A Proposal of Love

Can love truly change a person?

Romance movies, in general, and “The Proposal,” in particular, beg the question.

(Before we go any further, I’d like to suggest that you listen to Tracy Chapman’s song “Change” as you read—or at least when you finish reading.)

In “The Proposal,” Sandra Bullock, plays high-powered book editor Margaret Tate, who is facing deportation back to Canada. The quick-thinking exec declares that she's actually engaged to her unsuspecting put-upon assistant, Andrew Paxton (played by Ryan Reynolds), who she's tormented for years.

He agrees to participate in the charade, but with a few conditions of his own. The unlikely couple heads to Alaska to meet his quirky family, and the always-in-control city girl finds herself in one comedic fish-out-of-water situation after another. With an impromptu wedding in the works and an immigration official on their heels, Margaret and Andrew reluctantly vow to stick to the plan despite the precarious consequences.

Sandra Bullock is a beautiful, charming, funny actress who has seldom found (or chosen) material equal to her abilities—and “The Proposal” is no different.

The movie’s not bad as romantic comedies go, but it’s not great, doesn’t take advantage of many opportunities and situations, lacks chemistry, and never really gets going before it’s over—though Betty White is a bright spot (as usual).

The premise of the “The Proposal” is that Andrew’s and his family’s love for Margaret (and her love for him and them) can change her.

It’s a nice notion—one I happen to subscribe to, but not in a heady weekend whirlwind wedding way.

Romances claim that finding the right person and “falling” in love is life changing. They are often trite, cliché-ridden, and involve far more attraction and infatuation than actual love, but beneath their shallow surface and behind their enduring popularity is the notion that love changes things—and might just change everything.

Does love change a person? Does anything else?

Love changes us when we let it, when we open ourselves up to it, remove any blockages in our lives so that it might flow to and then through us.

I’m convinced love changes us—that nothing determines the people we are more than love or its absence. Not the “falling in love” of romances, which is, in part, the euphoria of illusion, but the unconditional love that comes from God—love as a choice, love as an experience, love as a lifestyle, love as a philosophy, love as a religion, love as compassion (feeling what others feel) that motivates us to extend ourselves on the behalf of others, love that, unlike “romantic love” which is all about attraction and desire (largely self-centered stuff), is not based on the beloved (his or her qualities , attractiveness, or worthiness).

There’s a lot of wisdom in separating love from like, from desire and attraction and infatuation. There are so many things we call love that just aren’t.

Love as illusion, as infatuation, as the projection of perfection onto a person can change us temporarily, but love as a choice made every moment, as an end of illusions, as an act of generosity, as accepting someone the way they are, has the greatest chance of changing us no less than those we love.

Love as a feeling fades (waxes and wanes, ebbs and flows). Love as a lifestyle, as a worldview, as a religion, as a commitment despite how we feel, grows, expands, engulfs.

In the simple and profound lyrics of Clint Black:

Love is certain, love is kind
Love is yours and love is mine
But it isn't something that we find
It's something that we do.
We're on a road that has no end
And each day we begin again
Love's not just something that we're in
It's something that we do.
There's no request too big or small
We give ourselves, we give our all
Love isn't someplace that we fall
It's something that we do.

Clint is right. Love isn’t a condition, it’s an action. Love isn’t something that happens to us, it’s a lifestyle choice.

You could do worse for romantic comedy movie time than spending it at “The Proposal,” but it’s the film’s implicit question that we should spend our time reflecting on whether we see the movie or not.

I propose we commit ourselves to love—to embracing, accepting, and giving, to unconditionally extending ourselves on the behalf of others—not just those we’re attracted to, or who are like us, but also, or especially, to those who don’t love us back, to even our enemies, and see what happens. True change will occur—in us if no one else.

Two Summer Entertainments That Deliver

Give me art over entertainment any day. In fact, my days are spent doing my best to create and consume art.
In art, something deep calls to something deep within us, something profound is explored, experienced.

Art affects us in ways we’re not even aware of—nor will even ever fully understand. We’re usually pretty aware of what entertainment is doing to us—even when we willingly suspend disbelief and gladly give into the manipulation.
Art feeds the soul. Entertainment offers escape, diversion, short-lived pleasure—like a big slice of key lime pie.

