The Stories That Fill Up The Dark

Bad Story? Take Warning.

This past week, Amazon reached into people’s Kindles and removed all copies of George Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm. These texts may have been bought and payed for, but that did not stop this behemoth company from digitally barging into their costumer’s personal devices in order to take the e-book back.

Of course, this course of action on Amazon’s part caused quite the panic. As you can imagine, when a large group of people woke up to find their George Orwell seized– technologically obliterated– parallels got drawn.

Big Brother was more of a big bully than a big brother.

That incineration chute the “Memory hole” gaped menacingly from people’s imaginations.  Big Brother was here. Big Brother is now and he can slip into each one of our houses, infiltrate each one of our lives via the technology we have come to not only embrace but rely on.

The New York Times published an article explaining the facts leading to the digital recall. A third party had sold Orwell’s work without owning the rights to do so, and when the rightful holders notified Amazon, Amazon removed the illegal copies from people’s Kindles, refunding their disgruntled costumers their money.

Apparently, no one at this book-dealing corporation thought of the Orwellian implications surrounding their move. It appears, no one considered the unfortunately ironic coincidence of the content comprising the illegally pandered text.

Of course people would fill in the blanks.  Of course people would tell their own stories–about business collaborating with government–about our diminishing privacy by way of technology, about our (inevitable?) crash course for a social lockdown, for a world with no place to hide.

The grids, they are a changin'.

(Certainly, it is a thousand times harder to live off the grid than it was one hundred years ago.)

Even with the facts revealed, even with a public promise on Amazon’s part to never digitally seize up people’s property again, it is difficult not to think about those stories, of 1984, of 2024 and what that will be.

My Terrified Defense

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the stories we tell ourselves to fill up the dark spaces, the unknown and unknowable parts of life.  In the case with Amazon, the purpose of these stories appears obvious, simple.  The stores are told as a warning.

While Amazon was not acting on the part of Big Brother when it removed Orwell’s books from Kindle, it could have if it had wanted to, and it could in the future, if it should so choose.

But to blame our scary story telling on our desire to warn alone is too easy. I am convinced by observing myself that we tell these potential horror stories to ourselves for a wider variety of reasons than meets the eye.

Sometimes the self-told horror story can be a defense mechanism, a compulsory and (somehow) relieving glance at one’s worst fears.

My mind’s developed the disturbing habit of indulging these fearful stories when it comes to my son. Almost every time I creep into his room to check on him (I always look to his chest, for that gentle rise and fall) my brain spins dizzy webs of monstrosity.

He could be dead.  He could have stopped breathing. What would I do? What would happen? What if he’s laying there, dead?

Awful scenarios–some of my worst fears–play out in my head, a fast forward movie in the time it takes me to cross from the door to his crib.  The sound of his soft breath dismantles my nightmare completely.  I forget it so quickly that it is difficult to believe how easily it returns to me on my next checking the baby.

I've imagined this image many times when I've asked people to read my writing (and no, they're not laughing "with" me.)

And it’s not just with Rainer. I’ve done played this story telling game elsewhere: in relationships and their loss, in potential rejections regarding my writing, in losing my job at work, etc. I imagine the psychological purpose is, while neurotic, what natural (I mean, is it? You, out there, am I alone?)

We tell ourselves these stories in order to face them.  In order to put circles around our biggest fears–so we can truly know their size and shape.

A Scary Relief

My friend Jessica and I have always enjoyed talking books.  We recently discussed the frightening world of Raymond Carver and others like him. (I take liberties with these citations for narrative’s sake)

“Those books scare me to death,” I told Jessica over a picnic. “I can’t stand his world of disastrous relationships.  They scare me to death. They make me feel it’s impossible to be happy.”

“I always feel better after reading him,” she surprised me by saying. “He writes our fears–the fear of suburbia, of miserable marriages, of bored and tired futures. It makes me feel good to face them sometimes. It’s a relief to face them.”

Another reason for horror stories is an excuse to snuggle at the movie theatre.

Finally, warnings, relief, and defenses aside, there is another horror story–the one that is perhaps the most innocent of all.  The traditional horror story, the unlikeliest horror story of monsters, ghosts, extravagant murders and creepy crawlies.  These stories possess the capacity to thrill us.  They provide us the enjoyable aspects of fear, enjoyable because they can be escaped, because they are outside of us, because we can turn on the light and blame our over-active imaginations.

And best of all, they help us to feel alive.  They prickle our skin and augment our hearing, tantalize our sight.  these stories revitalize our senses, every one of them does–from the Amazon rumors to the baby check terrors, they keep us alert, alive, and aware, for better or for worse.