Idylles of a Storytelling Pre-Teen

When I was about twelve years old, a faded volume of the poetry of Lord Alfred Tennyson fell into my posession. I read it cover to cover, but  Idylles of the King interested me most - that and a stray poem about a woman standing in a garden beside the lilacs, distraught and waiting for someone who never came. Or was it the one about the lilacs that was about the death of his brother? I must look that up, as I haven't read it since I was in the 6th grade.

My favorite thing to do was to share what I was reading with my little sisters, mini-series form, as bedtime stories each night, Thus they heard Lloyd Alexander's entire Prydian series, a western by Zane Grey, The Lord of the Rings, and various stories about The Beatles that are now embarrassing to think upon. The lights were out when I told these stories, because our parents would have kicked me right out of there if they had known to what hours I spun these tales (once in awhile they would catch me at it and this very thing would occur). Besides, I always imagined my sisters could see the story better in the dark. If I could have made a living as a travelling Bard I would have done so, but I was born in a difficult age for professional storytelling.

With Tennyson, I departed from a simple interpretation of the poems and added everything else I'd ever read that I liked, splicing in Malory, Chrétien de Troyes, Stewart,  Mary Sutcliff  and a little T H White. Any story or plotline that I didn't care for (Arthur deliberately having an affair with his half-sister - yuck!), I sent packing. I think this often happens within oral tradition, and The Tales of King Arthur have fallen prey to this selectiveness for centuries. Probably the best thing I ever did for the characters was to model them after a large disfunctional family that I knew of, and to give some of them the personalities of my siblings. After all, I had to bear my audience in mind. If my sisters giggled hysterically at something they found funny, then I milked that bit for all it was worth. If I could move them to tears, so much the better.

Because I did.

And they never forgot it, and a few years ago they made me start writing the stories down. As one sister said, "I keep picking up all these books about King Arthur, thinking to tell the stories to my own kids someday, but I can't find anything like what you told us."

Because there simply isn't.

I doubt anyone else would ever think the material worthy of publication - how many stories about knights and ladies does anyone else care to hear? But they were worth a great deal to us then. And as I attempt to recall and rewrite them, I suppose that they still are. The story as I told it was like Tennyson's in that thete was this great ideal that the king held and tried to create. The tragedy was that he asked more of human beings than they could live up to. The beauty of humanity lies in that they never stop trying.