Gracious reader,

For USA Today this morning, I wrote about how, growing up, every evening before bedtime my father would tell my brothers and I stories of his childhood.

“Tell us a story about when you were little, dad!” my brothers and I would cry in unison.

And then he’d proceed with a tall tale of some injustice he righted, a bully that he conquered—or sometimes just a story without any particular moral, but just purely for entertainment value.

Late into the evening, he’d regale us with tales of his adventures growing up in his catholic New England subculture with his two brothers and their ally Dickey Ellis, who was the butt of all the jokes—but who, despite always being under estimated, managed to emerge victorious alongside Vankevich brothers in their exploits.

They defended the vulnerable against the petty cruelty of Butch, the local bully who delighted in praying on the weak. They foiled the authoritarianism of the stern and severe Sister Maureen—who wore a ruler strapped to her belt that she used generously, and who donned jackboot like shoes that announced her presence and put fear into student’s hearts as she approached.

The morals of these stories were always implicit. Stand up for the oppressed. Question authority figures when they are being unjust. Diffuse cruelty with wit.

It was only while creating a televisual series on storytelling for Wondrium (formerly The Great Courses), called Storytelling and The Human Condition, that my father divulged a secret.

The majority of the stories he told about his upbringing didn’t actually happen.

I was stunned—and then laughed.

I realized it didn’t matter that they weren’t true.

Communicating mythic and moral truth—not only evidentiary truth—through story has been central to the human experience throughout the history of our species. What mattered to people most was that these stories offered coherent answers to their questions about where they came from, why the world was as it is, and how they should lead their life.

That is what my father’s stories did for us. We loved his stories. They taught and formed the moral map through which we see the world.

(Read more about my storytelling journey—and how I’m carrying on the tradition with my children—in my latest for USA Today, published this morning.)

The power of stories

To harness the power of stories, make sure to join us TODAY for our interdisciplinary virtual summit on storytelling with some of the greatest storytellers of our day.

We have over 3,000 people RSVP’d—and we’ve sold out once already!—but we’ve opened up a few more spots. Claim one NOW and enjoy the recording of the summit at any time.

Save your spot now!

(It begins at 12pm ET today, but registering any time today ensures you get the full recording.)

The Storytelling Animal

I’m now carrying on the storytelling tradition. My son, age three, now pleads for a story from mom every evening before bed. One of his favorites is about the Dino and the Rhino. After the Dino’s bid for friendship is rejected from the chicken, the cheetah, and the whale—each of whom claim friendship is impossible because of difference in species, ability of habitat—the Dino meets Mr. Rhino who extends unconditional friendship to his Jurassic friend despite their difference.

Storytelling is generational, and stories are an inheritance. They are how we keep our memories, tradition, wisdom, and history alive.

Stories also make us more resilient, adaptive, and psychologically flexible.

They are gifts that help us learn lessons without suffering the consequences of mistakes ourselves.

My son asks for stories time and time again. He never tires of hearing them.

Stories can transform our greatest traumas into our greatest triumphs.

We’re storytelling, and story-listening, animals from day one, and always have been.

Hope to see you today!

Warmly,

Lexi