The Myth & Storytelling Issue

Volume 8 Issue 5, January 2009

It’s not just that the stories we hear, remember, and share are ultimately all that we have in this world which hold the permanence denied to our physical possessions – they are indeed our only real chance at immortality – they’re actually all that we are, too. This could be understood in the way that some might see the measure of a man as the respect he has earned from his family and community, or how we measure our self worth against the stories we hold true of our selves and the world, or how we have the ability to fall into fits of denial and cling more tightly to a comfortable story than a harsh reality, but it is meant more literally than that. We are only the experience of the story of our life as it is being told, only aware of our own story and the people and places and things and thoughts which enter it, and only able to make sense of life’s experiences in the private contexts of our personal world. To walk a mile in another man’s shoes might be an illuminating (or merely injurious) experience, but it will always only be your experience of his experience.

The art of telling a story well, however, transports the listener or reader beyond their surroundings, beyond their problems, beyond the limits of their own life’s story for a time. Being told of great adventure is more than just passing time in a fit of fancy – it is literally Lose Weight Exercise for the brain and the chance to vicariously undergo a replaying of the emotional and chemical excitements behind the actions and words being depicted. A chill dread down your spine when someone speaks of a terrible accident or warm waves of generous laughter at the expense of another are very real experiences, and the ability of the master storyteller to seamlessly weave the emotions of the listener into the story being told is a fascinating thing to behold at any age.

Campfires, porches, and water coolers are the natural habitat of the master and amateur storyteller alike – anywhere that unsuspecting ears linger long enough to be bent. Favourite puns, ancient anecdotes, and jokes older than dirt (Q: What’s brown and sticky? A: A stick) all find fresh laughter when they meet new ears, and the bloody details only get gorier (and the fish longer, the girls more beautiful, and the hangovers worse) with every year they are half-remembered anew and re-retold once again.

Ever hear about the time I met Dave Grohl? What about the one about my buddy the plumber? Remember that night we threw the keg in the back of the Jeep and hit the road?

Mark Ciesluk
Editor-in-Chief