A story is not like a road to follow … it’s more like a house. You go inside and stay there for a while, wandering back and forth and settling where you like and discovering how the room and corridors relate to each other, how the world outside is altered by being viewed from these windows. And you, the visitor, the reader, are altered as well by being in this enclosed space, whether it is ample and easy or full of crooked turns, or sparsely or opulently furnished. You can go back again and again, and the house, the story, always contains more than you saw the last time. It also has a sturdy sense of itself of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you.
― Alice Munro, Selected Stories

“Why is Mom just sitting in her car?” my daughter once asked her dad. Having just returned from a work meeting (a 10-hour round trip) I was idling in the driveway, desperate to finish my book on Audible. In the past, I’d actually driven around the block several times to finish chapters, but on this particular night, I really didn’t care who saw me or questioned my time in the driveway. The book was that good. It was–as Alice Munro writes–a house that was opulently furnished, a magnificent, magnanimous shelter from the grind of 500 monotonous miles and countless cups of gas station coffee.

I would be a great story realtor. I have so many houses to show you, I’d say. Then, I’d guide you through all the rooms, stopping to view the world outside through their windows, commenting on the furnishings and foundations. You’d want to stay awhile, to give yourself to each experience, to return again and again. And the best part is that I wouldn’t even charge commission; I’d just do it for the love of it.

English author Sir Philip Pullman claims that [a]fter nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world. I’d go so far as to say that often stories are the best nourishment, shelter, and companionship. At least, they’ve been all this for me. I’ve inhabited lives and worlds that nourished me in ways that my real life and world couldn’t; I’ve sheltered with characters who provided fine companionship. And when these stories ended, I grieved the loss of such friends and their worlds. I’ve sought out their sequels and eagerly checked to see if Netflx renewed their series. For there’s not much that is lonelier than the white space at the end of a good book or the silence after a movie’s credits have rolled. I always find myself lamenting that there isn’t just one more chapter, one more scene.

For the last week, I’ve been listening to Madeline Martin’s novel, The Last Bookshop in London. Inspired by the true history of the few surviving bookstores in WWII London. Martin’s protagonist, Grace Bennett, works at the Primrose Hill Bookshop by day and reads to fellow Brits in the bomb shelters at night. As the Blitz rages on, Grace reads through one novel after another, transporting them all from the horrors of war to the English countryside and cozy drawing rooms, to times and places far removed from the Nazis’ reach. There have been so many times when good stories have taken me out of some dark places in my life. As I’ve read, viewed or listened, I’ve been swept from my own troubles; I’ve been given a front row seat to others’ trials and tribulations, loves and losses. This respite–escape, if you will–has been invaluable and worth far more than the price of a book or movie rental. And if I had to live through a Blitz, I’d like to think that I’d be a Grace Bennett, paying it forward with the best stories I could find, raising my voice against the chaos and destruction.

For me, there’s nothing grander than reading aloud. I love the rhythms and sounds of good stories, the way they ebb and flow, build and drop, leaving audiences breathless. This is perhaps the thing I miss most about teaching, for I often read aloud from great texts, so that the language could do its magic, pulling students into stories they may have never read. For years, I fantasized about becoming an Audible reader when I retired. I could think of no work more glorious than reading aloud (if this could ever be considered work!) But having become an Audible aficianado, I’m painfully aware of the qualifications for such roles, which include, but aren’t limited to, being able to read with a variety of accents–French, Spanish, German, Russian, etc.–as well as in a variety of dialects. Outside of a strong Midwestern twang, I’m sorely lacking. So, I’ve decided to leave it to the professionals who are truly wonderful at bringing characters and stories to life.

In John Connolly’s novel, The Book of Lost Things, he writes:

Stories come alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no existence in our world. They were like seeds in the beak of a bird, waiting to fall to earth. Or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet, yearning for an instrument to bring their music into being. They lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge. Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life.

If stories need to be read, we also need to read them. If they want us to give them life, we also want them to give us lives we don’t have and never will have. If they lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge, we, too, lay dormant, hoping for the kind of transformations that the best stories bring us.

One of the greatest gifts of retirement is the time for more stories. I generally have a print book, a Kindle book, and an Audible book going at the same time. Lest I be a glutton, I limit my Audible books to driving and working out on the elliptical machine. Otherwise, I’d burn through them too quickly and have to take a part-time job to fund my Audible addiction. Because when it comes to books, I have been gluttonous in the past. I actually walked into a parked car in the school parking lot when I was trying to read and walk simultaneously, to squeeze in a few more glorious pages before work. Blessedly, it was early enough in the day that no students–and only a couple teachers–had arrived. My pride was intact for another day, and I’d successfully gotten to the end of a crucial chapter. Gluttony does have its rewards.

In her novel, The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy writes:

The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in.

I can’t count the number of times I reread the Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton series when I was a teen. Of course, I knew how each book ended. I even knew the smart outfits Nancy Drew would don as she solved each mystery! But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I wanted to read these stories again because they truly were as familiar as the house I lived in, a place I could inhabit comfortably. There’s something to be said about this kind of comfort and familiarity, particularly when the world outside is so chaotic and unpredictable. When the world is spinning out of control, you can just inhabit a great story, a snug home with a hearth by which to warm yourself.

My love for stories is so great that I’ve become choosy about the television series and movies I watch. If there’s only one season, or the movie is only 75 minutes long, I’ll generally pass. I want an eight-season series, an epic film of several hours, a story that I can really sink my teeth into. I want to feel as though the characters are my friends and acquaintances, to revel in their triumphs and weep at their losses. I know that these stories will end. But the journeys to get there–the rising action and conflicts, the crises and resolutions–are so worth it. I may have grieved (for days) when Downton Abbey came to an end, but I don’t regret a minute of the journey. Now, if Julian Fellows would just renew it, I’d do a happy dance the likes of which you’ve never seen!

So bring on the stories! Let them be read, viewed, and heard. Let them carry us beyond our ordinary days, beyond our dark times, beyond uncertainty and fear into worlds both familiar and unfamiliar. For as novelist Cormac McCarthy writes:

Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name. The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place. [The Crossing]