be in, he prayed for sleep to come, but it would not.  Instead voices of rebels, speaking in Welsh, a language he did not understand, echoed in his ears, he knew not what they were talking about.  Paranoid thoughts began to enter his mind.  ‘What if the rebels killed him before they arrived at Glyndwr’s camp?  What if he were to reach there, and Glyndwr decided to kill him?  There was no love lost between the two and he was, after all, responsible for Glyndwr’s problems with the King in the first place.  What if Henry refused to pay the ransom?’  He had so many questions and all were without answers.  Once again, he tried to sleep, without success.

The night came and with it, a further drop in temperature.  Emrys and his men huddled around a fire, blazing in the dark, causing shadows to dance amongst the trees.  Lookouts were relieved by others and came to sit at the fire to thaw themselves out.  Emrys decided to allow the prisoners and Reginald de Grey to come closer to the blaze.  He did not think Owain would be too pleased with him if he let them all freeze to death.

In the morning, as dawn broke on the horizon, the rebels stamped the fire out, burying the embers in an attempt to conceal any evidence of their camp.  The prisoners were cajoled and bundled onto horses and re-tied.  Reginald de Grey once again protested at the treatment he was receiving so Emrys reminded him of what would happen if he were not quiet, waving a knife menacingly under his nose to emphasis the point. 

Emrys took hold of the pommel on the saddle and hauled himself up onto his horse.  Turning in the saddle and lifting his harm, Emrys waved to his men.  All silently moved into the forest.  Reginald de Grey looked around to see if there was anything of note, but all that met his eyes were trees, hundreds of them. The procession rode on through the forest in silence for at least half a day before entering a clearing.  They had arrived at the rebels’ encampment.  Reginald de Grey saw the rebels were well organised.  They had built huts and stables in a semi-circle which housed some of Glyndwr’s army and their horses.  A communal kitchen sat on the other side, pots hung over fires where some men stirred pans with wooden spoons, whilst others sliced up venison for the meal.  At the far side of the compound was a blacksmiths’ barn, alive with the hammering of hot iron.  Amongst sparks that flew here and there, were two large Welshmen, working at anvils, covered in sweat. Rows of mountain ponies were tethered to long ropes, heads deep in nosebags, enjoying grain.  With thick coats they were content in the winter cold.

Emrys dragged Reginald de Grey from his horse and holding him by the shoulders, said.  “And now, my fine feather peacock, time for you to face justice!”  He pushed him towards the largest of the buildings. “Move!”

Owain Glyndwr stood on the veranda. He quietly waited, watching Emrys shove and push Reginald de Grey through the snow towards him.  The fine Lord was not looking his usual preened and arrogant self – indeed, just the opposite. 

I stood next to Owain and although he rarely flew into a temper, I could sense he was seething at the sight of Reginald de Grey.

“Well, my Prince, here he is, at last!”  I said.

Owain did not answer immediately, he was glaring at Reginald de Grey, tapping irritated fingers on the hilt of a dagger which hung at his waist belt.  My Prince then replied quietly, as if trying to contain anger bubbling under the surface.  “It is him.  I have a mind to forget all about a ransom!”

“My Lord!”  Emrys bowed his head and pushed Reginald de Grey to his knees in front of us.  “This is Baron de Grey of Ruthin.”  He paused.  “An old friend?”  He asked, sarcastically.

“So, what will I do with you, Baron?  Cut your throat?  Bury you in a tree alive?  I have so many options.”  Owain stepped towards the Baron and fetched him a hard slap with the back of his hand, full in the face.  De Grey was knocked from his knees at the force of the slap.  His nose bled and a cut opened on his lip as he lay prostrate in the sludge and snow.