Still, there’s a place for entertainment (I happen to love Florida’s official pie). Entertainment, like dessert, makes life sweeter, and that’s no small thing.

As far as entertainment goes, you could do a lot worse than “The Hangover” for laughs and “The Taking of Pelham 123” for thrills.

In “The Hangover,” two days before Doug Billings wedding, the four men in the wedding party hop into his soon-to-be father-in-law’s Mercedes convertible for a 24-hour stag party to Las Vegas.

Phil, a married high school teacher, has the same maturity level as his students when he's with his pals. Stu, a dentist, is worried about everything, especially what his controlling girlfriend, Melissa, thinks. Because she disapproves of traditional male bonding rituals, Phil has to lie to her about the stag, telling her that they are going on a wine tasting tour in the Napa Valley. Alan, Doug’s future brother-in-law, seems to be unaware of what are considered to be the social graces of the western world.

The morning after their arrival in Las Vegas, three of the four men awaken in their hotel suite with an amnesiac hangover. The suite is in shambles, the past twelve hours are a blank, and Doug is missing. As Phil, Stu and Alan try to find Doug by piecing together clue by clue, they go on a journey of discovery, of debauchery, that’s both disturbing and hilarious.

As adults, we have the need for fun, for escape, for freedom, no less than children—and probably far more. Entertainment, like trips to Vegas, provide this. But we need more than just an occasional movie or getaway. We need to incorporate an atmosphere of carnival in our daily lives, learning to enjoy ourselves along the way—not live in little boxes like prison cells we try to escape from any chance we get. We should sing and dance and celebrate everyday for the gift it is—enjoying the pleasures of our bodies and souls, of art and music and literature and charity, and the good company of other partying pilgrims. If we do, we’ll have far less to escape from, and we’ll begin to understand Jesus’ vision of the Kingdom of God as a party.

If waking up in Vegas isn’t your thing, perhaps I could interest you in a ride on the subway.

Before this recent collaboration, director Tony Scott and actor Denzel Washington teamed up on “Crimson Tide,” “Man on Fire,” and “Déjà Vu.” And while “Pelham” isn’t anywhere near as good as their best, “Man on Fire,” it holds up well enough next to the others.

In “The Taking of Pelham 123,” Denzel Washington stars as New York City subway dispatcher Walter Garber, whose ordinary day is thrown into chaos by an audacious crime: the hijacking of a subway train. John Travolta stars as Ryder, the criminal mastermind who, as leader of a highly-armed gang of four, threatens to execute the train’s passengers unless a large ransom is paid within one hour. As the tension mounts beneath his feet, Garber must use every resource and ounce of experience he has in a battle to outwit Ryder and save the hostages.

Walter Garber, flawed, everyman though he is, acts heroically, and speaks to that which is heroic in us all. He challenges us to rise to the challenges we’re given, extending ourselves on the behalf of others—the very definition of love. Does that mean there’s nothing more heroic than a life dedicated to love? I certainly believe that.

You won’t find anything original or groundbreaking in either of these flicks, but what they do, even when overly familiar, they do well. And though technically, only “Pelham” is a true remake, there have been so many buddy/bachelor party/Vegas movies made that “Hangover” might as well be. Regardless, it works—both movies do. “Hangover” is laugh-out-loud funny and “Pelham” is edge-of-your-seat exciting. Neither film rises to the level of art, but both do what they’re intended to. Dare we ask more of light studio-produced summer entertainment?

Old Pros Deliver New Thrills

John Sandford and Michael Connelly have been writing thrillers for decades, but after a combined forty plus books, they still manage to keep it fresh.

Wicked Prey

John Sandford’s “Wicked Prey” is the 19th Lucas Davenport thriller. It’s set in September of 2008 during the Republican convention in St. Paul, Minnesota.

For most of the delegates, guests, reporters, and locals, it's a festive event, an occasion for having a good time and experiencing a unique moment in history. For law enforcement officials, however, it offers a grab-bag of potentially embarrassing dangers, from small-fry con men to major stickup artists.

