We are all storykeepers

What if we could conceptualise ourselves differently?

At a recent author event, I met a bubbly lady in her sixties who was keen to chat. I enjoyed talking to her, particularly because she had that rare social trifecta of listening, questioning and sharing her thoughts in equal measure. After we’d finished the session, she mentioned that she was writing and pulled out a folder, handing me a couple of pieces of her work to take away and read.

I’m often handed pieces of written work at such events (and occasionally it’s suggested I might like to write a whole book about someone’s life story!). This can be tricky when it’s unsolicited, but there was something about this lady, with her enthusiasm and open conversation, that made me pick up the material shortly after I got home. One of the pieces was a narrative around her invisibility as an older woman, and although it was a topic I’ve read about many times (and may soon experience as I approach my fifties!), I was pulled in because of the heartfelt way in which she recounted her experiences. She objected strongly to being devalued by society, and casually mentioned that she’d backpacked solo through Vietnam shortly after the war had ended in the seventies. This surprised me, because I certainly hadn’t pegged her as an adventurous solo traveller, which was exactly her point. She was asking people to see past her age, to connect with her more deeply. And I was instantly caught up in imagining what her journey through that shellshocked country would have been like, and keen to know more.

I kept thinking about this woman. She had told me just one story from a single moment in her vast and complex life, and she would have many more stories I would never know about, in the same way she would never know all of mine. What would it mean if we could all see past our physical bodies to recognise ourselves, first and foremost, as storykeepers, safeguarding countless distinctive pieces of our shared humanity. Would we make time to hear more of these stories? Would we listen more, rather than talk? Would we allow greater space for others to share? Would we stop presuming that our stories are the only ones worth hearing?

Could we conceptualise ourselves differently?

Let me slow down for a second – because thanks to the internet and AI, the world is expanding with stories by the minute: with more opportunities to share them than ever before. Is this helping us? It doesn’t feel like it. It’s more like we’re being forced to read everyone’s diaries, hear every sudden thought, witness every activity, and view countless attempts at self-promotion. I am not standing outside all of this either: no one taught me or anyone else how to embrace an online identity, so we’re all finding our way – and I’m regularly looking to promote my books online (which all writers trying to make a living need to do). However, I am still figuring out how to manage my online activity so that it feels like a healthy part of my life and doesn’t overwhelm me. And I know I’m not alone!

A few weeks ago I spewed out a random Substack note about Agatha Christie five minutes after thinking it, achieving little except adding to the noise of the day! Oops. I might have had a point, but it was hastily done and of value to no one. But what if the work of our lives is not to breathlessly recount every story we come across, but to curate and reflect on which stories matter, those we might hold close, even as each day offers us many more to choose from. We are the keepers of so many different types of story: our experiences, our discoveries, our secrets, our truths. Would we be so casually violent to one another, in words and deeds, if we could see each individual as, first and foremost, a unique living vessel full of precious stories? By examining our beliefs and our blind spots with courage, by developing our storytelling skills, and by trusting that we are all storykeepers, we might ultimately speak less, but with a greater wisdom in what we share. And when we did choose to speak, people would know us as someone who considers everything carefully, and so they might be more inclined to stop and listen to what we have to say.

Storytelling is bound so intrinsically into the fabric of our universe that when our bodies turn to dust, we become story – initially through the reminiscence of our family and friends, and the consequences of our work and actions. Later, as our names are lost, and our lives buried beneath those of future generations, other stories will render ours almost invisible. And yet, without each and every one of us, the course of humanity would be ever so slightly different. We can therefore never really know how far the ripple of our stories will resonate and endure. So what if we could truly see past the packages we come in, and shed our protective outer shells? How many more stories might we find to share between our tender selves, and who knows how much further all those ripples might go.

Thank you for reading Novel Thoughts & Wild Ideas.

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