By Alan Martin
Alan is trying to get his computer to to be a great author. It's working. So far he's succeeded in creating software with writer's block.
All the truth of the world lies in stories. The truth though, does not offer itself up in numbers, tables and graphs. We must dress the truth. Give it a name; give it a beginning; give it an end. The best truths wear a lie just as the best lies have a kernel of truth. The best lies make us who we are.
I won first prize in the Road Safety category at the 1989 Malmesbury Carnival Procession. You can see it pinned to the front of my cardboard box.
I'm standing in Malmesbury School's playground. No doubt, the music was Black Lace, the only record needed at any family event in England from 1986 to 1992. I'm learning about the emptiness in victory.
First, the story's truth. I entered the Road Safety category. I made the costume. I arrived on the day. I beat the competition. I got the prize. Here, the truth has given us its best side, smiling at the camera. This is the story of the picture sitting on a grandmother's shelf. The truth misses the point.
The first problem was I cared not one bit about 'road safety'. I'd tried to channel whatever it is into my costume. I decided it was sign posts. I copied pictures from a road atlas onto the front and back of the box. On the sides, I painted scenes of a busy town. At the last minute, I got worried that Malmesbury is a rural town so wrote 'Wild Horses Ahead' on the box as an appeal to the judges. The first lie is my motivation.
The second problem was that my mother was on the Carnival committee. She picked out this victory like you might a children’s holiday camp or a Christmas present. 'Road Safety' was an unloved category, no one had entered the previous year. As it turned out, someone else had heard the same story. The girl was a little older than me. Her costume was a sports kit, with cardboard road signs safety pinned onto a set of sweat bands. We discussed how both of us guessed this was to be an easy victory with no one else there. The second lie was the competition.
Third and last, I did win, but I think the look on my face is evidence that the victory rang hollow. In winning there was an emptiness. Competitions are games that end, like stories. If we want to win, we become the storyteller, we choose the scene and the characters and act it out. And when we've won, we stand for the camera. The third lie is that ending. At the end, there is just an end.
If you're going to live a story, a lie, then don't pick one with an ending.