For Lucas Davenport, this teeming, suddenly raucous city harbors one special threat: A psychopath with a poisoned memory, a gun, and a plan. And it turns out that he's not the only crazy person out there.

As usual, there’s plenty of action and suspense, and though Lucas is aging, slowing a step, this only adds to the richness of the character and the series. And that’s the appeal of these kinds of books—the chance to spend a little time (over the course of a lifetime) with an old familiar friend. Sure, it’s entertaining to take the chilling, suspenseful ride with him, but it’s Lucas and the supporting cast that keeps me coming back, not the sociopath of the month or the crime he or she is up to.

The Scarecrow

Michael Connelly’s “The Scarecrow” is truly scary, but not for the reasons you might imagine. Sure it has the normal thrills and chills of a good suspense novel, but the scariest aspects of “The Scarecrow” don’t involve serial killers, nor even the victims of murder. Like recent movie, “State of Play,” the scariest parts of “The Scarecrow” are those dealing with the demise of newspapers and print journalism.

Forced out of the “Los Angeles Times” amid the latest budget cuts, newspaperman Jack McEvoy decides to go out with a bang, using his final days at the paper to write the definitive murder story of his career.

He focuses on Alonzo Winslow, a 16-year-old drug dealer in jail after confessing to a brutal murder. But as he delves into the story, Jack realizes that Winslow's so-called confession is bogus. The kid might actually be innocent.

Jack is soon running with his biggest story since The Poet made his career years ago. He is tracking a killer who operates completely below police radar--and with perfect knowledge of any move against him. Including Jack's.

Michael Connelly began his writing career as a reporter, and though a novelist for the past two decades, he continues to report. His richly textured, well researched novels are exciting and entertaining, but not just—they also provide illumination and insight into a corner of our culture most readers are unaware of, making Mr.
Connelly the perfect blend of reporter and novelist.

Using his journalistic eye for detail, his research is impeccable, filling each book with what’s actually happening in the Los Angeles Police Department, the legal system, or, this time, the newspaper business.

Using his reporter’s instinct for a story with legs, Mr. Connelly takes readers on a twisting, suspenseful journey, but with an underlying realism and credibility many commercial thrillers lack.

In many ways, Michael Connelly is like the Alfred Hitchcock of crime novels—providing readers with thoughtful, well executed suspense and receiving both critical acclaim and commercial success for his efforts.

Michael Connelly, the #1 New York Times bestseller, is coming to Panama City. He will be the keynote speaker of The 10th Annual Gulf Coast Writers Conference on September, 19, 2009 at Gulf Coast Community College. He is joining us for our special 10th anniversary celebration. If you’d like to join us for the conference or just for the luncheon featuring Mr. Connelly, you register at www.GulfCoastWritersConference.com Don’t miss this exciting opportunity to meet Michael Connelly.

Commence To a Life Worth Living!

A commencement isn’t just a long, often dull ceremony associated with graduation. It actually means to make a beginning, and since life is a series of beginnings (and endings and new beginnings), commencement speeches aren’t just for graduates, they’re for all of us (particularly those of us who dare to be lifelong students).

If we are truly to learn, to grow, to become our very best selves, we must be willing and open students. After all, it’s only when the student is ready that the teacher will come! If we’re closed, uncurious, defensive in our ideologies and theologies, we won’t learn. We can’t. All we can do is continue to see what we expect to, continue to have confirmed for us what we already believe. It’s sad—no it’s more than that. It’s tragic, but most of us are stiff-necked, unteachable, ego-centered, missing moment after moment, opportunity after opportunity to learn, to grow, to evolve.

During this commencement season, I’d like to offer two profound books—both of which are transcripts of speeches by two brilliant writers.

I’m not recommending you buy these for your niece who’s graduating college or your wife’s cousin’s son who’s graduating high school—it’s fine if you do, but I’m recommending that you and I read them, hear them, consume them, digest them, live them.

Part of the reason Anna Quindlen’s “A Short Guide to a Happy Life” was published was because her speech was written, but never given. It’s a shame the students at the institution she was uninvited to didn’t get to hear her elegant, insightful, truthful speech, but it’s wonderful that it’s available to all of us in a small, picture-filled gift book.

