My dad is a compulsive storyteller. Compulsive as in, “just try to stop me” storyteller. The stories are a part of him. Tell them he must. (Yes, I’m feeling a bit Yoda-ish today.)
When you sit down with my dad, you never know if you are going to hear true-life tales of taxis caught in municipal fountains, or take a journey with him to an elaborate funeral for his pet hamster. The one thing you do know is tales will be told.
I think when you grow up around people who revel in stories, some of that rubs off on you. Or maybe it’s embedded in the genetic code somewhere. I’ve recently come to realize that, whatever the cause, like my dad, I’m compelled to tell stories. My brain is apparently hardwired to pick up the all-stories-all-the-time channel.
As a case in point: I thought that photography would be my escape. When the words got to be too much, or the writer brain suffered a cramp I could retreat into images instead. But for me, even when the writing stops, the stories go on. They just take a different form, and sometimes that means that the eggs in my refrigerator require a bit of explanation…
What about you? Do you find stories creeping into the corners of your life even when you aren’t actively writing?