Now, let me be frank with you, dear readers. Back in the day, I reckon we knew more about life before we hit 20 than most people know now at 40. Not to date myself, but I’ve seen the world turn as much as half a century – no laughing matter, I assure you. That’s all beside the point, however, as I write to discuss not my advancing years but rather an issue dear to my heart; the lost art of storytelling.
Not too long ago, entertainment wasn’t all blasted screens and impatient swiping for the next quick fix. No, sir. Hours were whiled away wrapped in the magic of carefully spun yarns – narratives rich in character, setting, and most importantly, meaning. Stories were not just stories; they were bridges to understanding life, its truths, its pains, and its glories. We had an appetite for tales, and boy, did we feast!
We were weaned on Aesop’s fables, charmed by the Arabian Nights, and thrilled by the adventures of pirates hunting for treasure on islands far away from the ilk of human habitation. Listening to stories was as much a part of our daily routine as our good old wheat toast and jam. The rhythm of words and narratives seeped deep into our young, impressionable minds, fostering a love for literature and a critical understanding of life that instant information cannot replace.
In the superiority of the old days over the present – a fond favorite subject of mine – lies the core of this lament. I’m probably preaching to the choir; we miss the times when stories simply weren’t about overwhelming you with CGI and overly convoluted plotlines. The simplicity of a well-told tale had its unique charm. Our world has somehow lost track of that.
You may call it nostalgia, or you may call it being a grumpy man who refuses to keep up with the times. Once, when my neighbor’s precocious grandson popped over with his newfangled device on my porch here in Schenectady, I asked him if he knew about the fable of ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ “Is that an app?” the lad replied without missing a beat, and it was at that moment I had a revelation manifest.
Time and again, in my long career as a writer, I have found it deeply distressing that storytelling’s rich heritage is slipping away from our collective consciousness. We have given up oral tradition for endless hours of mindless screen time. As a result, our stories lack substance, and our understanding of human nature is waning. This diminishes, I believe, our ability to empathize with others and appreciate the complexity of human emotion.
I recall old Mrs. Sullivan from down the street. She wasn’t well-educated, but every evening after supper, she would sit in her rocking chair and regale us with tales of yore. She told tales about Irish folklore so well that you could swear you heard the banshees on a stormy night. We weren’t just entertained—we learned. We learned about courage, honesty, betrayal, sacrifice. We learned about life.
Now it’s not entirely doom and gloom, of course. We have occasional beacons of hope in a few contemporary storytellers. There are frontrunners who work tirelessly to preserve the richness of language and the joy of a good, fulfilling plot. But such instances are becoming rarer and are typically drowned in the slew of quick, cheap, digital amusements.
So, what is the price we have paid for the progress that has distanced us from the essence of storytelling? We have lost a critical education tool that has been used for centuries, and we’re raising generations with a worrying, developing illiteracy towards understanding, appreciating, or navigating the world through layered narrative. We’re losing touch with the shared human history, a history that’s been immortalized through tales, legends, and myths.
It is my firm belief that it’s high time we got it back. The art of storytelling needs to be rediscovered, reinterpreted, reintroduced into the modern world, not as an obsolete pastime but as a powerful instrument that can engage, educate, and entertain in equal measure.
Young parents, you don’t need to be Mrs. Sullivan or a Shakespeare reincarnate. Alexa might save time, but nothing can beat the warmth and intimacy of a mother’s or father’s voice whispering a bedtime story to sleepy, half-lidded eyes. Teachers, don’t shy away from picking up that slightly dusty copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales in the corner of your classroom. Those tales of princesses, goblins, and valiant knights don’t merely amuse, they instill values, evolve critical thinking, and encourage the imagination to stretch and fly.
In their essence, stories are an exercise in truth. They reflect the world as it is, was, or could be. They reveal character, show consequence, provoke thought, and most importantly, they connect. Their enduring power lies in their ability to touch our emotions, ignite our minds, challenge our perspectives, and often shed light on the very mysteries of existence.
My plea to you, reader, is simple. Rediscover the power of a good story. Unearth those classics, pass down the old folktales. Kindle that bonfire in your backyard and tell your stories – tall and true, silly and somber – and let their light seep back into the dark and revive the remarkable art of storytelling. Because at the very heart of it, we humans are, after all, storytelling animals. It shouldn’t be something we risk losing to oblivion – not in Schenectady, or in any corner of our world.