Among the many erudite things in this small volume, Quindlen says, “I suppose the best advice I could give you is: get a life. A real life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion. Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze over the dunes. Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love and who love you. Get a life in which you are generous. Get a life where you live by the words of this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks: Exhaust the little moment, soon it dies. And be it gash or gold, it will not come again in this identical disguise. Get a life where you remember that life is short. The knowledge of our mortality is the greatest gift God ever gave us.”

Get a life! Get Anna Quindlen’s “A Short Guide to a Happy Life” to learn how.

Just as profound, but far more heartbreaking, is David Foster Wallace’s commencement address given in 2005 at Kenyon College, published as “This is Water: Some Thoughts Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life.”
The four-thousand word speech is so simple it’s sublime and makes a nice companion to Quindlen’s.
Wallace, who has been called the greatest writer of his generation, asks the questions: How does one keep from going through his or her comfortable, prosperous adult life unconsciously? How do we get ourselves out of the foreground of our thoughts and achieve compassion?

The short speech captures Wallace's inimitable intellect and his humble grace, blending casual humor with practical philosophy.

Since his suicide, the speech and now the book have become a kind of cult classic, but it needn’t have taken that for this wise, kind talk to find a wide audience.

I often say that the best education doesn’t teach us knowledge or even wisdom so much as teach us how to be students for life, and I think this is true—that the bulk of our truest education is gained on our own once we have the tools, openness, humility, and desire to learn.

Wallace tackles a slightly different, but related notion—that a liberal arts education isn’t about filling you up with knowledge, “isn’t really about the capacity to think, but rather the choice of what to think about.”

We all have the freedom not only to choose to think or not, but what we think about.

He goes on to say, “But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. That is being taught to think.”
And what should we do with this freedom to think about what we want to? Wallace argues (and I couldn’t agree more) that we apply it toward compassion, toward deprogramming our default settings of self-centeredness and unconsciousness and instead think compassionately about those we encounter today—regardless of what reaction we receive from them.

Both Quindlen and Wallace are wise guides for good lives. Get their books and get to commencing—to getting a life of love and meaning and generosity—then do what the brilliant Frederick Buechner says to do: “Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. Touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are sacred moments and life itself is grace.”

A Special Tribute to a Living Legend

There are writers and then there are legends.

Though James Lee Burke is the former, he has most certainly become the latter.

Not only is Mr. Burke one of my favorite writers, but he’s been a huge influence on me, and a great source of inspiration.

Recently, he was honored by the Mystery Writers of America with the much-deserved, distinguished Grand Master award. In honor of this occasion, I’ve asked my friend and his daughter, Alafair Burke, to share with us her excellent essay about her dad and my hero. Here it is:

You will never hear James Lee Burke speak at a conference about how to market a novel, how to brand one’s work, or the importance of co-op money to the success of one’s sales. My father talks about writing not as a commercial enterprise, nor even as a craft or as art, but as a destiny.

If one looked only at early and recent years, his career might indeed feel inevitable. He published his first short story when he was nineteen years old and completed his first novel when he was twenty-three. Upon the publication of his debut, Half of Paradise, the New York Times Book Review declared him “a writer to be taken absolutely seriously.” By the time he was thirty-four, he had published two more novels, To the Bright and Shining Sun and Lay Down My Sword and Shield. Now, nearly forty years later, he is the best-selling author of twenty-seven novels and two short-story collections. He is a two-time winner of the Edgar Award. His flawed but noble New Iberia sheriff’s deputy, Dave Robicheaux, has been portrayed on film by two of a generation’s best actors, Alec Baldwin and Tommy Lee Jones.

But to equate writing as a destiny with the inevitability of a career is to ignore the years between the beginning and the recent and to conflate obsession with fate. My father published three novels by my second birthday, but The Lost Get Back Boogie, which was supposed to be his fourth, was rejected more than 100 times over nine years. And, at least as he describes it, the book wasn’t merely rejected. It was trashed. Literally. Mutilated pages would be returned in the mail, marred by whisky rings, cigarette burns, and ballpoint-pen-inflicted stab holes.

