Once, Long Ago…

In those days, in those distant days, in those ancient nights.

So begins the epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest story we, humans, have record of.

I am struck — beyond the crushing weight of knowledge that no matter how far back our records extend to the past, there nevertheless exists, even then, the understanding that there are times prior to that, such a body of history, such a weight of before that the ancient Sumerians considered it “those distant days” — by how formulaic the phrase is.

Some version of this exists to kick off any variety of folktale you care to choose. Once upon a time. A long, long time ago, beyond the mountains, beyond the forest. Once, long ago. Once there was, once there wasn't, but once there was all the same. In the beginning.

So common as to be considered trite, even a little bit gauche. 

And that, my friends, is how long we’ve been telling each other stories. So long that even a 4,000-year-old poem has a standardized intro.

Let’s go back even further. 40,000 years ago, before agriculture, before almost anything, really, early humans — despite hunger and cold and danger outside in the deep, devouring dark — painted in caves. They daubed the shapes of animals onto stone, telling, in their own way, the stories of hopes and fears and dangers and desires.

And despite the evolution of media and distribution methods over the course of tens of thousands of years, despite shortened attention spans in defiance of greater free time, we are still telling stories.

Why, though? Why do we do this? To what end? Entertainment? To pass the time?

I don’t think so. Those Ice Age humans didn’t waste time and calories on non-essentials. They needed every moment of every day to stay that precarious half-a-step ahead of starvation or some other manner of ignominious death.

These days, we have a better understanding of the science that goes on under the hood about all of this. We know that our brains light up the same way when we do a thing as when we just hear a story about doing it. We know, historically, that the people who have held the greatest amount of power, from priests to politicians, have been the ones who told the most compelling stories. We know which story elements in which order are most pleasing to most people. We know the significant role emotions play in decision-making. We know that we use, and have always used, stories to teach lessons and pass on knowledge.

But what we have here is simply a collection of facts. It’s just data points about neurotransmitters and learning methods. We know that stories are important. 

But that doesn’t explain why we’re like this. It doesn’t explain the impetus for an Ice Age human to spend the time painting walls when they, arguably, should have been hunting or gathering or, hell, sleeping. It doesn’t explain why it’s more effective to put important information in a story than simply a list of dos and don’ts. Only that it is.

And I don’t know why, either. Maybe someone has cracked the code, or will, on what it is about humans that makes us this way. Maybe it’s some evolutionary fragment leftover in our DNA.

It doesn’t really matter why, ultimately. At this point, figuring it out is just a means of personal edification. Knowing a thing simply so that you can know it.

What actually matters — to me, anyway — is that, on some fundamental level, we need stories. They burn inside of us so brightly that we would risk death itself to tell them, to have them told to us. Whatever magic it is that threads through a story, it must surely be powerful stuff that the same story could be feared and forbidden while also cherished and preserved.

Say what you will about Pat Rothfuss — I certainly have, on occasion — but he shared a deep wisdom when he wrote, “All stories are true.” 

I believe this to the marrow of my bones. All stories are true.

“But, Jen!” I can already hear you say. “It’s only non-fiction that’s true! Everything else is just made up! Lies! It isn’t real!”

(You are a bit worked up in my imagination. Apologies.)

Ah, but what makes a story real? If I read a book that breaks my heart, or warms it, until I weep from the exquisite agony of it all, isn’t it real? It certainly felt real enough to me. My pulse raced. My breath quickened. I ached and laughed and gossiped about it with my sister. I laid that story upon my breast as I would my own children, where it warmed me, shielded me. It whispered in my ear that I am not alone. That the world may be harsh, but not without its own beauty. That I, too, can be mighty, can be better, can be enough. 

How is that not real? Why would I want it not to be?

So yes. All stories are true, after a fashion. Some of them even actually happened.

And if our collective ancestors could tweak Death’s nose to tell them, well, I can keep telling them, too. And I can think of far worse things to be obsessive about.