the power of story

I’m realizing how much of my life is driven by my need for a good story.

There’s a Pendleton blanket on my bed that’s the kind they use on the red buses at Glacier National Park. I could have just about any blanket on my bed that I choose, but I wanted this particular one. Had to have it, actually. I bought it because it reminded me of being on those red vintage buses on the “Going to the Sun” road, with the wind blowing in our faces and the blankets on the seats to protect us from the elements. With that purchase, I now have at least two stories: the story of the purchase/our trip to Glacier, but also the story/fantasy of being on a vintage bus and pretending I was going back in time and looking at the national parks during, like, the 1940s.

Photo from National Park Service

The Christmas present I asked for this year (and received) was a branded N. Peal Bond girl sweater. Could I have found just about any black cashmere V-neck sweater and pretended it was a Bond girl sweater? Absolutely. Or any sweater, not cashmere. Obviously. Would have been cheaper, too. But is it more fun to have the item with the story behind the item? Yes. Also, it’s divine.

Same goes for the coffee mug I use daily and the Swatch watch I wear—both ones that Ben Whishaw as Q wears in the Bond films. Apparently I have a slight Bond fetish. But I’m not the only one—how many Omega watches have been sold because of story? That story being that you’ll be James Bond when you wear it, even if you look nothing like Daniel Craig. Also it must say a lot about me that I want the “nerdy” Q stuff rather than the hot Bond stuff.

I spent the last two days engrossed in a self-published book that was apparently a sensation in 2013-2014—the Foxhole Court books. I’m extremely late to the party, since I’d never heard of them until a few days ago. From my perspective, the books have plain covers, no marketing, and zero frills. The writing, although plenty competent and compelling, isn’t fancy from a stylish perspective.

But I couldn’t put the books down.

I didn’t even decide if I liked them until the third book. But reading them and coming to an opinion was kind of like my experience reading the Hunger Games—it’s hard to say I “liked” something about killing children, but it was eminently readable. Something to get obsessed about. The Foxhole books are much more violent than what I normally read, and they’re hard to categorize—sports books? (and it’s Exy, a Quidditch-type sport, not a sport that exists) or mafia book? or gay romance?)—but the more I read, the more fascinated I became with what was keeping me reading them. In other words, I was fascinated by two stories—the one on the page and the reasons behind me being so hooked.

I don’t think the things I’m writing here are spoilers, but a warning that if you do want to read them, perhaps go in blind and stop reading this blog post.

You know from the very beginning that Neil, the narrator, was using a pseudonym, but you don’t know what his real name is or why he’s using a pseudonym. So that keeps you reading, because you want to know what his name is and what happened to him.

I guessed that there would be a romance, but I didn’t even figure out his eventual love interest until halfway through the second book. If you’d have asked me from the beginning, I thought his love interest was going to be someone else.

At one point in the third book, Neil begins to get text messages from different numbers. It starts with “49.” Then the next day from a different number, “48.” And a few chapters later, he’s in the twenties. I had no idea what was being counted down (and neither did Neil), but god did that device make it so I had to find out.

I guess what hooked me was that there were so many things to figure out. The series kept me reading because I just HAD to find out what the story was—and there were so many stories, so many things to figure out—with all these flawed, complicated characters all having twisted backstories and motivations. I didn’t likeall of the characters, but by the end I fell in love with all of them. It was a very strange experience.

I think what I’m experiencing is a total book hangover and the need to process it.

I’ve heard from so many sources—Seth Godin, Save the Cat, and so on—that human beings are wired for story. There’s a line from Seinfeld where he talks about the J. Peterman catalog, dismissing it as “a pair of pants, a stupid story, huge mark-up.” And I’ve accepted that statement in the past as a joke.

But god is it true.

I need story in my life.

I don’t know what I plan on doing with this information except doing my best to incorporate it into my own work—holding back information, giving everything back story, having much happen off the page so you have to figure it out.

We are wired for story. Only now, I’m starting to see it in new and different ways, and the more I see it, the more fascinated I become.