We all tell stories, though not necessarily well.
I like to think I’m better at it than most, but my too-deliberate-and-full-of-detail style doesn’t work with everyone. It particularly bugs my friend Mary. On more than one occasion she’s interrupted my meandering narrative and said, in total deadpan, “OK, Al. Now cut to the chase!”
But talented or not, we all persist in telling stories. We describe what happened when the cop pulled us over on our way to work. We talk about how we nearly rode our bike into a moose (seriously — this happened to me over the weekend), or describe how our extended family reacted when a bat flew into the dining room, or recount how we turned on the t.v. just in time to see the game-winning overtime goal in the Stanley Cup. (“I just kinda had a feeling!”) We give the blow-by-blow of an argument at work, and we talk about how we let our boss know that we’d taken another job. (“What a look on his face!”) We tell stories about our kids, and movies, and books, and, well, everything. Continue reading