Today, I would like to repeat a story that has been told thousands of times. It is the well-known fable of Scheherazade and the 1001 Arabian Nights. And I want to repeat it not only because it is such a wonderful story, but because it is a story about stories.
Most of us know the tale well. When the sultan Shariar discovers that his wife has made love to another man, he is so enraged that he has her executed. He swears that, from then on, he will marry a new woman every night and have her killed at daybreak so that he never has to worry about another unfaithful wife.
Despite this terrible decree, one beautiful young woman, Scheherazade, agrees to marry the sultan. All the while, she is crafting a scheme to thwart him. The night after the wedding, Scheherazade tells her sister a story, making sure she is within earshot of her jealous husband. Before the tale comes to its conclusion, she stops, leaving the ending for the next night. The sultan is so engrossed with Scheherazade’s story that he can’t get himself to have her executed the next morning. He allows her to live another day so that he can hear the end of her story. Scheherazade tells the ending the next night, but then starts another tale, again stopping before the end. Again the king spares Scheherazade for one day so that he can hear what happens at the end of her fascinating tale. This goes on night after night. After 1001 nights, the sultan finds himself in love with Scheherazade and lets her live.
The tale of Scheherazade is more than an enchanting yarn. It is also an allegory about the power of storytelling. In the beginning, Shariar is so besieged by anger that he chooses jealousy over compassion, revenge over forgiveness, violence over love. His need to protect himself from betrayal is so commanding that nothing—no entreaties, no appeals to mercy—avert his cruelty.
Only one thing has the power to change him: Stories. Scheherazade’s stories overcome Shariar’s anger and fear and replace them with love. They create communion where there was once only hatred. Shariar is captivated not by Scheherazade’s beauty or kindness, but by the tales she tells. Ultimately, the king relinquishes his power—he gives in to the stories, surrendering his own authority over Scheherazade’s life, and finally embracing her.
And so it is with us. Like Shariar, we are all afraid. But stories can ease our dread by helping us make sense of an incomprehensible world. Like the sultan, we are all angry and mistrustful. But stories can conquer our anger by connecting us to others, by reminding us of the common bond of humanity. Like Shariar, all of us are armored against love. But stories break through that armor. They open us up to life.
But we writers are not only the sons and daughters of Shariar. We are also the offspring of Scheherazade. We are the ones capturing stories, shaping them in our own voices, telling them to others. We are compelled to tell our stories just as Scheherazade was. Anyone who has tried to stop writing knows how powerful the urge to write is. “I write because I can’t not write,” says Elaine Marie Alphin, “any more than I could not breathe.” All writers feel the same way. We tell stories for the same reason Scheherazade did: To save our own lives.