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"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say."
~Flannery O'Conner
"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say."
~Flannery O'Conner
“Page One” was the inaugural event of Writers Club, a gathering of aspiring storytellers eager to unlock the magic of words. My mission? To remind everyone, myself included, why stories matter, and why we should write them—while having fun along the way, of course.
I kicked off the event by telling everyone about how my own love affair with stories began, and, as it often does, it started when I was young.
One particular Saturday morning, a five-year-old me was rudely awakened by a tug-of-war on my blankets. "Kuya!" my brother's voice boomed, laced with an urgency reserved for house fires. "Lion King!" Sleep-heavy and sporting a questionable amount of drool, I stumbled into the living room just as the iconic sunrise scene unfolded on the screen.
From that moment, I was hooked. As children, stories weren't mere entertainment; they were our introduction to the world. Fables like the Three Little Pigs weren't just cautionary tales; they were metaphors for life, teaching resilience and planning through captivating narratives. Bedtime stories, woven by parents, were gentle warnings about trusting strangers, disguised as tales of gingerbread houses and cunning witches. Grandparents, repositories of wisdom, shared heartwarming stories of unlikely friendships and the power of kindness, stories like the spider who saved the pig.
These narratives weren't just fleeting moments; they were the building blocks of our moral compass and understanding of the world. And stories, as it turns out, never truly leave us. They morph and evolve alongside us. News articles, video games, even the carefully curated social media posts we meticulously share – all contribute to the grand narrative of our lives. We are no longer passive consumers of stories, but active contributors, shaping the world around us with every word we type and image we post.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
"With great power comes great responsibility."
This ability to craft and share narratives carries immense responsibility. As a wise superhero once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." The stories we tell, the narratives we weave, have the power to influence and shape perceptions.
Thinking back to that captivated six-year-old, enthralled by the Lion King, a particular scene comes to mind. Simba, wrestling with self-doubt, encounters his father's spirit. Mufasa's voice echoes, a timeless truth: "Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life." These words are not just a call to self-discovery, but an invitation to embrace the power we hold as storytellers.
Eager faces met my gaze as I concluded my presentation. I finished with a question, the same one that resonated with me when Simba ascended Pride Rock:
"What is your place in the circle of life?"
"What is your place in the circle of life?"
A round of applause washed over the room, and I hoped the question hadn't triggered any existential dread. Capitalizing on the energy, I launched into a warm-up exercise called "Word Relay.” The activity was designed to help everyone prime their brains for maximum creative output for the main event: Six Word Stories.
The game's mechanics were simple: each person added a word or two to a collaborative narrative. Let's just say, my crystal ball was a little foggy on this one. I was picturing a cohesive, heartwarming tale of overcoming adversity, but the story took a sharp left turn into a fever dream involving a sausage, a hole of a pan, and Sekmeht. You can see the "masterpiece" below.
After that, I armed everyone with sticky notes, pens and a prompt: Capture an entire narrative in just six words. The café became a warzone of people brainstorming and pen scribbling as everyone dispered into their own crew of three or four.
Next, armed with sticky notes, pens, and a single prompt—"Capture an entire narrative in six words"—the room transformed. The cafe buzzed with brainstorming and the frantic scribbling of pens as participants huddled in small groups. As the completed sticky notes found their way onto a grid on the table, I was genuinely impressed. The results were nothing short of remarkable. I read each story aloud, some sparking laughter—"Break a leg, for real. Please."—while others evoked a quiet contemplation: "Challenge Accepted. Achievement Unlocked. What now?" There was even a simple gem like, "Pirate Children. Learn Vodoo. Hilarity ensues." These stories were a testament to the power of language, proving that even the most concise form can evoke a universe of emotions.
"Page One" wasn't the end of a chapter, but rather the beginning. It was a celebration of stories, a reminder of their power, and an invitation to embrace the storyteller within. As we closed the session, the room buzzed not just with the initial excitement, but with the shared anticipation for the stories yet to be written
Access the Presentation here:
Access the Presentation here:
Read the transcript here:
Read the transcript here:
Today, I am going to talk about why stories matter and why you should write them.
