I am in a candle-lit corner of Mrs Brown, a late-night bar in North Fremantle. The sofa is at least a four-seater - I’m snuggled in to one corner, and way over on the other end, a stranger is drinking his wine very slowly, taking turns reading his phone and then staring up at the wallpaper, a tangled illustration of ivy and vintage lilies.
Across the room, an older couple are having what looks like a fascinating conversation, their noses about four inches away from each other. Their hands are as twined as the wallpaper ivy, and they look happy.
Against the wall two exceptionally good looking humans are drinking something bubbly and resting their chins in their hands, taking turns sharing stories and nodding with deep knowing nods.
Closer to me, a group of men are laughing hard, slapping backs and buying rounds. They were talking about redundancies and the price of gold last I listened.
I came in here a half hour ago to write, and I haven't written a thing. I tried to be intelligent, then funny, then whimsical, then disciplined, but, nothing. It’s hard to gather momentum at nine o’clock at night. Rach and I were up at five this morning, so I suppose that doesn’t help things.
So, here I am in my couch corner, drinking my own wine very slowly, with nothing to say. I reach for my headphones, close my eyes, tune out the voices, and turn up Phoebe Killdeer.
The bass line kicks me over the edge, and I start to observe instead of define. The flickering candlelight plays warm over faces, it lights up eyes, casts dancing shadows against the encyclopaedias on the bookshelves.
There are pockets in this place, not light-and-dark so much as thermal energies. Spiritual warmth, or something. The back-slapping guys are deeply interested in each other. Solid eye-contact, edge-of-the-seat leaning-ins, the works. Nobody cuts another off, they each take turns to speak. They are gentlemen souls, wrapped in rough exteriors. The older couple at the fireplace are themselves embers, holding a deep heat crafted over years of attention to the coals.
I watch the room from behind the rim of my glass, a curious wallflower, and I think back to something I heard Hugh Mackay speak about recently. He said that good news is everywhere, but it is the BAD news that gets the screentime, because good news isn't "newsworthy." He said that kindness is everywhere, happening all the time, but it will never make the news.
The distant man on the other end of the sofa stands to leave, and realises that I'm in his way. His looks down at me, momentarily confused, brows beginning to scrunch together, clearly stuck. I smile, tuck my knees up, and nod him past, and his face becomes human: wide grin, laugh-line-crinkles, nods of appreciation. I swear he almost hugged me. I didn't even take my headphones off and we could have hugged goodbye.
That moment won't make the news. Even though it proves our inherent human disposition towards kindness and connection, it won't be reported because it's just not newsworthy. It's commonplace, everyday. And we're all far more interested in the bad news.
And right here is the tension of my whole professional existence: I want things like kindness and human connection to be the news, to be talked about, celebrated, applauded and encouraged. But everything I know about life and story says that nobody will care. Hell, I won't even care - not if there is a "bad news story" competing for my attention.
As far as attention goes, conflict is king. Successful marketing demands we "start with the problem." Storytelling 101 says "a story needs conflict." News reporting needs conflict, or viewers will change the channel. Advertising first convinces us that we have a problem, and then it sells us the solution.
With all these influences, we have become attuned to conflict, to the drama of bad news, and we forget what we are meant to do with it. We forget why conflict even exists in the first place.
In storytelling, conflict exists to draw out a response. We call it an "inciting incident," that forces a character to make a choice, to respond in some way. We present our protagonist with some bad news, and see how they will react to it. If the response is kindness, then that kindness is more meaningful because of the difficult context.
The bad news calls the good news into action.
I think in real life we often stop too early in our story. We hit the conflict (ours or someone else's) and we stop reading, as if THAT'S the whole story. But that's the story just getting started. It's the next chapters that are transformational. How will the the character respond? Who will they become? Is there still hope?
As I walk out of the bar I realise I am surrounded by good news stories. None will be aired, but like Mackay said, these stories are everywhere. Kindness and connection are an inherent part of us.
And if I can remember all this when the conflict comes, then I might allow the kindness to be called into action, and perhaps I too will contribute to the greatest narrative of all: being human.