Discover Why We STILL Tell Stories

From the moment I learned to read, and even before that, I was drawn to stories. During my highschool years in Bucharest, between chemical formulas and physical vectors, I would write about fictional characters and dreamed locations. The legends and folktales of Romania’s past influenced my tales—the same narratives I had heard as a child, the same words that had stoked my passion for writing stories.

That affection has never diminished. My work today is driven by an unquenchable curiosity about the humans and even the dogs who have lived through the ages. What roused them? What kinds of terrain did they traverse? What smells permeated the air they inhaled? These are the details I aim to find, whether via research, travel, or just following the whispers of the past. From medieval Sighișoara to the obscure nooks and crannies of history, I love exploring buried hints, unheard voices, and unwritten tales yearning to be discovered.

Why do we do this, write stories? What drives us to write about remote locations or our backyard, and about fabulous adventures or the mundane?

The reason for this could be that stories are more than just words on paper. They are windows into the spirits of our ancestors, echoes of the past and also links to understanding. Stories help us recognize patterns and thus understand the world around.

I write because, even after being forgotten, these stories will still have a say.

The Evolution of Storytelling: Once Upon a Cave Painting

The first documented cave drawings appeared more than 100,000 years ago, during the Paleolithic; they are quiet reminders of a period when mankind was developing its voice.

For instance, the civilizations that flourished in Transylvania left behind cultural artifacts like the horse cave drawings from Cuciulat, near the Someș River, in the northwest of Romania. According to the narrative told by these cave paintings, the men of Transylvania were hunters and fishermen who fished in the region’s many rivers during the brief summer months. They carried weapons while the women took care of their small family, collected fruits and wild herbs. They lived in cave-sheltered tee-pees. Their life stories remained painted on chilly stone walls.

By reading their painted stories now we can also learn that horses were plentiful and significant, possibly used as tools, weapons (their bones), shelter, clothing, and sustenance (their meat).

However, the stories we tell today are much more complex, combining meaning, imagination and emotions in ways that go beyond simple survival.

What changed?

Was it the emergence of curiosity, the drive to comprehend not only the environment we live in but also how we fit into it? Maybe it was the creative spark, the first time someone crafted a story not only to educate but also to amuse, to uplift, to make sense of the unknowable. Or was it our command of language that enabled us to transcend basic instructions and cautions?

As humans evolved, so did our stories. They grew richer, carrying whispers of gods and spirits, legends of great battles and dreams of love and adventure. They became more than just tools for survival—they became the very fabric of our cultures, the foundation of civilizations, the invisible thread connecting generations. From the flickering firelight of ancient caves to the boundless pages of modern literature, our stories have shaped us just as we have shaped them.

Words, the Architects of Thoughts

Because of our exceptionally sophisticated language, humans are the only animals that can create symbolic narratives about imagined events. Not only did our brains enhance our ability to communicate about the past and present, but they also opened up a world of possibilities, enabling us to imagine other realities, envision unrealized futures, and create imaginary worlds. Our stories become more than just descriptions thanks to our ability to utilize words metaphorically; they become potent vehicles for metaphor and meaning. You understand right away that I mean innocence when I bring up “To Kill a Mockingbird,” emphasizing the idea of defending the weak against injustice. “Animal Farm” symbolizes the issue of corruption in power systems and serves as a representation of a political system. “The Hunger Games” will bring not only a strong girl to mind, but also a human society under the control of a corrupt government. Likewise, when you read about a young lion reclaiming his kingdom, you understand that the story is not just about a battle for a throne, but about growth, responsibility, and the journey to find one’s true place in the world.

Storytelling is more than just an advanced use of language—it is a hallmark of what makes us human. While many animals communicate and some even exhibit rudimentary imagination, their abilities remain limited. Their creativity never surpassed that of a young child. Unlike dolphins inventing new tricks for rewards or rats mentally mapping maze routes to reach a treat their imaginative play served no purpose beyond social bonding.

Yet children are great storytellers by instinct. They weave entire worlds from nothing, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary with just their imagination. Object substitution is only the beginning—a spoon becomes a telephone, a cardboard box a pirate ship. They don’t just pretend; they create narratives, entire realities that unfold around them. A blanket draped over chairs becomes a secret hideout. One moment they are shopkeepers selling goods; the next, astronauts navigating unknown space paths or even animals, barking, roaring or galloping across the room. Stuffed animals hold conversations, their voices brought to life through play. This kind of storytelling is not about survival or immediate rewards—it is about possibility, about stepping into new roles, shaping new worlds, and experiencing realities that exist only in the imagination.

Because when humans tell stories, we craft allegories embedding deeper meanings within our narratives. We do more than recount events or describe places—we convey ideas, lessons and emotions. Thus, “One Hundred Years of Solitude” explores the cyclical nature of history and the isolation that plagues generations. “Macbeth” serves as a cautionary tale about the consuming nature of unchecked ambition. “Gone with the Wind” reflects on the loss of a bygone era while also reminding us that resilience and hope can always be found in the promise of a new day.

At their heart, our stories serve the same purpose as the survival signals of other creatures. They teach us how to navigate the world—whom to trust, what to fear, and which paths may lead to success or ruin. They shape our choices, guiding us toward acceptance and warning against missteps. But storytelling is more than just a means of survival; it is a reflection of the teller. Just as a bee’s dance reveals the location of nectar it has discovered, our stories are shaped by personal experience, offering lessons through the filter of individual perspective. In the end, storytelling is not just a skill—it is an instinct, a survival tool and perhaps the very essence of what makes us human.

Chasing Immortality One Story at a Time

The reason we keep telling stories in spite of the weight of those that have already been told is their silent persistence. We don’t only rely on the ones that have previously been written and circulated so widely in our communities that they have taken on the status of independent symbols. In order for others to comprehend who we are and the world from our distinct perspectives, we tell stories. We use them to express ourselves and to connect with others. We put our aspirations and desires into words and then spread them about, seeking out others who have similar goals.

We tell stories even when we are alone. We tell them to ourselves. In the stillness, we speak in stories. Each one, no matter how small, births another—a new thread in the ever-expanding weave, reaching out, finding its place among others who, too, seek connection. The act of writing stretches through the years linking us across time, space and the quiet currents of shared understanding.

Even those stories yet to be spoken, like the ancient drawings etched on cave walls, are crafted with the quiet hope that someday, someone will uncover the thoughts left behind and glimpse who we were. They form a bridge not just to others, but to a future where our words may ripple across time, speaking truths long left unsaid, offering pieces of ourselves for those who will, one day, find them.