My first encounter with a story—as early as I could remember—came in the form of an animated film titled “The Lion King.”
One Saturday morning, when I was about five, I was awakened by a not-so-gentle tugging on my feet. "Kuya!" my younger brother shouted, "Lion King!" His words barely registered, so I simply nudged him off the bed and rolled over, wanting more sleep. That's when I heard the film's iconic, bombastic intro emanating from the Living Room.[Scream].
I jumped off my bed so fast and bolted to the living room to see the very first frame of the film: an orange sun rising over the African savanna. Never mind if I still had gunk on my eyes or a streak of crusty dried saliva was staining my cheeks or my breath smelled like something died in it, I sat on the floor, in front of our Chunky CRT TV and watched.
When we were children, the world was introduced to us in the form of stories. These tales—spoken, read or acted out—weren't just distractions or bedtime routines. They carried with them values, morals and beliefs.
Our teachers, the early shapers of our minds, taught us the importance of planning, resilience, and being smart. They did not resort to complex theories or abstract concepts. Instead, they told us the fable of the diligent pig who built a house of bricks, a fortification that stood strong against the huffing and puffing of a big bad wolf. This story served as a metaphor for life itself, emphasising that proper planning and smart decisions could protect us from the adversities that life might throw our way.
Our parents, the guardians of our innocence and naivete, warned us about the dangers of trusting strangers. They recited the cautionary tale of siblings who—tempted by the sweet allure of a gingerbread house—found themselves in the clutches of a wicked witch. It was a gentle reminder that we should exercise caution in unfamiliar territories—and also that too much sugar is bad for your health.
Our grandparents, the repositories of wisdom and experience, imparted to us the value of friendship and kindness. They weaved the heartwarming story of a spider that went to great lengths to save a pig. This tale taught us that friendship wasn't about size or power, but about kindness, loyalty, and the willingness to help others in times of need.
These are just a few of the countless stories that were etched into our young minds. They served as the building blocks, the first bricks laid in the construction of our beliefs, values, and morals, which would eventually help shape our understanding of the world and our place within it.
Stories continue to accompany us as we grow up. Some of us may no longer read children's tales or watch animated movies, but narratives remain a significant part of our lives, albeit in different forms. They could appear as newspaper articles, video games, or the wildly-controversial-but-still-beloved form: gossip.
In this era of digital connectivity, we constantly engage in the act of storytelling through our digital footprints. Every picture we carefully curate and post on our social media grids, every comment we leave on our friends' posts, and even the bizarre videos we capture of our pets all contribute to the grand narrative that we are continually constructing. Whether we acknowledge it or not, we have transitioned from being passive spectators of the world's stories to active contributors, narrators, shaping the story of our lives and the world around us with each action we take.
This ability to create and share narratives, to influence and shape perceptions, is a power that has been bestowed upon each one of us, whether we sought it or not. As the famous quote by a renowned superhero reminds us, “With great power, comes great responsibility.” It is our duty to use this narrative power mindfully, understanding the potential impact our stories can have in the world around us.
Returning to my six-year-old self, sitting on the floor and captivated by talking animated cats, I recall climax of "The Lion King." When Simba faced his father's ghost, we were reminded of the timeless truth in Mufasa's words: "Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life." In the echoes of Mufasa's words, we find not only a call for self-discovery but also an invitation to shoulder the responsibility of shaping our own destiny.
With that in mind, I pose the same question to you that I asked myself when Simba finally took his place atop Pride Rock: "What is your place in the circle of life?”
Now that you have mulled over that question, we can now start the activity for today. Today, we are creating a six word story. Six word story is pretty self-explanatory, its a story written in six words. One famous six word story was written by Hemingway. It goes as: "For sale: baby shoes. Never worn." Hemingway created a story so succinct, it created intrigue and ambiguity at the same time. I want you to do the same.
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