My grandmother never talked about her daughter and her tragic death at the age of 24. My mother never mentioned her sister. I only knew about her because, apparently, I looked like her, and I was often called Jo after Aunt Josephine, instead of my real name. My father wasn’t so shy to talk about the events following her tragic death, though he didn’t share his interpretations until after both my grandmother and my mother had passed away. “It was a murder,” he declared. “I’m sure of it.” And that became part of his story, an unsolved family murder. Little stories surround us and they can make a big impact on our creativity. Where do we look? How do we find these gems of stories? You don’t have to look very far. In fact, the best resource is your ears – listen.

Growing up, I remember the very lively family suppers around the table – yes, we did that back then, sat and talked and enjoyed each other’s company instead of rushing off to a game or a rehearsal or zoning out in front of a stupid phone. (I know, they’re called smart phones, but I prefer to call them stupid phones, because, when you think of it, these devices do make the users quite stupid!) Our mealtimes were full of stories about the day's events or, in Dad’s case, stories based on a strange dream he had the night before. Stories were told in real words (not acronyms that we use in texting) with real sentences. Being the youngest, I found it difficult to get a word in edgewise, so I sat, ate my meal, and listened. The stories that were shared! And the stories I wrote down later.

One story I particularly remember is the one my mother told of her difficult journey to school that day (she was studying to be a teacher). The weather was abysmal and the only bus stop was about a mile from the college. She had to walk against the sharp cold wind, snow whipping in her face, and she was drenched by the time she arrived for her first class of the day. She told the story with such passion. I knew I had to write it down. I did. I was so proud of my accomplishment, I couldn’t wait to show it to Mom. She was not amused, sadly. Tired and frustrated from a long day, she trashed my story and told me I didn’t know what I was talking (or writing) about. I think I did know, as I wrote it the way she told it at the supper table. I was upset, but the good thing that did come from the experience is that a few weeks later, Mom took me to my first writer’s workshop and we shared a full day, learning some writing techniques. Stories we share, stories we hear, and stories we read about in various media reports, are stories that make up our history and become the backbone of both our fiction and our creative nonfiction stories.