Little Stories

I like to tell little stories, and not just because this column’s word count requires it. I’ve been telling them all my life, to friends and family and coworkers. I’ve listened to plenty as well. Little stories are mostly what we share in conversation, the moments from our day or week that caught our attention. Sometimes we tell them to brag, sometimes to complain, and sometimes because something funny or surprising or alarming occurred. We share stories to connect with one another, but also to make sense of our world. We know everything that has ever happened was an extension of what came before, that everything has a context, though it’s not always clear to us what that context is.

I like long stories too. They’re so engrossing. Each has its own mystery, its own tangled problem, and I enjoy seeing the characters try to resolve what appears so intractable. Usually, it seems as though they can’t. The challenges are just too great, and they’re running out of time, and they haven’t the strength or the resources. These stories keep me suspended in a state of wondering what will happen next, as if maybe, this time, the girl won’t get the guy, the killer won’t be found, or the father won’t reconcile with his son. It’s a bit of a magic trick on the storyteller’s part, making us forget that we know how theirs will end, that we’ve always known.

It’s a trick I willingly fall for, though I have recently grown more impatient, just wanting to get past the conflict to the end. It’s a weird development, frankly, though it may be a result of spending so much time writing my stories. The more of these I tell, the more I’ve come to understand that my suffering is largely a consequence of an accumulation of little tales I’ve told myself. In a hurried attempt to make sense of my life, I concoct a twisted context for why this or that didn’t happen, or why I didn’t get what I want. I usually don’t notice what’s going on. The stories unfold so quickly in my mind I mistake them for the truth. Now, I will live from that lie, from that misperception, until such time as I tell the story anew.

I’ve lived years, decades even, within a spell I’ve cast on myself. It wears me down, exhausts me, leaves me wanting to quit – something, anything, just to be done with it all. Which is why I’m such a fan of little stories. Better to address the problem at its root, before it grows and fills my garden. After all, just as I know how the long stories I read and watch will end, so too the little ones I tell on purpose. If I’m not glad I’ve told it, I’ve told it wrong. Every story’s end should leave me eager to tell the next one.

Check out Fearless Writing with Bill Kenower on YouTube or your favorite podcast app.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com