I put off reading Where the Crawdads Sing for far too long. I’m not sure why. Everyone said I would love it. Everyone was reading it. But I put it off and put it off. When I finally did read it, I loved it. Just like everyone said I would.
It appears I have done it again. I started reading The Book Thief this week. It’s hardly new. In fact the movie based on it came out in 2013. (I haven’t seen that either.) And I am smitten. It is beautiful.
I will likely watch the movie once I finish the book, but I cannot imagine the story without the narrator. To me, the beauty in the story lies completely and totally with the narrator. His skill with language. His ability to talk right to me. His recognition that “the people left behind” have stories worth telling. And his love for the girl.
Did I mention that the narrator is Death? And again I am smitten.
There is something about a really good story that moves me. But there is something about a really good narrator, the ability to share someone else’s story, that moves me even more.
It got me thinking about our own stories.
I am a passionate advocate for telling your story. It’s hard to imagine someone who blogs who isn’t. Each of us has experiences and perspectives and stories that need to be told. Sometimes we share our stories ourself, but sometimes we get the joy and the honor and the responsibility to tell someone else’s story.
Tell it well.
I want to be the kind of person that shines a light on others. I want to be the kind of person who is looking for stories to be told. I want to be the kind of person who others trust with their ideas and their perspectives, and I want to put those things out there for the world to see.
I have a long way to go, but Death reminded me this week that narrating a story well is a worthy goal.