“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
So…the adventure begins.
And we want to begin it together — so this first post will be a group post. A council of the Fellowship, if you will (because we can never have too many Lord of the Rings references. Except instead of taking the One Ring to Mordor, someone’s going to have to post about the One Story concept eventually).
Katherine, as the Gandalf of the group (a.k.a. the originator of this quest) — you have the floor!
***
WELCOME, WELCOME, THRICE WELCOME TO OUR BLOG, A MAGICAL PLACE FILLED WITH STORIES.
It’s magical because stories hold magic, at least for me. For some reason or another, stories ensnared my soul at a very young age, and I’ve been won over entirely to their magic since. The magic of stories runs deeply in me, so it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is and why it’s so important to me, but I want to talk a little bit about why I’m so … concerned with stories. 😉
I have a very vivid memory from when I was about seven years old of falling asleep while reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C. S. Lewis. I had been so enthralled by the story of exploration and discovery that I had willed myself to stay awake as long as possible, my reading light shining dully on the pages. When I woke up, the light bulb was burned out and the pages of the book were crinkled from their night’s sleep. (Also I had drooled all over the book in my sleep but let’s not talk about that; it ruins the image of a cute little girl falling asleep in Narnia.) As soon as I realized that it was indeed morning and I was in fact not in Narnia, I resumed reading the book. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader was always my favorite Narnia book as a child. As I grew up and my tastes in literature broadened and my appreciation for Narnia deepened, I lost the ability to choose a single favorite, but the feeling of exploration that ran so deeply in the book’s magic inspired me.
And to me, that’s a huge part of what stories are. They are an exploration into the unknown to seek the truth. When you open a new book, you’re never sure exactly what you’ll find inside, and that’s part of the magic. And I’m not just talking about not knowing how the books ends or what the plot twists are. The best stories are explorations of character, of the world around us, and life in general. And for a sheltered, introverted homeschooler like me who goes weeks on end without setting foot out of her house, stories help to quench my yearning to explore the world, and also to explore myself. The best stories have moments when they are mirrors, when I can see my soul staring back out me from the words on the page. I can see my world reflected in the storyworld, and as the characters discover who they are, I explore a bit of myself.
The novel (if you can call it that at this point) that I’m currently writing is an exploration of many things. There’s no plot as of yet, no concrete road to follow. It’s a story that is building itself off of my wonderment for courage. It started out with courage and a character, like me, who was afraid. And from there, the story has grown into a constant exploration of a world that is itself an exploration. That’s my favorite thing about writing a fantasy novel, but it’s also one of the hardest things: you get to start from scratch and explore a world so empty it’s bursting at the seams.
I could ramble for quite a time on this, but that is why I have a whole empty blog in front of me. This blog will be an exploration of stories and their magic, and I’m looking forward to the many discoveries we’ll make!
~Katherine
***
Well hello everybody! I’m excited to make this blog a part of my life. I agree with so much of what Katherine has said above, particularly the idea that stories are our mirrors.
Stories of various forms have always been an important part of my life. I still remember the year when I discovered Little House in the Big Woods, hidden and ready to be wrapped up for Christmas (yes, I felt bad about discovering Christmas presents too early). I can remember the excitement that welled up as I stared at that beautiful, sleek cover, trying to count on my little 4-year-old fingers how many days until Christmas, when I could finally get my hands on that book.
Fast forward, yikes!, thirteen years later, I’m still just as much in love with stories, which is why I signed up for an AP Lit class. I proceeded to spend the next months completely absorbed in stories-my own, my fellow classmates’, and those of great writers (not that my classmates don’t fall under that category, too). I also considerably broadened the range of books I like to read. Up until taking this AP Lit class, I had had pretty strict parameters around what I would and wouldn’t read. Nothing harrowing, nothing too sad, always likable characters. I suppose you could say that I hadn’t left my childhood state of reading. But when AP Lit came along, that completely changed. Now I’m comfortable with wailing in a puddle on the floor (thanks, Never Let Me Go, for permanently crushing my heart) and dealing with horrible after horrible experience at the hands of The Grapes of Wrath. I’m rambling now, but this is something that really intrigues me. I love the idea of people having “story palates” that expand over time.
I would love to go on and on for hours, but I’ll stop now. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface in terms of writing about stories, but since this is the whole purpose of the blog, I guess I don’t need to cover everything right now!
-Clara
***
One of the most vivid memories I have as a little girl is one where my parents are sitting on lazy Saturday mornings, reading books. Sometimes they’d laugh quietly at a witty quip, other times they’d read it aloud. I rarely understood the words, being two or three and much more interested in playing with those Hot Wheel toys that were so popular when I was that age. Vroom, vrooming along the lines of the carpet, the soothing words would rush over my head. But those experiences taught me something: how to love a good story.
