How Stories Shape Our World: Reflections from ‘Solo Agers’
There’s this moment I keep coming back to, a memory that reminds me just how deeply a story can shape our understanding of life. I’m eight years old, and my mother is looking at me—really looking at me—while telling me about her addiction. In that instant, the safe, familiar world I thought I knew cracked open. I glimpsed something raw, human, and complicated behind her eyes. I didn’t have the language then to explain how that truth hit me, but it planted a seed of empathy that would grow over time. It taught me that every story—no matter how painful—can open your heart and shift your perspective.
Years later, when I first saw The Matrix, something clicked into place again. That film introduced me to the idea that reality can have layers, that the world we navigate is more flexible and mysterious than we imagine. It was a wild fusion of philosophy, religion, and sci-fi wrapped in a narrative that dared me to question everything. Stories can do that: they nudge us beyond our comfort zones, challenge our assumptions, and ask us to consider possibilities we never saw coming.
I carried these lessons into the writing of Solo Agers. Crafting this novella confronted me with my own doubts and forced me to face uncomfortable truths—about aging, isolation, and how our society values human beings. I found myself asking: How will we handle the day when there are more of us growing old alone, without traditional family structures to lean on? How do we respond when the systems we rely on begin to falter, and people who’ve worked their whole lives slip through the cracks?
Putting these questions into a story wasn’t just an intellectual exercise. It felt more like rolling up my sleeves, getting in the dirt, and wrestling with something that mattered deeply to me. Along the way, I discovered that readers come to stories from vastly different angles. When I shared early drafts with others, some embraced my older female protagonist—admiring her strength and resolve—while others scoffed, questioning how a 65-year-old woman could possibly command such narrative territory. Their reactions said as much about their own beliefs and biases as they did about my characters. In that sense, my story became a mirror, revealing both what we find inspiring and what we stubbornly refuse to accept.
This is the quiet but profound influence of storytelling. Novels, films, and even simple anecdotes can whisk us into unfamiliar worlds, allowing us to inhabit the lives of people we might otherwise overlook. Historically, the written word broke social barriers, letting those in power catch a glimpse of the lives beneath them—leading, over centuries, to seeds of empathy and democratic ideals. Today, stories remain vital because they don’t just state facts; they draw us into the emotions, struggles, and hopes of others, fostering understanding where ignorance might prevail.
Of course, there’s a fine line between guiding a reader’s perspective and pushing an agenda. When writing Solo Agers, I realized that authenticity matters more than any grand statement I might want to make. Readers can sense if you’re preaching at them, and the best stories don’t browbeat; they whisper, they suggest, they invite. To keep it real, I had to acknowledge my own biases—my personal lens as a man writing an older female protagonist, my preconceived notions about how the world works—and let my characters breathe on their own terms.
In a world drowning in information—headlines clamoring for attention, social media feeds scrolling endlessly—a story that matters is like a compass. It cuts through the static because it addresses something essential: our need to understand ourselves and each other. It might reveal a hidden truth, challenge a comfortable lie, or shine a light on a future we didn’t know we needed to consider. When I researched for Solo Agers, talking with doctors and psychologists, I wanted to ground the narrative in real, pressing concerns. To me, that’s how storytellers earn trust: by showing we’ve done our homework, that we’re not just spinning fantasies but engaging honestly with the world’s complexity.
The truth is, our storytelling traditions have always evolved. Oral epics, ancient myths, classic literature—they adapted as societies changed and as new voices demanded to be heard. Today, our culture is in flux, and stories become anchors, helping us rediscover our bearings. As religious faith wanes for some, as technology redefines relationships, as we struggle to find common ground, stories remind us that we’re not alone. They say, “Hey, someone else has felt what you’re feeling, thought what you’re thinking, and dared to dream differently.”
Do we as authors and creators bear a responsibility for shaping society through our narratives? Sure, but we can’t police how everyone interprets our work. What we can do is approach our craft with care, honesty, and respect. We can commit to exploring truth rather than spreading harm. Stories carry immense potential for both illumination and deception, and choosing the former is part of our moral compass as artists.
Looking forward, I expect the power of storytelling to grow even more essential. As the future becomes less predictable, we’ll cling to narratives that help us make sense of who we are and where we’re headed. I hope my work, including Solo Agers, can serve as a modest lighthouse—a way for readers, now and decades from now, to navigate the uncertain seas of societal change.
So, I invite you to consider the stories that have shaped your world. Which ones opened your eyes to new truths, and which ones made you question what you knew? My guess is that those moments stuck with you, not because you agreed or disagreed with the story, but because it moved something inside you. That’s what storytelling does—it moves us, reorients us, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, helps us see each other with a kinder, clearer gaze.
