I have a large family; large in the sense that I have several hundred cousins dispersed across Tennessee. My cousins can all trace their existence to the 1920 union of Jesse James Warren and Kim Davis Heath; together, they raised eleven kids who all lived long lives. One of the eleven, daughter number three, was my grandmother, Mamaw Estelle. The Warren clan has remained close-knit; it was, and is, a family guided by love and bonded with laughter. I have yet to meet a Warren descendant who can’t spin a good tale.
I admit, many of these homespun stories about their trials, tribulations, and random moments aren’t always true. Maybe there is some basis of truth, but years of retelling with a heavy helping of creativity have molded these stories into classics that never fail to deliver smiles intermixed with belly-rolling laughter.
Last week, a small group of Middle Tennessee cousins gathered to celebrate the release of my debut novel, Lost in the Holler. Rarely in life are you blessed with an event that grabs your heart and promises to live there for a while. Last Wednesday, I experienced one of those moments.
With history as a guide, the Warren cousins did what they do best: they told stories; as my family likes to say, “It was a hoot.”
I heard old stories retold, stories that were new to me about people I knew and loved, and modern jokes where cousins picked at each other; there were even examples where cousins told on themselves. Age has a way of providing ample fodder for funny stories; nobody there was a spring chicken.
Never shy — Warren offspring aren’t bashful — I offered my fair share of memories of the ten great aunts and uncles I remembered; I even offered untold stories of my immediate family. I have rarely felt so alive.
Four hours into the evening, I realized how much I had missed the people from my past and how that void had affected my life. Like many people, I have spent my life chasing something, often failing to slow down long enough to consider why I was pursuing the path I was on. It’s not that my past was an unpleasant experience — it wasn’t; it was simply a life designed to block a core part of who I am; a barrier protecting my pursuit of success from the distraction of personal happiness.
I am a storyteller. I have been listening to or telling stories as long as I can remember. A story that can cause laughter or tears, or both, receives my highest admiration. Stories, when told well, should elicit feelings in the receiver. They don’t have to be deep mental exercises; they can be simple in content, but they must paint a picture with their words. If you can make someone feel, you will capture their attention.
The people sitting casually around my second cousin Debbie’s family room, after years of practice, had perfected their own storytelling style; an elevated level of painting a picture. What struck me was that these stories were told to bring happiness to themselves and those in their lives; there was no other agenda.
People ask me why I write: I struggle with the answer because it sounds trite to say I write because I love to. A love that’s sourced in my desire to tell stories, and like any excellent storyteller, I like it when people enjoy my story; I can’t help it; I come from a long line of storytellers.
Read BookTrib’s review of Michael’s book, Lost in the Holler