But although jobs and habits can be quit, an obsession cannot. My father became convinced he might never see his name on another hardback again, but he continued to write, and he did so without question. When a rejection came in the mail, he gave himself a 36-hour window to get the manuscript back on its way to another editor.

That ten-year period when James Lee Burke was out of print is now legendary inspiration for a new generation of writers, but I witnessed it firsthand. Against all reason, in a house packed with children, he constructed a desk with cinder block legs and a door for a top. After work, he wrote every single day at a manual Royal typewriter. On weekends, my mother would take us to the library and the mall, no-cost time suckers that bought my father some quiet time at home. The rejections kept coming, and new work continued to be produced.

His agent at William Morris was long gone, but he’d found a loyal, hardworking, and similarly unfazed advocate in agent Philip Spitzer, who finally had some good news. The Lost Get Back Boogie was still collecting rejections, but a newer manuscript, Two for Texas, would be published as a paperback original in 1982 My father kept writing. Three years later, LSU Press published a collection of his short stories entitled The Convict. He kept writing. A year later, the seemingly impossible happened: thanks again to LSU Press, The Lost Get Back Boogie wiped off the cigarette ash and whisky stains and became his fifth novel. We were still broke, but my father was in hardback again. And, of course, he kept writing. Then in 1984, on a vacation in Montana, family friend Rick DeMarinis suggested that he write a crime novel. In 1987, with the publication of The Neon Rain, readers finally met Vietnam Vet and recovering alcoholic Dave Robicheaux.

“You write it a day at a time and let God be the measure of its worth,” my father wrote for the New York Times’ Writers on Writing series. “You let the score take care of itself; and most important, you never lose faith in your vision… A real writer is driven both by obsession and a secret vanity, namely that he has a perfect vision of the truth, in the same way that the camera lens can close perfectly on a piece of the external world. If the writer does not convey that vision to someone else, his talent turns to a self-consuming bitterness.”

Readers who have read even a few James Lee Burke stories will recognize his vision on the page. It is a vision of honorable but flawed men challenged by an arbitrary and sometimes cruel fate. It is a vision of a specific but somehow transcendent era and region, a dying way of life in the south that tells a broader story about a decent but imperfect country savaged by mega-corporations, polluters, and a callous government. His vision was clear even in his debut novel, whose themes provoked a comparison from the Times to the works of Hemingway, Sartre, and Camus, where “man is doomed by no fatal flaw of character but by the simple fact of being born.”

And perhaps no stories tapped into his vision more aggressively than those that emerged from Katrina and its aftermath. When levees failed and the images of dark faces pleading for help on rooftops became salient reminders of an inept and indifferent political administration and broken government, many of us might have paused before allowing those stories to penetrate our fiction. But my father, not stopping to worry about the hate mail that would follow, embraced the role of narrative documentarian. “New Orleans was a poem, man,” a character recalls in his story, Jesus Out to Sea, “a song in your heart that never died. I only got one regret. Nobody ever bothered to explain why nobody ever came for us." Tin Roof Blowdown was not just the next book in the Robicheaux series, but a tribute to a beautiful and forsaken city, “killed three times, and not just by the forces of nature.”

The content and tone of my father’s post-Katrina work are unsurprising given his view of the writing process. He believes that his talent was not earned but was given to him for a specific purpose. He believes that the characters about whom he writes are not created by him, but live within the unconscious, waiting for their discovery. He does not outline and rarely sees beyond the next two scenes as he writes. He wrote about post-Katrina Louisiana because he was meant to.

But commercial success was not inevitable. Without a dogged agent, without LSU Press, without a friend who suggested, What about crime fiction?, without a working wife who also got those batty kids out of the house on the weekends, it might have all been different. We may not have been blown away by the poetry of twenty-seven James Lee Burke novels, losing ourselves in green-gold hazes over the bayou or in the shadows of cottonwoods lining the Bitterroot, or have befriended Dave Robicheaux, Clete Purcell, and Billy Bob Holland. But my father would still be writing.

Dad, none of it has gone unnoticed. Congratulations.

