Why the Stories You Love Matter
Stories matter. Most of us know this by now. They give us hope, encouragement, a much-needed laugh or two. They illuminate hidden truths. They help us understand one another, give voice to the feelings and conflicts we might struggle to name in ourselves. They introduce us to places and people we might never have come across otherwise. They do all this and so much more. But it goes deeper. Not only do stories matter . . . the stories you love matter.
The stories we love have the power to shape us. The ones we played/read/watched endlessly as children often become an integral part of us as we age. The characters feel like old friends. The music triggers an involuntary emotional reaction. A line or verse is adopted by us as a war cry or a personal creed in some way. This very thing happened on a world-wide scale when—at a particularly dark time in our history—Samwise Gamgee’s inspirational speech from The Two Towers went viral many years after that film’s release. Stories are that important.
One of my favorite movies of all time is The Neverending Story. I loved it dearly as a kid, and I will still throw it on even as a 36-year-old and thoroughly enjoy it. One of my favorite things about it is the way young Bastian is drawn into the book. At the start of the film, he believes that what he’s reading is “just a story”, and furthermore, that he is just a passive observer looking in from the outside.
But (and spoiler alert—though this film is from 1984 so this is fair game at this point) by the end of the film, Bastian is astonished to discover that not only is the book much more than a simple story, but he is being called upon to play a crucial role.
That’s amazing enough. But it gets even wilder. In the midst of explaining Bastian’s part to Atreyu (the one we’ve assumed all along to be the hero), the Childlike Empress takes a moment to throw open the doors to an even greater revelation:
“Just as he is sharing all your adventures, others are sharing his.”
Wow. Now it’s not only about Atreyu and the fate of Fantasia, nor even about Bastian. Now we, the far-removed viewers sitting passively on our couches with our potato chips, are suddenly also involved. And when the Empress turns her heart-stricken gaze to the camera, with tears streaming down her face, pleading for help to save her world (which, incidentally, is earlier described as ‘the world of human fantasy’), she is not only calling to Bastian but to us as well.
I love that. I get chills just thinking about it. It means we can do more than merely be looking in from the outside. It means we can have a part to play in the stories we love. It means that, in a way (and stay with me here), they love us back. They need us. We are called on to share them with others. To pass them on to our kids, friends, co-workers, students. If they’ve yet to be written, perhaps we are called upon to write them, or to paint them, or compose the music, or code the game. We are called inside.
The brilliant fantasy writer Ursula Le Guin had this to say about the importance of the stories we love:
“As you read a book word by word and page by page, you participate in its creation, just as a cellist playing a Bach suite participates, note by note, in the creation, the coming-to-be, the existence, of the music. And, as you read and re-read, the book of course participates in the creation of you, your thoughts and feelings, the size and temper of your soul.”
The stories we love give special meaning to our lives.
Our society likes to make a lot of fuss about bestsellers, award-winners, and critical acclaim. We fight on social media about which stories are better than others, which are more deserving or worth more. We take pride in defending our favorites. Our opinions. This is fine, in theory—except that it inevitably comes at the cost of shaming and dismissing (if not downright damning) another’s personal experience of that story.
There are some corners of the world (the internet, namely) that might rake you over the coals for the stories you love. Don’t let them. They are pieces of your heart. Your soul. Little gems of light you take out again when things start to go dark. They are treasures. We might not all agree on what’s considered ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art (my favorite Star Wars movie, for example, is definitely not the popular choice at the moment), but that doesn’t make them any less valuable. They don’t have to be Oscar-winners or hit the top of the music charts to be stories of worth. They don’t have to be recommended by Oprah’s book club or be made part of a university-level academic discourse to be considered special. They just have to mean something to you.
The singer-songwriter Andrew Peterson has an incredible song called “To All the Poets” in which he acknowledges the influence of all the artists, writers, and musicians in his life. One particularly poignant verse always stands out to me:
You walking wounded of my life
Who bled compassion in the heat of strife
You stood between my heart and Satan's knife
With just the armor of a song
Or book. Or film. Or painting. (You get the idea). Yes. This is right on. Andrew gets it. This is why art is so important. This is why creativity and imagination should always be fostered, encouraged, and cherished. It is also why we should do everything we can to restrain ourselves from disparaging other people’s tastes and preferences. Because you might be sneering at something that stood between their heart and Satan’s knife.
Is it really that dramatic? That serious? You bet it is.
Take some time this month to reflect on those special stories. Maybe watch a beloved movie you haven’t seen in a while. Re-visit that book or album. Drag that old video game out of the closet and see if you can still get it to work. Give it your attention again, your appreciation. It’s true that not everything ages well. Not everything retains its same old spark. But you may also be pleasantly surprised to find new meaning—uncover new secrets and revelations—that never occurred to you before. You may just find yourself falling in love all over again.
Also, if you haven’t seen it, go watch The Neverending Story—if for no other reason than to listen to that sweet, sweet theme song.