I was a child when I first heard the term empath being applied to myself and I got the feeling that it was somehow both a positive and negative label rolled into one. Yes, it was apparently wonderful that I could be so in tune with other people’s emotions but on the downside, I was then frustratingly too emotional, too sensitive. Or so I was told.

I would help my classmates with their schoolwork (probably helping too much at times), anxious that they would get in trouble if I didn’t assist or sit around with tears flowing when I would see someone walking around slowly, escorted by an aged canine companion.

For me, I simply am as I am. Throughout my childhood, whenever anything was getting too intense, too difficult to deal with, I sought solace within the pages of a book, or by succumbing to the magic of music. It astounded me that such wonderfully talented people could craft these stories, or music that could transport you to different worlds.

I have always loved music, likely a trait inherited from my dad, a definite muso, but never gained the ability to read it. To me, it was always just dots on a page, or random symbols, and although I could copy the finger placements on the recorder, or the fingering of keys on a keyboard, the language remained alien to me. I am still in awe of those that can make sense of those hieroglyphs to sight read. Along with classmates, I used to pencil in the different notes denoted by the dots decorating the staves in notebooks before us but would rather promptly grow sick of the exercise – possibly also hindered by the fact I needed glasses a lot earlier than I obtained them as I didn’t want to increase the financial burden on my family. No, for me, music was something to be created by others although I always loved singing and will still belt out a power ballad in the shower or the car.

Music and stories are magic. There is no other explanation. And while I love music, it does not have quite the same pull for me that stories and the written word do.

I have always believed that one of our greatest achievements as humans was the creation of books. The construction of amazing portals that could transport the lucky reader to far away worlds or provide the ability to walk in someone else’s shoes and gain a different perspective on life. I think now more than ever, the magic of stories is vital.

I have just finished reading the final book in the ‘The Seven Sisters’ Series by the wonderfully talented Lucinda Riley and completed the epic narrative woven around this found family with the conclusion of the series. ‘Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt’ is the final edition of this series and was written by Harry Whittaker, Lucinda’s son, who had been tasked with what must have been the daunting request to finish this story his mother had crafted, using information that she had left for him. As a writer, the thought of stepping in to someone’s story to complete the work is both heart wrenching and beautiful. We give a lot of ourselves within our writing, regardless of the story that is forming on the page and for someone else to step in and complete a story for the sake of the story and the millions of readers who have followed these characters through trials and tribulations, happiness and grief, is a blessing that should not be dismissed.

Understandably, I was blowing my nose and wiping my eyes at multiple points throughout the story, particularly during the concluding chapters. And it was while thinking of the story, letting it settle, that I thought of the amazing impact that characters can have on our lives. We’ve all carried stories within us, locked away in our hearts as we navigate our way through life. I would bet that there isn’t a person on the planet that hasn’t been deeply affected by a story, both the story and the memories of when it was first introduced. I think of parents or grandparents telling a bedtime story to a child. Strangers or families telling stories to entertain children and each other when they are faced by horrible dangers outside the refuge they’ve sought. The stories told by an older sibling to a younger, to help them navigate the interesting milestones that they face, like first days of school. Stories have shaped us and stories have protected us. Stories have told us what we have come from and where we are headed.

The universe is made of stories, not atoms.

– Muriel Rukeyser

I remember reading a copy of ‘Amanda’s Dinosaur’ written by the wonderfully talented Wendy Orr, (I still retain my original, now battered and much-loved book), and the seeds being planted within me that perhaps I too possessed this magical ability to craft a story. Throughout my formative years this thought was always scratching away at me and I delighted in applying pen to paper and jotting down random little tales or sitting around with younger siblings or friends and telling them the stories that formed before my eyes. I remember the scarlet red of my Grade 6 teachers editing pen, which, while slightly harsh taught me that first drafts are always riddled with problems which she taught me further tricks of the language.

I am happy to say that I have never outgrown my empath ways and the desire to craft stories is as strong as ever. When watching horrors unfold on the news, and in society, it is a comfort to know that I have books and stories available to me in which I can seek comfort. When stories are crafted from the heart, I believe they will always resonate with people and it is stories, passed down the generations in which we find comfort and inspiration today.

What books have brought you comfort or helped form wonderful memories?