I come from a heritage of storytellers.
My waipo captured hearts and rallied the morale of many Chinese soldiers fighting in the Korean War as night after night she starred in White Hair Girl, an epic Communist opera, and belted out the woes of the village girl who suffered at the hands of incredibly evil and fat landlords. Many years later, she still told the best war stories, with sound effects and all.
My mom's brand of nighttime stories steered clear of overt propaganda. Instead, she melded Kung Fu + musketeer + Book of Mormon heroes and made them fight each other for the love of a stubborn aristocrat who dressed as a beggar.
Where my waipo and mom can whip a mystical story up from thin air, I can only tell my own.
I hoard my stories like a jealous little squirrel hiding away its nuts. I wait for the perfect time to tell it so I can see people's expressions, that moment when their eyes open wider in surprise or when they toss their heads back and laugh out loud. So I'm torn when it comes to blogging. When I write stories down, I feel like I've somehow given away that moment of engaging with others and that I can't tell it in person anymore because they've "read it somewhere."
As a result, my list of "To blog" stories grows longer and lonelier.
When I read the afterword from The Lizard Cage by Karen Connelly (I always read the afterword because it is so important to know the person behind the book), I stopped upon this line - "While writing The Lizard Cage, I came to understand that the most useful thing I could do as a writer was contribute to the history of kindness."
Wow. What self-awareness. What a beautiful mission.
Last week, a speaker in Church also admonished that we should tell our stories loud and often, because in a country like China where we can't proselyte among locals, we can still share the core principles that guide our lives through stories that touch people's hearts.
I have a nagging feeling that I've neglected to tell many stories - not necessarily the silly-cute trivialities or the glossed over travelogues, but the important ones, like the heart aching but character strengthening experiences from the summer or the faith-building realizations from hours of study.
So . . . who's up for a story (or a bajillion)?
My waipo captured hearts and rallied the morale of many Chinese soldiers fighting in the Korean War as night after night she starred in White Hair Girl, an epic Communist opera, and belted out the woes of the village girl who suffered at the hands of incredibly evil and fat landlords. Many years later, she still told the best war stories, with sound effects and all.
My mom's brand of nighttime stories steered clear of overt propaganda. Instead, she melded Kung Fu + musketeer + Book of Mormon heroes and made them fight each other for the love of a stubborn aristocrat who dressed as a beggar.
Where my waipo and mom can whip a mystical story up from thin air, I can only tell my own.
I hoard my stories like a jealous little squirrel hiding away its nuts. I wait for the perfect time to tell it so I can see people's expressions, that moment when their eyes open wider in surprise or when they toss their heads back and laugh out loud. So I'm torn when it comes to blogging. When I write stories down, I feel like I've somehow given away that moment of engaging with others and that I can't tell it in person anymore because they've "read it somewhere."
As a result, my list of "To blog" stories grows longer and lonelier.
When I read the afterword from The Lizard Cage by Karen Connelly (I always read the afterword because it is so important to know the person behind the book), I stopped upon this line - "While writing The Lizard Cage, I came to understand that the most useful thing I could do as a writer was contribute to the history of kindness."
Wow. What self-awareness. What a beautiful mission.
Last week, a speaker in Church also admonished that we should tell our stories loud and often, because in a country like China where we can't proselyte among locals, we can still share the core principles that guide our lives through stories that touch people's hearts.
I have a nagging feeling that I've neglected to tell many stories - not necessarily the silly-cute trivialities or the glossed over travelogues, but the important ones, like the heart aching but character strengthening experiences from the summer or the faith-building realizations from hours of study.
So . . . who's up for a story (or a bajillion)?
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