Hi friends,
For the last week, while our son has been at school, Sam and I have been going to a park near our house, sitting by the lake, and talking.
Our 13-year-old nephew died on Friday last week, after a two-year battle with cancer.
I have not wanted to write about it, say it out loud, put it down into words that can’t then be taken back. But I can’t write about anything else either.
The night Frank died, we sat up late, telling each other stories about him. We shared our favorite memories, laughed at the silly things he used to say and do, and reminisced about some of the best times we had together. One of the common favorites was when Frank, who wanted to be an actor and played roles in many pantos over the years, took us backstage to meet the cast of Beauty and the Beast.
The next day my father-in-law called to ask if I’d help him share some of his own stories about Frank.
All we do is tell stories.
Whether we’re remembering someone who is no longer with us, gossiping about someone who is, or trying to explain what makes someone so special, stories are the means by which we do it. And yet, we doubt so much the importance of telling them, of writing them down, of the work that you and I, as writers do.
I think of this meme that goes around occasionally. A cartoon Mark Twain is standing with his mother and she’s saying, “Are you still writing your little stories?”
It’s funny because it’s true. As writers, we are used to having our work questioned, of questioning it ourselves, of wondering sometimes if these little stories that we sit and write all day long have any value, whether our time and talents wouldn’t be better spent on something that makes more money or reaches more people.
And yet, in the end, all we have are stories.
All we’re left with are stories.
It’s not just a privilege, but a responsibility, that we tell them.
Cheers,
Natasha