A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.  

–Emily Dickinson (1830-1886; one of the most important poets in American literature.)

Who doesn’t love a good story? We all do. And why wouldn’t we? We’ve spent our entire lives–including our fetal days–listening to others’ stories. Equally important, we’ve spent most of our entire lives telling stories. Humans are born storytellers.

We spend a large part of every day sharing with others the stories of our lives and taking the time to let others share with us the stories of their lives. I’m not talking about stories with profound, monumental meaning. I’m talking about the simple joy of sharing the narrative of what’s going on in our lives. I’m talking about the simple joy of hearing the narrative about what’s going on in other people’s lives.

With friends and colleagues, we’re sure to get a story going as soon as we start talking about trips, cooking, movies, music, what’s happening at work, pets, health, or social media.

With family, we’re sure to get a story going as soon as we start talking about childhood memories, family traditions, milestones, lessons learned from parents, family challenges, or heirlooms.

Obviously, story topics often overlap with family and friends, and, obviously, the topics are far more extensive than the few examples that I just gave.

Our stories–our personal narratives–are invaluable. They help us:

● connect, laugh, cry, and bond.

● gain a deeper understanding of others’ experiences and lives.

● discover who the other people in our lives are.

● discover who we are.

● define and shape our lives.

Luckily, most of us know how to tell our stories.

● Start with just enough information to establish a timeframe and to identify where things are taking place.

● Tell what happened to put things into motion.

● Explain subsequent events, making each one more intense than the one before, and hopefully moving them along at a clipped pace.

● Make the climax the most intense moment in the story.

● Wrap things up and share some insights into the “meaning” of the story that we just told.

We know a lot when it comes to telling our stories.

At the same time, we fall short in one way that has far-reaching ramifications. More often than not, we don’t spend enough time thinking about what to put in and what to leave out.

Think about it for a minute: What should we put in our stories, our personal narratives?

Think about it for a minute: What should we leave out of our stories, our personal narratives?

What we leave out matters, but ironically, it’s what we put in that matters far more.

What we put in creates the image of who we are. It creates the dominant impression that our listeners–friends, family, colleagues, and casual acquaintances–have about us.

The stories that we tell reflect who we are, shape who we are, and determine who we are yet to become.

What got me to thinking about the significance of our personal narratives was a casual statement that someone made to me a few weeks ago when we were talking about one of my culinary triumphs:

“Everything that you make in the kitchen is extraordinary,” she said.

“Hardly,” I replied. I have lots of failures.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I do. I just don’t talk about them. Remember: it’s my story, and I’ll tell it my way.“

It’s my story, and I’ll tell it my way. I always have. I always will.

My way of telling my story–going as far back as I can remember–is to make it glisten with smiling happiness, hard work, steadfast belief, stubborn success, and undying optimism.

That’s not to say that I haven’t known the opposites of those glistenings. Of course, I have. Often, I have known them in overflowing measure, unknown to others.

At the same time, I have never allowed negatives to be the measure of who I am. When I share my story–my personal narrative–I give the downsides of my life exactly what I think they deserve: either no mention at all or brief mention at best.

For years, I’ve shared in my story that as early as the third grade, I knew that I wanted to be an English professor.

I have no idea where I got that notion. We certainly didn’t have any professors in my coal camp, although we had exceptional educators who, in my mind, walked on water. Who knows. Maybe one of them challenged me to go further than they had gone? Maybe it was my mother, who also walked on water. Maybe she challenged me to go further than she had seen others go.

I don’t remember. But I do recall that from the third grade forward, becoming an English professor became the thrust of my story–my personal narrative–that I told myself and that I shared with others.

The story came true. I became an English professor.

These days, my story is taking a new twist. I’m reinventing myself. When I tell people what I’m doing, I often get raised eyebrows.

“You mean you’ve retired?”

“No. I mean that I’m reinventing myself.”

For me, as someone who treasures words and stories, there’s a world of difference between retiring and reinventing.

It’s my story, and I’ll tell it my way. If the word professor carried my personal narrative forward from the third grade up until now–and it did, with success beyond measure, I might add–then I believe with all my heart that the word reinventing will carry my personal narrative forward for the rest of my life.

And you? What about you?

It’s your story to tell. How will you tell it? What will you put in? What will you leave out? As you make your choices, remember: the way that you tell your story will shape your life now and forever.