In his fantastical work, The Island of the Day Before, the notable Italian writer, Umberto Eco, said “To survive, we must tell stories.”
We must.
We must share them, repeat them, adapt them to a new generation, a changing world. We must keep them authentic, yet malleable. Simple, yet layered. We must imbue them with the richness of panna cotta, the savor of roasted garlic, the brightness of crushed basil. Make them tangible, alive, of a texture both familiar and fresh. A texture that conveys the voice of the Teller, reveals the heart of the maker, and the soul of our shared humanity.
I am a novelist, a writer of fables, fairytales, fantastical histories steeped deep in my culture. Funny, poignant, sometimes heavy to carry, I craft my stories into carefully structure packages, edited and re-edited, with specific word counts, divided into sentences and paragraphs, chapters and sections. Titled and covered, once published my written tales are finished. They are fixed. Carved in granite and as immutable.
Oral storytelling grants me a new way to share my written works, also my ideas, my notions, my fancies. I’m discovering the joy of tailoring my work to the audience before me, the situation of the moment, the circumstances in which I find myself. I can tell my stories over and over and never the same way twice, free to change a name, a relationship, a setting, a metaphor. Free to make new stories from the old, to shuffle and reshuffle, upcycle and repurpose. Content. Characters. Colors. Contours. The course of events.
To survive, we must tell stories. To thrive, it’s sometimes fun to adapt them, change them. To inform. To inspire.
To illuminate.
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