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An excerpt from the December issue of the Anecdotally newsletter We’re not visiting the elite tonight. We’re visiting everyday people. Because every one of them has a story. They moved through the cemetery, stopping at the graves of ordinary men and women— people history would mostly overlook. At each stop, there was a moment that connected. A choice someone made. A hardship they endured. A small act that mattered. By the end of the walk, the message was clear. You don’t have to be extraordinary to be great. … The stories that land most powerfully aren’t epic. They’re human. They come from small, specific moments that carry a bit of truth or wisdom. From this excerpt, I created the following lyrics (and the song above). Ordinary Men, Ordinary Women Lyrics The moon hangs low above the street tonight,No velvet ropes, no golden light,Just whispers in the shadows, soft and deep,Where ordinary hearts lie half asleep. The graveyard holds markers of broken dreams,No crowns of fame, no grand schemes,Just names carved deep in weathered stone,Each one a world, now left alone. Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight. It’s not the epic stories that count.It’s the small stories that mount up,Human stories that speak so true.Human stories that so few knew. The janitor hums a tune so old,The waitress counts her tips in copper gold,The barber sighs with scissors in hand,All creating farewells no one planned. Ordinary men. Ordinary women.And all the stories that might have been.A hard choice someone once made.A sadness that will never fade. Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight. Ordinary men. Ordinary women.And all the stories that might have been.A hard choice someone once made.A sadness that will never fade. Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight. Inspired by the Anecdotally Newsletter edited by Mark Schenk: https://www.anecdote.com/newsletter. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

If by Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you;If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with triumph and disasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools; If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: “Hold on”; If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

I always arise as the horizon reddens. Rays of sunshine bending round the global curvature urge me up for yet another day. A gentle awakening. So many days now, so many urges. Her voice of choice was cool and refreshing, like the sound of water in a rushing stream. You will write this down. Now. Awaken and rise. Crisp and cool the days are now. Must be early fall. No, it is my birthday this week. I was born during the hot and muggy month of August on the Delaware River. The rapids were still running. As were the trolleys. My mother said she brought me home on one. Five cents. Ah yes, the days are cooler now, the summer's shorter. Excerpted from John Graves’s novel Life by Chance. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Isaac spotted two empty seats ahead and tapped John’s shoulder. He didn’t want to miss what would happen in this auditorium today. Two minutes later, his eyes met hers, and Isaac didn’t know why, but it stirred something in him, drawing him closer to her, perhaps an urge to know more. His sense of detachment and high intelligence quickly surfaced, urging him to break eye contact immediately. And yet he kept staring into those ocean-blue eyes, the swirling whirlpool of emotions hidden in the depths, passion on the ice, and Isaac blinked. After a few minutes, it was Nancy’s turn, and Isaac’s breath hitched higher unknowingly. Excerpted from Thrall Conspiracy: Genesis by John Sorflaten Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes. She hugged me. I liked it. To support my work with this podcast, please buy me a cup or two of coffee! - https://www.buymeacoffee.com/BookMarketing This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

At boot camp, the sergeant made a new recruit sweep the sunshine off the sidewalks in front of the mess hall. It took the recruit all day. This military joke is subtle but likely quite accurate. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Late Thursday night,after five hours of struggling to breathethrough the titanic gurgle in your throat—only once squeezing my handto let me know you heard me, you abruptly grasped more resolutelyas one might clutch an arm while fearfully steppingfrom raft to boat on turbulent seas You gripped my hand as if I were a fulcrumpivoting you from one place to another And then you opened your eyes,looked at me, closed your eyes,and died— “Oh, sweetheart, you died,”I cried,“I can’t believe you died.” In silence, more profound than the deepest forest,I lay next to youmy fingers gently running throughthe soft silky hair on your bellyuntil your core was as cold as the rest of you. Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Find Joy (an excerpt) Les and I had compiled a quiz of sixty-five questions about our marriage, the years when the kids were home, and old family stories. Riveted, our children wrote fast and furiously, compared notes, and laughed uproariously at every time-worn joke. The only glitch occurred the second evening. As we were taking pictures in front of the restaurant, Les almost fainted. The boys managed to half drag him across the gaudy flowered carpet to a private dining cove, where I stretched him out on the floor until he had recovered enough to sit up and eat his dinner. He laughed later, “It wasn’t all bad. Our waitress wore a very short skirt.” Our Big Bash anniversary weekend exceeded all expectations. We put aside what lay behind and refused to ponder what might lie before us. And we remembered once again that joy and sorrow often occupy the same space. Excerpted from Abidance: A Memoir of Love and Inevitability by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