I love stories that remind me of real-life experiences and people. I read Les Miserables as a summer reading project two years ago. I spent most of the fall thinking about the similarities between my best friend and Jean Valjean. This past summer, I read it for the second time, this time in the language it was first written—French. My friends will tell you that I love a good story…my best friend might roll his eyes and complain that I’ll be comparing people and situations for weeks after I’ve finished reading a book and forget about doing anything else. He might also say that I try to make him read a different book every time I see him (which is…about every day…???).
So why am I saying all this? Because I love books! I always have and I always will…I love the conversations, the relationships, the emotions that run wild throughout the pages. I’ll be the first to tell you that I am not one of those readers who searches for deeper meaning within the pages…nor am I someone who needs to frantically analyze word usage and plot techniques. A sunken ship is a sunken ship, a tree is a…well, there I might argue that it could represent growth in life. You get my point, I hope. Stories to me are the lives of people I just haven’t met yet. And I hope that as you read your way through this blog, you also will see that too.
-Emma
***
Abby here.
Today in WORLD magazine, I read that 25% of adults say they don’t read books.
That probably doesn’t bother a lot of people, but to me, it was a shock. How could you not read books? What do you even do without a diet of stories to keep you happy and healthy? How do you learn to be both accepting and discerning of the people you come across without learning to love even the most difficult and questionable of characters? How do you get through real sorrow when you haven’t reacted deeply to fictional sorrow?
Okay, I know I probably sound ridiculous. But to me this stuff is important. Almost essential. (Even blog-worthy. ;))
Once, when asked why it is important to study literature, I said this:
We study math and science because they teach us about the world. We study history and English because they teach us about ourselves.
But what do we need to learn about ourselves?
As someone who is fascinated with stories, I’m fascinated with people. Everyone has their own unique narrative: their own voice, their own favorite memory from when they were little, their own way of crying when they’re upset (or not crying), their own favorite song, their own way of looking at the world. Literature takes from one or more of these stories, whether consciously or not, and makes an entirely new story out of them. Which we can definitely learn from, because our consciousness of all these stories is a little less limited every time we study a new one.
Dr. Frankenstein’s story is worth reading because it teaches us about the folly of treating people as less than human. And it makes us ask questions about what it means to be human and do the right thing, which is ultimately the point of investing yourself into any book.
We wouldn’t understand the true great value of love as the author is trying to represent it in Othello if the rage and murder didn’t play out in tragic proportions. To more deeply understand something, we must experience its loss. To understand ourselves, we must try to experience what it would be like to be someone else.
People are flawed because they are real. So is literature. At its best, it is not neat and tidy; it is raw and messy and it makes us feel things. That’s why it’s important, and also powerful. When it comes down to a single answer, I study literature because I want to learn, feel, and understand as many stories as I can. They make my heart, and my world, a little fuller.
But for an even more personal answer — what do I say? How can I express, or even understand, the way that “story” as an entity is both my steady heartbeat and the defibrillator that jolts me awake and keeps me alive? When I think about it, story seems to be a rather useless construct. An entertaining lie. I imagine some people look at fiction the way I look at football games: Why invest yourself so wholly into something that, ultimately, is a game? (And no, the characters can’t hear you yelling at them, just like the football players can’t hear you through the screen.)
But then I reject these thoughts, because story isn’t a game.
I know it isn’t, because it makes me cry and laugh and smile. I know it isn’t, because it affects the way I look at the world, especially the people, around me. I know it isn’t, because it makes me think about things I would never think about otherwise. I know it isn’t, because it makes me examine myself and who I am and who I want to be in this grandest of stories, life. I know it isn’t, because for God so loved the world he gave us His word in story form, with a prologue and everything. (“In the beginning…”)
I know story is important, because it’s touched me so much. Through God’s leading, it’s made me more empathetic and humble and patient in my own little real-life subplots. It hurts; then heals. It gives me genuine pain and genuine joy.
So, to repeat myself for hopefully the last time (wink), why should we concern ourselves with stories and characters?
Because they make us better characters, and they make our lives better stories.
~Abby
***
My favorite part about stories is the places they can take you. I love getting lost in a book, having adventures that I might never have in the real world, and learning things I might never have learned otherwise.
As a little girl, I sat eagerly on my bed staring hard at the book in my hands. Sunlight streamed through the window, causing my red hair to glow like burning embers. Although I was barely four years old, I was slowly and carefully trying to sound out each word from the book resting in my lap.
After that, there was no stopping me.
As I grew up, I read every chance I could. I read during the five-minute drive to dance class and on the long road trips to see family. I read in the waiting rooms of doctor appointments, before I went to bed, and early in the morning before I “officially” woke up. I would stagger into the library, my hands piled high with books, trying to use my chin to steady the stack. I would come out in the same way, hurrying to get to the car so I could start my new Nancy Drew mystery. I laughed at the ways of society with Elizabeth Bennet, journeyed across prairies in a covered wagon with Laura, and fled from the Black Riders with hobbits. I witnessed a new world being created by a lion, went through the struggles of being adopted with Anne Shirley, and sat in shock when I read about the tragic deaths in The Great Gatsby.
