Welcome to Lore

On the stories we tell.

One of my favorite documentaries is 2012’s Stories We Tell, by Canadian filmmaker Sarah Polley. It begins with warm and grainy Super 8 footage of various scenes: A couple on a snowy bridge, a woman throwing her head back and laughing. Within a few seconds, Polley’s father begins narrating:

“When you're in the middle of a story, it isn't a story at all, but rather a confusion, a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood … It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all, when you're telling it to yourself or someone else.”

In Stories We Tell, the documentarian turns the camera away from the typical subjects of the genre — crime, war, scandal — and turns it on herself and her family. I can’t share much more without ruining what exactly makes this film so singular. But what I can tell you is that in this process, through video footage both archival and staged and poignant interviews with her family and friends, Polley asks a simple question with heavy consequences: How does the way we tell a story — and why we tell it — change the story itself? Every time a story is told, the teller trims the fat and smooths the edges. They might even add a little something extra, just to make it pop. After a few of these alterations, maybe the story is made of different stuff entirely.

Somehow, in spite of cellphones and Instagram Stories and the AI monster, good old-fashioned storytelling has persisted. A tale told after a few drinks at the family reunion or a piece of gossip whispered around the kids’ table at Christmas soon becomes its own beast, one that only grows stronger with repetition. And in a few generations’ time, what started as a simple story is now something real, as much an heirloom as your grandma’s hope chest or your parents’ wedding portrait.

It’s lore.

I turned 30 on Saturday, and I have lore on the brain. We all have our own. Somewhere in my temporal lobe, there’s a Rolodex of my most pivotal moments, ready for me to thumb through when I need a potential friend to think I’m cool or a first date to think I’m interesting. This post about sums it up:

Twitter user trash jones always gets it.

I come from a long, prolific line of talkative women, so maybe it’s genetic. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that every time I reach into that file cabinet in my mind for a piece of lore to share, it’s not just for the person listening. It’s the way I make sense of who I am. The more I hone and tweak these stories I tell about myself and my life, the person I see in the mirror becomes sharper and more real.

That being said, Lore isn’t about me — or at least, not usually. I did more than my share of self-indulgent writing in high school, when I wrote a teen column about things like the True Meaning of Prom (talk about personal lore). Lore is, first and foremost, about other people.

Here’s the lore on Lore: In 2020, while spending another bored weekend poking around antique stores in southwestern Colorado, I found a box of photos. They sat in a hole-riddled Ziploc in my desk drawer as I moved from my studio in Telluride to my parent’s house in Ouray to three different Brooklyn apartments (Park Slope, Crown Heights, and Crown Heights again). The collection spans half a century and across the world. There are elementary school picture days, blurry candids, and European landmarks partially obstructed by an errant thumb. There are babies and elders, just-married couples and matriarchs. Some have dates and details, while others leave more to the imagination. But it’s okay, because that’s the point.

Every week, I’ll write and share a piece of short fiction inspired by these photographs. I’m going to limit myself to a few hours for each story, to really stretch my creativity and not let the pursuit of perfection stop me from progress. Other than that, I’m not sure where this will go. Maybe I’ll incorporate more of my own lore, or maybe I’ll share my writing process if that’s something you’re into. Maybe I’ll write a story for one of you! Regardless of where this little project leads me, I’m so honored you want to be here for it. It’s a privilege to have an audience of any kind, and I don’t take it for granted.

That’s all for now! Thanks for joining me on this ride. It’s time to tell some tales.