The Salt of Juxtaposition; the Braided Essay

To bee or not

photo: JJ Jordan for Unsplash

Thinking about juxtaposition, and the roles it plays in writing. And recently had a question from someone wondering about “the braided essay.” A wonderful image and term for thinking about structure and how we put words together. How we grow meaning.

When putting together posts, I search photos, and so often that process pushes me into a new direction; I often do this with various aspects of writing, and find it useful.

I have to say I was absurdly happy to find this pic. An interesting face. A person with a camera and a solid eye. Those fingers, mostly off-camera (but imagine photo without, and you see their worth… always useful to imagine “without” to see what is). What we leave in, put in, take out, leave out… Then the—let’s call them spreckles — sparkly freckles. And a loose braid in the hair, to consider (which is what I searched when looking).

And a bee. That bee is a real point of juxtaposition; it’s the last thing you expect to see on the young woman’s lips.

The picture tells many stories, and leaves one able to weave a story—or two—together… if you care to write it down. Really, the braided essay is the writer’s version of “found object” art.

Because this post is about taking disparate pieces and weaving together, I’m going to share some definitions of “found art” I found on the Tate Museum site; I think they are worth pondering. Just reading through, I find my mind pulls out of sluggish mode. It is so useful to beg, borrow, steal from other forms of art.

Under Found Object, this: 

A found object is a natural or man-made object, or fragment of an object, that is found (or sometimes bought) by an artist and kept because of some intrinsic interest the artist sees in it.

Other terms that might spark and inspire:

Readymade: 

The term readymade was first used by French artist Marcel Duchamp to describe the works of art he made from manufactured objects. It has since often been applied more generally to artworks by other artists made in this way

Assemblage: 

Assemblage is art that is made by assembling disparate elements — often everyday objects — scavenged by the artist or bought specially

Appropriation: 

Appropriation in art and art history refers to the practice of artists using pre-existing objects or images in their art with little transformation of the original

The Uncanny: 

A concept in art associated with psychologist Sigmund Freud which describes a strange and anxious feeling sometimes created by familiar objects in unfamilar contexts

(Note in above: emphasis is mine.)

With these possibilities—shadings—you can see objects and things in new light. Even that bee can be seen anew. In the photo, we see no fear, for instance—for many, a very different way to experience an insect with stinger.

Flat vs. round work

So often we begin with a singular idea, and set off, excited. Then it fizzles out.

But writing is like cooking. When my boys were young, I used to try to simplify cooking—the less ingredients, the better, I thought. It meant less recall and forgetting at the grocery store (!), less prep time, less late afternoon whinging. But it also meant less satisfaction, and fewer good surprises!

So I began to throw in other ingredients… so many, that if I was missing something, there were so many elements that whatever was “missing” wouldn’t be! I would raid fridge and cupboard, and had to accept that that might mean the dish tasted a bit differently each time. There might be times when it just wasn’t so good. Or it was… and I might not be able to replicate it! But to sit with a rich meal every evening was the goal.

Think strands 

A braided essay can begin with any strand, but more often than not, the strand of genesis is a question that’s been growing and turning in your mind. Or maybe unarticulated in your gut. Feel it out.

Then, before the fizzles, and before your mind goes down some expected paths, open up to What Else? (Envision water over an incline, finding the easiest path—how else might it go?)

Often, in a braided essay, there will be one strand that requires research. So if not some Big Question, you might begin to research whatever has been on your mind. Or something you’ve meant to look up or poke at. Your “genesis question” and this research piece might be two different things—seemingly. But given the ways our minds tend to work, once you are actually zoned in the task, you may find yourself feeling through the connections of these two.

If “pay attention” is the first principle of writing, it’s worth noting that what we pay attention to is, for the most part, stuff and situations and outcomes and more, that already exist (found art; stumbled over questions). Continue to pay attention, and connections will come into your light. Or you will write your way into the connections, even create them, once at work.

While actors and dancers think through their bodies—I believe—writers think through their typing and pen-in-hand fingers. Get to work.

The braided essay—with the mind set to discover those strands—continues the deepening process with yet another layer. Genesis question; research... 

A third might be a juxtaposing piece, the something that pushes that question further. It might be the bee.

Frawley’s essay

Have a read of an essay by one of my favourite Medium writers, Ryan Frawley. The title gives you the strands:

Baking Bedbugs, Melting Angels, and the End of the Goddamn World

Keep turning up the heat and see what happens

(Please let me know if unable to access this link! Medium does give non-subscribers a few free stories each month.)

The piece opens with the heat that has descended on us in the Pacific Northwest this summer, and the opening section brings in bedbugs; such a strange combination.

But he quickly makes clear what the connection is, and there is a strain of “research,” (pests), yes. Then a return to heat/climate change, bringing in the town of Lytton, burned to the ground. A question of what we, as individuals DO about this. He continues to weave heat and bedbugs. And with a fragment of recalled conversation at a conference, he makes certain that humans (we) are kept in the story.

By the close of section four, the “push” for another strand is almost physical, as a reader. (Can you feel such when you write?) I do think this is the strength of the “braid.” Two of anything is never as interesting as three; three shakes it up.

So Frawley brings in a local mountain, and its legend, its snow angel. Still, the human thread carries; it is the reader, it is us, it is the question that prompted all: how are we going to get out of this that we’ve created? 

It’s hard to imagine this essay without one of its strands. Note the images that come to mind as you are reading.

Story struggles

Sometimes you might be struggling with a story, with “making the pieces fit.” It is good to think of “ideas” as “strands.” An overly complicated idea can suddenly make sense, especially as you begin to work with it and sort through strands. “Braided” is not limited to essays. Short stories, even novels, can be braided.

Think of pieces of writing in which you can see the emergence of each strand throughout, weaving together. This might be a new way to visualize stories. Yes, think “images.”

Frawley’s essay might not seem to be the best example of a “braided” essay in the strictest sense. In a “true” braided piece, the reader will expect to encounter each thread re-emerging, again and again. Here, the Cheam angel does not come in until the last section. Yet in all the discussion of climate and heat and even the earlier mention of an “angry God” (and in the title), the divine/angel looms, and when she arises organically (ah, the “organically” that comes of hard work on the writer’s part!) from the piece, there’s a sense of her having always been there. 

Once you’ve articulated a strand, can you see it weaving throughout? Or feel it? You can write “around” pieces, instead of writing “to” them. (Is this another way to talk about “showing” vs. “telling”?)

Writing “principles” and a bee

Such an idea of “structure” as “braided” has to work for you, not you for it. But, as Robert McKee says, in his book Story, if you do discard some principle of writing, replace it with something improved. The idea of “braiding” can cause you to reconsider a piece you are already working on, or to birth a new piece altogether. 

Imagine the photo without the bee. Without the bee, it’s just another beautiful woman and a camera; with the bee, it fills with questions, story, depth. 

Bring on a bee. Bring on a Cheam angel. Bring in a strange ingredient. When the water travels over the rock face in a different path, follow it. (Ha! Have I been hiking too much lately? I find, as I trek along paths, through water, plucking at wild blueberry bushes, that my mind is constantly pulling and pushing at story and process.)

Our writer-minds bring up such disparate pieces as we allow them to roam. We’ve been trained since Sesame Street age to pronounce “which of these pieces doesn’t belong,” but so often the strands come from some mysterious place in our mind, in such a timely way, that I can’t help but think they DO belong; we just need to explore how, and what they are bringing to the table.

Pay attention and connect; it’s right there in front of us. The bee on lips. Now if she just opens her mouth, a little… we run danger.