When I Think When I think of all the waysI’ve tried to say I love you—When I think of all the thingsyou do that make me love you— The quiet times when we are closethe long and raucous passionthe way we glance across the roomand always feel compassion When I think— The words flow forth and tumble downin cascades from my heartand still do not begin to tellhow we can never part A love like ours—beyond all wordsbeyond our hugs and kissesbeyond the days we carry tightbeyond the reminisces A love like ours will always livefrom here to the hereafterand every eon find anewour joy, our tears, our laughter When I think,,, Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

You planted piñon treesone spindly maple in too tighta row Four children, not as tall asyour new trees, watched with me.Little did we know how soon, how tallthat trees and childrengrow Sometimeswe weep thatit is so. Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

You Cannot Break a Poet's Heart A poet cannot be broken-heartedWhen a dear one dies, she writes a requiemWhen a lover is untrue, she writes a sonnetWhen the world is cruel, she writes satiric verse A poet can take all the grief from her heart(the pain that can swell and break a heart)and write it in fine black lines on starchy white paper Oh, no, you cannot break a poet’s heart. The above poem is one of the first serious poems that 16-year-old Lois wrote many, many years ago. Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

I don't like being the bad guy. No one likes the bad guy. No one wants to spend any time with the bad guy. People hate me. But I'm very good at being the bad guy. I'm smart. I'm curious. I'm devious. I love twisting people's view of reality, and you can only do that well as a bad guy, as someone who doesn't give a damn, as someone who has such a skewed vision of reality that we don't have to live by someone else's rules. We make our own. You know, killing is good. It rids the world of the weak. I hate the weak. I'm not sadistic. I try to do good clean kills. I try to minimize the mess. I really don't want people to hurt. I'm not into pain. I'm more into relieving suffering. And the weak, they do suffer. I never run out of victims. At least half the world are victims. Stupid people. People that irritate the hell out of me. And it's the hell they get from me. The sooner, the better. On a good day, I eliminate three to four idiots. On a bad day, it's more like ten. I don't plan my kills. It's a waste of time. Killers don't need to plan. 90% of major crimes are never solved—not like in the movies, not like on TV. It's really law and disorder. Sure, I keep my prints out of crime scenes, but a bit of hair here or there isn't going catch me. Three reasons. One, no one knows me. I'm a nobody. Nobodies can get away with murder. We're on no one's radar. We don't even create a blip. Two, I never return to the scene of a crime. Very stupid thing to do. Three, I kill randomly. Very randomly. I don't have a type. I don't repeat myself. Of course, I don't worry if I do repeat some things, but I leave no pattern. And, if you need a fourth reason, very simple: I don't really care if anyone knows that I did it. I'm without ego. You want people to know? That gets you caught. I just don't care. I'm a bad guy. And I don't have a name. I neither like nor abhor killing. It's just what I do. And I do it well, simply because I do it so quickly. No planning. Just response. At the right time. In the right place. No witnesses. Witnesses die. Always. If you see me, really see me, you die. Just that simple. Want to know more? You stupid idiot. You don't want to know more. You don't want to see me. No one knows me. No one wants to know me. Consider Mary. Mary was just a housewife in the wrong place. Running for her health. Dying because she saw me. Not so good for her health. Mary was #2 today. #1 was a kid that irritated me. Crying because he was lost in the brush. Stupid kid. But you don't cry with your throat slit. Knives are silent. That's why I like them. And easy to conceal. And cheap. And very generic. Dollar stores have some good ones. I prefer paring knives myself, but I often use butcher knives as well. No pattern. Always something different. Never stay in the same city for more than three days. Two is better. One is the best. You can get a lot done in one or two days. Clean the city out a little. Move on. Small towns are fun, but you can't stay more than a day. You have to be invisible. Small towns have too many eyes. Too many ears. Too many noses. Slip in, slip out. But you can do a day's quota in 30 minutes or less if you know where to go, who to be, what to see, when to leave. I drive a gray Honda Civic. No one sees those. Always with a state license plate. No stranger. Just invisible. I need to kill. I'm a bad guy. I love what I do. I'll be in your city soon. