The Magic of Storytelling

The day was dark and stormy. I was twenty-nine, broke and trying on a brown-checked rayon-blend suit from Ross for my job interview the next morning. A stack of law school applications nearly blocked the single palm tree I could see through the iron bars of my garden-level window. The answering machine beeped, and I heard the caller say, “Hi, this is Sheri from Manpower. Good news! I have another interview for you tomorrow as a junior associate receptionist II at Fast Legal. Don’t be late, and do you have time to cut your hair?”

It was the summer of 1999, and I had just earned a master’s degree in literature. I looked in the mirror and held out a strand of my wavy brown-blond hair. It was springy, lively and seemed to catch the sunlight like a prism. This hair, like me, had never worn a style well, and for some reason, the thought of cutting it inspired a moment that would change my life.

Still wearing the $15.99 brown suit, I got in my car and drove through the rain to my favorite place in the world: the art store. When I walked through the door, the smell of oil paint made my mouth water. I felt like a dieter walking past Cinnabon; it had been way too long since I had allowed myself the luxury of painting. I grabbed a cart and threw in fat bristle brushes, sticky jars of stand oil and tubes of Red Lake, Brilliant Blue, Cadmium Yellow, Green-Gold and Light Blue Violet. I added a canvas so big I had to leave the hatch open to get it home.

That night I painted a 48" × 48" (122cm × 122cm) scene of a giant bird holding a little girl under its wing. They were surrounded by an enormous Marc Chagall-like sun and set above a beachy landscape. When I put down my paintbrush, it was 8 a.m. My hair was sticking up in a dozen different directions, and the Ross suit was covered with splotches of drippy paint.

There were two more messages on the machine from Sheri, but I called my mom instead. “Mom?” I said. “I’m not going to law school. I’m an artist.”

There was a long silence broken only by the sound of coffee splashing into a ceramic mug. “Okay, honey,” she said at last, taking a sip. “Just make up some business cards that say that.”

I never did make it into Fast Legal or get a bob, but I did follow my mom’s advice, and this is the story of how Cathy Nichols, Artist arrived on the Los Angeles art scene with a box of business cards from Kinko's. It’s also, of course, a story about storytelling.

As you read my story, did you find yourself, even for a moment, in that small, dreary room by my side? Could you feel the scratchy, suffocating polyester suit and the weight of those dusty law school applications? Did you cheer me on when I made my great escape to the art store? As you were reading, did you see black-and-white words on a page, or were you right there with me along for the ride, throwing juicy art supplies into the cart? If you were with me, then you know that this is the magic of storytelling. Writers tap into this magic by using character, setting, mood, plot and theme to draw readers into their special worlds, and we artists can use these same tools to connect with an audience—be they customers, family members or our inner selves—on a deep emotional level. So grab your favorite supplies and join me on a trip to Neverland.