I have been thinking of the title of my new essay for a long time, until I read the book of Garcia Marquez, Vivre Para Contarla. It’s not really his best book, but I can see ingenuity in it. As an autobigraphy book, VPC is not thorough and deep enough, not for his obsessive reader. However, the title of book, seduced me to complete it. I like the idea of telling story, wether it’s true or fictional. The way of absorbing a story and translating it into mysterious fairy tale always remind of the magic, or wizard that I dreamed of. Like I have the power to make a protagonist and an adventure at the same time. It’s not because of my pathetic life needs a second me to satisfy my vanity, though I enjoy to be one of my heroes. For me it’s a passage, through which I can find a way to negotiate with the outside world. My story could be half true and half make-up, but the feelings is genuine, without any literary conceits. There is something about me I never talked of, even to my best friend. And I find it not easy for me to write it down, not in Chinese. A story, perfect combination of true feelings and artistic creation, only can be read and comprehended by sensitive intelligent person, to whom I can actually talk.

My family are full of good story tellers. My grandma, in her youth(or mid-age) was a vigorous woman, whose head was filled up with countless folk tales. One of her favorite thing is to gather a crowd of children and threaten them with ghost and beast story. But we never get scared, more than less, we would burst into laughter after the story ends and ask for more. And she would chase us away because she always has business to do. My father, not like his mother, preferred to talk jokes. He got a sense of humor, and spared no effort to spring it to his two children. In that windless and burning hot summer night, we lay in the floor with the front door and back door open to let in any fresh air, my papa would allure us with his classical opening, “ Do you want to hear a story about XX”. He wouldn’t start the story until my brother and I begged three more time. The story is always about this laughter-bag. He is so idiot that he can’t make himself less of fool. Some stories would be repeated a few days later and I began to suspect that my papa was the story maker. But I better not to tell him that I found his lies. It was a super happy moment that I had in my childhood, the only thing that makes me less angry to him. My brother, inherited from my father, is born to be an excellent story teller. He never talks folk tale, in the contrary, every story is about himself and his friends. He is way more better than my father in telling stories. The ordinary school life can be adventurous and dangerous and full of gang fight and police bad guy issue when it’s come out from him. I know deep in his heart he is a temperate while he depicted himself? as a reckless boy. He is good at dramatizing his experience with something he learnt from gang books and films. But still, his story doesn’t seem childish to me. I can hardly find any contradiction in it even though sometimes I think it’s over exaggerating. I owe him an Oscar award.

I, too, was a good story teller. I like to read books when I was a pre-school girl, which really helped me to win the hearts of little foolish girls when I transported those stories, with my creative add-ins, to them. I bet they don’t even know that ninety percent of the stories comes from my litter brain. And now I has become a professional liar.

I like telling stories because it’s a way to let people know me, but not the wholly true me. I can disguise myself as a prosperous young lady, with a hidden secret, however. That secret could be mine, while no one will connect me with her. We are not a slight alike, after all. That’s the glamour of telling story, no plain life progress, no sniff around about scandals. We can be totally honest with each other.

I remember there was a movie Hugo, which is about the movie maker, they called as dream maker. A story teller is dream maker, too. I’d like to make dreams for adults and children, only if they can share the fragments of happy moments with me.

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