Once, a little boy was given a book by a friend of his father’s, who thought it was cute that a ten-year-old liked big books without pictures in them.
The boy had ready many books until then, but this one was special. It had a serious story, but it was funny, too. It had footnotes, which the boy had never seen before in a fun book, only in his father’s boring textbooks. And the story was weird, too. Familiar, but making fun of it. As if the person telling the story was talking about the story, as well. Making fun of it, but also telling the boy why it was good, and why it was important.
As he read it, the boy started to think about stories. He had always liked telling stories, lots of them. Since kindergarden, really. But he’d never really paid much attention to them, as stories. Just tales to be made up and told, or retold after he heard or read them.
That boy began to write, and think about the writing, and the stories he told. And now he’s become man who writes novels, and does what he can to help others think about stories and write them, too.
All that, because of a book called Mort.