THANK YOU 2019 WELCOME 2020

2019

It is not until New Years Eve, one can truly reflect on twelve months now gone and waters passed under the bridge taking in its flow, memories, achievements and adventures. There is no doubt 2019 took me to places both in my head and around Wales I did not plan, nor expect. ‘Crach Ffinnant – Rise of the Dragon’ (Volume II) released at the beginning of the year was another milestone in this incredible journey with Words Matter Publishing since winning a writing competition the previous year with ‘Crach Ffinnant – The Prophecy’ (Volume I). Spurred on and no pun intended, it was clear Volume III must be written and the quest began.

Debbie and I set about touring North Wales particularly sites of great relevance to the story of Glyndwr. From castles to abbey’s to mountains holding nothing but historic memory we camped and pondered, me writing and Debbie sketching. ‘Crach Ffinnant – Ravens and Dragons’ was born and completed with very little effort but a shed load of fun and adventure. Volume III is due for release early in 2020.

We attended book fairs and events throughout the year, signing books and giving readings, spreading ‘Crach’o’Magic’ wherever we landed. Lazzmatazz 2019 hosted a book fair and literature festival as a fringe event and due to success, this will also be a feature of 2020.

After a grand summer as autumn approached, out of the blue we received a call from Cheryl Beer http://www.thesleepingstoryteller.com Cheryl offered to publish our children’s story, ‘Pablo the Provider of Pixie Picnic Parcels Packed with Poached Parsnip Pie Products’ telling of a pixie with memory problems beautifully illustrated by Debbie Eve. In October Cheryl gave us the book, beautifully printed and presented, made from sustainable sources, it was a joy to behold. An unexpected ‘fairy’ had come to call, waved a magic wand and whoosh!

I have been busy throughout the year recording the audio book for ‘Crach Ffinnant – The Prophecy’ and again ‘crach’o’magic’ struck. Grant Eden of http://www.oystermouthradio.com expressed interest in a serialization for radio and ‘Tales from Wales – Book at Bedtime’ was born with ‘Crach Ffinnant – The Prophecy’ narrated by me as the featured book. With eight episodes of twenty nine completed, ‘Crach Ffinnant’ has hit the airwaves across cyberspace with more magic to be revealed in 2020.

This whole journey is exciting and certainly full of magic, seeing my creation of Crach Ffinnant grow and begin to flourish from an idea, to paper, to print, to radio and now….. if ‘crach’o’magic’ prevails… to the screen. Volume One – ‘Crach Ffinnant – The Prophecy’ has been pitched for Project Alpha 1 hosted by BooksOffice in London. Voting is for one month beginning 14 January and if successful work will begin in March of 2020. I am also submitting my historical drama, ‘Ballad of Penygraig’ in a further project later in the year.

2020

With 2019 almost done I look forward to the adventures ahead this coming year with the release of Book III ‘Crach Ffinnant – Ravens & Dragons’ and completing Book IV, ‘Crach Ffinnant – Justice Prevails’ ready for release in the summer. I cannot pretend some trepidation in my step when considering the bids for my work perhaps getting to the screen, it is exciting and full of magic and in the meantime, Book at Bedtime continues on http://www.oystermouthradio.com More ‘road trips’ for research, fun and intuitive magic, Lazzmatazz 2020 and other events. With no idea where last year would end, there is some idea where this one starts. Happy New Year to all.

SPECIAL THANKS

I owe the following people much gratitude for their support in 2019. Debbie Eve, Tammy Koelling, Cheryl Beer, Grant Eden, Michael Kennedy, Karen Gemma Brewer and the many kind folk whose paths crossed.

NEW CHILDREN’S BOOK OUT NOW!

‘PABLO THE PROVIDER OF PIXIE PICNIC PARCELS PACKED WITH POACHED PARSNIP PIE PRODUCTS’

The story is suitable for small children. This beautiful little book is published by http://www.thesleepingstoryteller.com and made from sustainable forestry. Quality printing provides memorable illustrations of good colour intensity. It is a ‘collectors gem’. Visit our online shop!

http://www.lazaruscarpenterauthor.com

http://www.debbieeveillustrator.com