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Louis Koster is a good friend of mine who records his early morning thoughts in the form of a diary, but I think that much of what he writes is like a song, with variations on a theme as if in a mighty quiet chorus. Listen in … The power and magic of language is that it creates a perceived object of experience. This, in turn, creates the illusion of a false separate self. Allowing for the totality of what arises The arising of thoughts is a gigantic moving mirror that constantly gives me an experience of myself as a person. The perceived object creates the experience of a subject. The power and magic of language is that it creates a perceived object of experience. This, in turn, creates the illusion of a false separate self. I relate to my thoughts and the experience they create as if there is something external to me to experience. The dual nature of experience is created by language and until I see the inauthenticity of this creation, I will never be free and know myself as my true nature. There is no separate self. Allowing for the totality of what arises I relate to my thoughts and the experience they create as if there is something external to me to experience. This illusion gives rise to the dual nature of my experience and the illusion that there is a separate self that is having the experience. The dual nature of experience is created by language and until I see the inauthenticity of this creation, I will never be free and know myself as our my true nature. The arising casts an imaginary object of experience in my consciousness thereby arresting my attention in an illusionary separate self that has the experience. The dual nature of language is purely imaginary and has no ground in reality. There is no separate self. Allowing for the arising exactly as it is, interrupts the arising casting the illusion of an object of experience in my consciousness. There is no external world. I am dealing with the mind creating the illusion of duality. Allowing for the totality of what arises Allowing for the arising exactly as it is, interrupts the arising casting the illusion of an object of experience in my consciousness. Allowing for the arising exactly as it is, interrupts the arising casting the illusion of the perceived in my consciousness. Thereby denying language creating the illusion of a perceiver. There is no external world. I am dealing with the mind creating the illusion of duality. When what arises is stripped from its dual nature, what remains is the changeless reality of being. I literally fall into being. Allowing for the totality of what arises There is no external world. I am dealing with the mind creating the illusion of duality. When what arises is stripped from its dual nature, what remains is the changeless reality of being. I literally fall into being. I fall into being when… I become aware of the limitation experience puts on my sense of the possible. Any experience the mind creates in my consciousness sets limits to my sense of the possible. I am clear that there is nothing in the arising that can either make me happy or unhappy. I am clear that there is nothing to get in pursuing an experience created by imagination. Desirelessness has come into its own. There is nothing that I identify with. When there is nothing to identify with, what erupts is the sense of being. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Money can’t buy happiness. But it can buy dairy cows. And cows can make milk and cream. And milk and cream can be made into ice cream. And ice cream can make you happy. The end. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please become a free or paid subscriber. Or just buy me a cup of coffee! - https://www.buymeacoffee.com/BookMarketing Or become my patron for all good things - https://www.patreon.com/bookmarketing Or follow me on … Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/johnfrederickkremer Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/johnkremer TikTok: https://tiktok.com/@bookmarketing This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

When my alumni magazine, Macalester Today, asked the question, What student organization did you love at Macalester?, I answered the question in this way: I loved JAHB (Jock Against Hippie Bums). It was an official student organization that I founded where everyone who joined got to pick an official role. Everyone was an officer of the club. We had a constitution for the organization with a preamble, a midamble, and a postamble. Over 500 students signed up to be officers in the club. The only thing the club sponsored was a high noon shootout in front of the student union and a great rock 'n roll dance in the union. The shootout featured 3 bad guys (I was one) against one good guy with the theme for The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly playing in the background. At high noon. In the middle of campus. No one knowing what was going on. The bad guys won. As for the dance, I won the twist contest—but only because the girl I was dancing with was both beautiful and a good dancer. So, ask yourself, what was the student organization or club or activity at your college that you loved? Why? You can tell your story in the comments below! The best stories I will share in future Tell Me a Story podcast episodes. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Here is an incredible version of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly theme song performed by the Danish National Symphony Orchestra, showcasing the power of the human voice as an instrument. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe