I can’t remember a time stories weren’t the loves of my life. 

 

As a kid I devoured bookshelves. Flashlight in hand, I'd read under the covers until all hours of the night. My grandmother’s old nightgown became the finest eveningwear, my bed a raft traveling to new worlds. During the day, I’d listen for stories everywhere I went…in the people I encountered…the places I’d visit, imagining all the lives who’d left their fingerprints there. I learned to look for the connections, the structure, the parts of the story previously left out on the margins.

 

Years later, I’m still listening, searching the margins, finding the structure, playing with myth and magic, and collaborating with others to do the same. Our stories have the power to shape how we think, how we vote, how we express ourselves and understand others, how we relate to our planet, face our past, imagine new possibilities for our future, process pain and loss, or pass on what is meaningful, and beautiful, and true. 

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So grab a flashlight. Grab a nightgown. Grab a pen. Let’s tell a story.