Gina Jiang: "Dear Carmen Maria Machado: Why I Would Tell Myself Stories"

Dear Carmen Maria Machado: Why I Would Tell Myself Stories

By Gina Jiang

Like most other kids, I had a pretty active imagination when I was younger. During recess, I would bring my stuffed animal Webkinz outside and take them on endless adventures around the playground. I would draw colorful scenes of princesses and meadows with the scented markers at daycare and tell the story behind my drawing to anyone who would listen, and on the weekends, my friends and I would play “make-believe” by becoming witches with different magical powers (I specifically remember my own power was possessing a bag of infinite supplies).

I believe this was a method of storytelling in its own right, through spinning tales of ordinary and magical things that weren’t previously there. I would look at my stuffed animals and invent their origin stories and the relationships between them, or dream up scenarios where a pink elephant’s passion was to blow bubbles. These were probably some of the first stories I came up with. Many times, my friends and I would develop stories together, especially when we played “make-believe.” “Make-believe” is, at its core, concocting new and exciting experiences, whether it’s based on something that already exists or something completely fantastical. Of course, it was never the same story being told. Sometimes we would pick up from where we left last time, or use the same setting, but we never re-told the same story. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be “make-believe” any more.

I also had a habit of fabricating stories about the strangers I would see on the street. Each person has a sort of natural curiosity, I think, so that if a particularly strangely-dressed person in a vibrant orange fur coat with only one shoe on happened to walk past them, they would have the inquisitiveness to think, I wonder what happened. The people I saw did not, generally, look like that, but even their ordinary appearances were interesting to me. These moments would usually happen while I waited in the car for my mom or my dad to finish shopping, and I would see a middle-aged lady with dyed hair in the parking lot. I would begin to wonder why she had dyed it (was it because of a bet or because she was tired of her hair?) and where she had just come from (yoga or work) and who she was shopping for at Sam’s Club (her family or a secret lover or maybe a dog because she was a widow and didn’t have anyone else). There was nothing malicious behind my thoughts and I wasn’t bothered to know the truth, I was simply passing time by thinking thoughts of “What if?”

What if that person we saw at the checkout counter was a secret assassin?

Or what if the lady who gave me a free sample of lasagna is getting married to a con artist next week?

So many existing stories revolve around the premise of “What if?” I imagine authors sitting in a comfortable chair, tapping their lips with their favorite pen, and thinking of all the possible scenarios that their story could take. What if he doesn’t get the girl in the end? What if the mother is actually the daughter of the king? What if the best and most likable character in the series dies? What if, what if, what if?

            I told these small, “what if” stories to myself to entertain my mind and to spice things up a bit. I had always read stories of magic and fighting and exciting things happening to ordinary people, but when I looked around, all I could see were ordinary things happening in an ordinary town.

I don’t feel that way anymore. Well, not all the time, at least. I think it’s just because I’m busier now, or I’ve “grown up.” I don’t find myself creating wild tales about strangers or stuffed animals like I used to. Maybe it was because back then, I didn’t have anything else to do, and nothing to care about. “Let kids be kids,” adults often say. We were always given time to play and draw and let our imaginations run wild. Now, I worry about college and homework and my plans for the future. There’s more to do and more to think about. It’s a bit of shame, but I’m not too sad about it. Although I won’t be committing myself to a life of storytelling, I’m content knowing there are people out there who do.