In the Garden of Lost Paradise

As the smoke and ash were still rising from the felled twin towers, reports began to surface that certain of the 9/11 hijackers had visited a strip club in Florida while here training to be pilots.

Just how credible such reports are—or the numerous other terrorist “sightings” that began to flood in during the aftermath of that devastating September day—has oft been debated. Did men claiming to be holy warriors attacking America for, among other things, their ideas of “impurity” and “sin” drink and gamble and get lap dances and attempt to hire prostitutes?

That humans don’t live up to what we claim to stand for, that we are able to justify and rationalize—sometimes to a pathological degree—is the stuff dreams are made of. And what is fiction if not a kind of twilight between waking and sleep where elements from both worlds intertwine and form narrative?

In “The Garden of Last Days” Andre Dubus III dreams of the intersection where a Florida stripper and a 9/11 highjacker meet, exploring them and the people around them in the way only a novelist can.

From the book jacket:

“One early September night in Florida, a stripper brings her daughter to work.

April's usual babysitter, Jean, has had a panic attack that has landed her in the hospital. April doesn't really know anyone else, so she decides it's best to have her three-year-old daughter close by, watching children's videos in the office while she works.

April works at the Puma Club for Men. And tonight she has an unusual client, a foreigner both remote and too personal, and free with his money. Lots of it, all cash. His name is Bassam. Meanwhile, another man, AJ, has been thrown out of the club for holding hands with his favorite stripper, and he's drunk and angry and lonely. From these elements comes a relentless, searing, page-turning narrative—a big-hearted and painful novel about sex and parenthood and honor and masculinity.”

Why people do the things we do is endlessly fascinating, and fiction is a great place to explore motivation. Like us, characters, particularly the less thoughtful and insightful ones, are often not aware of motives, and even those of us who continually examine what we do and why we do it, never fully understand. People are complex—some far more than others. We rarely realize the degree to which our culture and family and flawed programming and perceptions determine who we are and what we do.

Though “The Garden of Last Days” doesn’t attempt to explain them, it does at least raise the questions: What makes someone rigid? Fundamentalist? Terrorist? What causes someone to become a stripper? What causes people to frequent strip clubs? What causes a man to hit a woman? Why are some people kind, others cruel? Why do some people spread love and goodness, others judgment, discord, pain?

There’s no one answer to any of these questions. Motivation is a mystery. Psychology, theology, sociology, philosophy, biology can only tell us so much.

You and I could be next to each other doing nearly the exact same activity for motivations that are nearly antithetical to each other. No two strippers have the same motivation any more than any two writers or teachers or bartenders or ministers or counselors. Sure, many people are motivated by money—too many and too motivated—but there are always other ways to farm for lettuce, and they’re often easier and more profitable. Why do we choose the ones we do?
As a mom, April is flawed, sure—who isn’t?—but she does far less damage than nearly all the people judging her.

In an interview for “The Garden of Last Days,” Dubus said that when he writes, he suspends all judgment and just seeks to understand his characters, that when he’s writing, he’s a better man than when he’s not writing. What if we all did this all the time? Realized that people are complicated and there’s a context, an explanation for why they do what they do that we can’t understand? What if we loved ourselves in spite of our faults and failures and loved others regardless of theirs? It’s not impossible—this concept of loving God, loving ourselves, and loving others as ourselves. Unconditional love is what we all need—to give and receive. Compassion is what’s called for, empathy, understanding, insight—and reading good books with an open heart and mind is a great way to start.

I have friends who are strippers and friends who are Fundamentalists—both groups to various degrees are being exploited by men, and though I personally like and enjoy the company of the former group much more than the latter, both need and are worthy of love and understanding.

What we’re all in search of is connection—is love and understanding, which is far too rare and difficult to find, and why people turn to the substitutes of Fundamentalism and sexual and social surrogacy. Fundamentalists of every religion (including atheism) are told they can belong to the group and get the acceptance from others and ultimately God if they follow the group’s rules. Sexual and social surrogates give the friend or girlfriend experience for money (among other things—see above people are complicated). But all are poor substitutes for genuine, deep connection, nonjudgmental acceptance, and unconditional love—of course, most of the things in our lives are.

