This is a story 100% created by me. I guess I just wrote it to motivate people to write. It's message? Well, if you don't get it, write a story and you'll se what I mean.
A long time ago, there was a storyteller. Though his name was lost to the ages, his stories were known far and wide. Though he had everything a person could ever want, he eventually passed away. Though he did not live forever, his stories did. His son, who looked up to his father, made more copies of the books, hoping that people would remember his father. Time passed, and almost everyone living in their land owned at least some of the writer's books. But, one day the son, now a grown man, went to a schoolhouse, and read some of the stories to the students. To his dismay, they did not seem to care about the author. He read them to people everywhere, and they all loved the books. But they did not seem to love the author. The son tried and tried, for the rest of his life. But to no avail. Sitting in his study, one day, as an old man, he was wondering sadly why the people did not love the author, when a theory popped into his head. Although the books were not about the author, his heart was in every single story. And, he thought, maybe the stories were the author, and the author was his stories. Maybe, the old man thought, his father was still alive in spirit. The people remembered. And anyone who writes is remembered, if the stories are remembered. And, if there is a reader, like you all, then the author lives on.