Books have power over people. Whether it is learning a lesson from a fictional character or being persuaded or inspired, books captivate the reader with their words and can cause rewarding changes in their lives. They can control your emotions, causing you to feel joy, rage, sorrow, and love as you read about the lives of the characters. They can cause you to become the character so that when the book ends and the last page is turned, you can do nothing except lean back and reflect on your experience. You realize that throughout the whole story you were in touch with the characters—living, laughing, loving, and crying.
Now, as a senior in high school, I still love sitting down and enjoying a good book more than anything. However, more recently, this love of reading has spread out to include writing my own stories as well. I can now share my own experiences with people who might never experience the things I write about. It has opened a whole new world.
I am so excited to start this blog and help you guys (the readers) be carried away into new world, times, and places. Just sit back, and enjoy the ride. 🙂
-Jenna
***
It seems like literature has always mattered to me. I was seeded with read-alouds, watered by library visits, and grown parallel to my ever-increasing bookcase. Books have shaped my imagination and comprehension, let me empathize with the unknown, and, eventually, beckoned my own story.
Every book that I’ve read has been a parable. Stories bridge fantasy with reality; through fiction, we experience the our pasts, presents, and futures. Perhaps we are not Paul Bäumer, whose conscience teeters between patriotism and morality. But we are ourselves, born in minefields of grey areas. Through characters, we better understand the nature of humanity. It inspires us to become better, to learn from the nonexistent, and ultimately, to teach.
Literature is creative. It creates new authors, plots, and insights by simply existing. An editor once told me, “If reading is the inhale, writing is the exhale.” In Greek times, the purpose of the theater was “catharsis” (κάθαρσις), meaning “a purification and purgation of emotions.” We grasp the emotions of the stage, which call to our own; I believe there is no choice but to express them. Literature become communal in emotion, yet personal in story. I can’t help but scribble when I read.
Literature is a medium of life (where life is all experiences); it defines people and incites innovation. I am surrounded by stacks of inspiration: in my bag, in my phone, and in the unwritten book in my head. To me, literature matters because it is the world at my fingertips.
-Noël
***
I’m going to start with an anecdote, so bear with me.
I read Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings first as a shy, gawky ten-year-old, seeking out adventures beyond the limited realm of an Iowan homeschooler. To me, it was a story of broadened horizons, of escaping the confines of life in the Shire and reaching out to make new friends, visit new places, and accomplish grand and glorious deeds. Merry and Eowyn, with their thrilling character arcs of achieving heroism against all expectations, were my idols; and like them, I couldn’t wait to leave my mundane life behind and embark upon adventures in the outer world.
When I left my own Shire for a two-year RV trip with my family, Lord of the Rings stayed with me — but in a very different way. Separated from friends and relatives back home, I identified for the first time with Frodo’s desperate homesickness. I marveled at the Rivendells and Gondors I saw on my own epic journey, but I also understood why Aragorn craved the companionship of hobbits. Instead of a straightforward adventure, Tolkien’s epic became to me the story of wanderers: loneliness, beauty, friendships torn apart by distance, and friendships that remain solid no matter what the obstacles. Instead of a path towards heroism, it was a quest for maturity.
Now, settled down with my family, I’m starting a new journey towards college and beyond. I’m forging new friendships, finding new passions, and pursuing new dreams. But Lord of the Rings still remains with me. Today, when I look back at Tolkien’s story, it seems to me that it’s about the enduring power of good things: curling up by the fire on a winter night, catching your breath at the beauty of the mountains, relying on your friends through good times and bad. As I get older, I’m beginning to see the world through a larger frame, with terrorism and political unrest lurking around the edges of my happy home life. I have friends who struggle with mental illness. I’ve known people who’ve died. But even as I become more aware of the darknesses in our world, I grow ever more appreciative of the little things — like Lord of the Rings itself — that give us hope.
That, in a nutshell, is why I love literature. Books and movies aren’t some static monument to one person’s thoughts and feelings. They’re inspirations, friends, mentors. And as we grow, they grow with us.
I don’t know what I’ll read when I open Lord of the Rings next year, or in ten years, or fifty. But, at that moment, I trust that it will be whatever I most need to hear.
I’m looking forward to sharing my books (for whatever books I have read and loved become, in a sense, my books) on this blog. And I’m looking even more forward to hearing about your books and the marvelous, miraculous ways that stories have affected your lives!
-Lucie
***
Glad you’ve joined us, at least so far. (We know we haven’t gone that far yet, but after all, this is the farthest from the Shire we’ve ever been). We’re excited to start this blog because we all believe the words of one wise hobbit (slightly altered): whenever you crack open the pages of a book, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
Concerning Stories 