Lonely? Take Two TV Shows and Call Me in the Morning

According to new studies, watching TV can actually make us less lonely and help us deal with feelings of rejection and isolation.

The studies conducted by the University at Buffalo and Miami University of Ohio, and reported in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology suggest that watching TV provides viewers with the illusion that their social needs are being met.

And not just TV. The studies also argue that the same can be said of movies, music, video games, and the internet.

“The research provides evidence for the ‘social surrogacy hypothesis,’ which holds that humans can use technologies, like television, to provide the experience of belonging when no real belongingness has been experienced,” Shira Gabriel, one of the study’s authors said.

The first study found that subjects felt less lonely when viewing their favorite TV shows. The second study found that subjects whose “belongingness needs were aroused” wrote longer essays about their favored TV programs. The third study found that thinking about favored TV programs buffered subjects against drops in self-esteem, increases in negative mood and feelings of rejection. And Study four found that subjects verbally expressed fewer feelings of loneliness after writing essays about their preferred TV programs.

This study reminds me of something C.S. Lewis once said—“We read to know that we’re not alone.”

As a solitary, sometimes lonely person, who reads books and watches movies and TV shows then writes about them, I find the study fascinating and true, but I think something far deeper is at work—something the study doesn’t seem to consider.

Far more than mere distraction, stories—whether they are told, written, performed, or filmed—give meaning to our lives. As humans, we need myths, stories, dreams—the hero’s journey to identify with.

The best stories don’t just entertain. They inspire. They instruct. They empathize with our existential angst, and in the process, teach us empathy for others.

Stories are mirrors we hold up to ourselves. They are lamps to our feet and lights to our paths.

When we read or watch, we know we’re not alone, but not because we’re momentarily distracted. We know we’re not alone because another human being is reaching out to us, making contact with us on our most essential human level. The act of writing, of creating stories, is the solitary, often lonely act of attempting to express humanness, to bring order to the chaos, to find meaning in the madness, to truly and profoundly connect to other, often solitary, lonely human beings.

That someone is driven to sit by himself or herself and tell stories, that publishers or craftspeople help bring them to life, that actors will lose themselves in becoming that “fictional” character, lets us know we’re not alone, lets us know that our deep need to hear stories is only exceeded by other human beings’ deeper need to tell them. It’s communal. It’s connection. Yet it’s intimate and personal.

And what of where stories come from? As a storyteller, I can tell you, they come from beyond us, from the ineffable, transcendent, mysterious—from the place where communication can only be story and poetry, myth and metaphor. And this is a big part of why stories make us feel less lonely.

Of course, all stories are not created equal. Much of what is on TV is shallow, sentimental, and, far too often, mind-numbing. The better the story, the more skilled and sophisticated the storyteller, the more beneficial for us the story is.

Myths are how we define and understand ourselves and others—the myths of our religions, philosophies, families, communities, nationalities. Everything we know or think we do comes down to us through the stories we hear and believe.

In common culture, myth is used for something that’s not true, but nothing could be further from the truth. Myths are true—perhaps not factually, actually, literally-happened-just-that-way true, but true at profoundly human and even transcendent levels. Unfortunately, in the West, since the Enlightenment, we’ve over and misapplied logic, reason, and the scientific method to story, and by making did-it-really-happen the sole test for truth, we’re losing our souls (our ability to imagine, explore, empathize, dream, create, transcend—the very best of our humanness).

Every family has myths that are empowering and ones that are imprisoning. Every religion has myths that inspire compassion and ones that ignite hate. Every nation has myths that cultivate civility and ones that cause the cancers of greed and nationalism.

The best stories don’t just help with loneliness, don’t just entertain or distract. They actually transform us in powerful and lasting ways.
But that’s the best stories.

We should be discriminating about the TV we watch (which would lead to us watch very little). We shouldn’t just read commercial fiction or trite self-help books. We shouldn’t just watch the fraction of films that make it to our local cinema house, the blockbusters made to crassly manipulate the masses. We should each read and watch the best we can find, inhabit good stories, for it’s not just our loneliness, but our very humanity that’s at hazard.