The Stories We Feed (And the Ones That Feed Us)

The Ghost in the Feed: Why I'm Cleaning Up My Clicks

The real threadbare “Baby” ultimately disappeared. . .no doubt still adventuring 30 years later! Photo by Lutz Stallknecht on Unsplash

I’ve had storytelling on my mind lately—specifically, the moment I realized I was the villain in my three-year-old’s bedtime story

The Accidental Villain: Lessons in Bedtime Lore

When I was a young mom I used to make up stories for my son when tucking him into bed. I’d describe his favorite stuffed elephant, “Baby,” who would miraculously come to life after I left the room. Each night, I’d describe Baby rousing a few other love-worn stuffies, then transforming into a hero. Wriggling up the wall, he’d wrestle open the window to swan dive into the yard all to rescue a stranded critter in the woods behind our house. I’d cock my head to listen, ventriloquizing a faint distress whimper from the hall.

Wide-eyed, my son would nod solemnly.

Encouraged, the next night I’d elaborate on daredevil Baby. I’d gesture, demonstrating how he’d leap from the window sill to hang on by padded paws to a passing car’s bumper and hitchhike to the house of his best friend, Sean. All to triumphantly find the plastic firetruck my son had left behind that day. .

And—so cool (I thought)— naturally my son was cast as a hero alongside Baby.

I reveled in those cute adventures. Felt panicked when a make-believe scenario didn’t kick in quickly the next night. Assumed that my son loved them.

Until—imagine my mom-horror— he confessed: Baby stories are too scary!

Oops! I stopped. Just like that, the franchise was canceled.

From Sedona Screens to Digital Fabrications

Today I’m catching my breath after a ten-day storytelling marathon, completing the 32nd Sedona International Film Festival a few weeks ago. My husband and I paced ourselves through daily diets of engrossing narratives, heartrending documentaries, hilarious short films, courageous truth-telling. We became exhausted and satiated.

It was a welcome escape into intentional narrative—a sharp contrast to the outrageous, uninvited stories we’re accosted with every day. For example, last night I clicked on a video of an actor I admired, only to realize sixty seconds in that I was being sold a blatant, AI-generated fabrication. By the time I closed the app, I’d already signaled the algorithm.

Now, that same ghost-story haunts my feed, over and over.

I need to clean up my clicks.

The Echo Chamber and the Loss of Shared Truth

The same goes for news every morning. Clicking on the more outrageous headlines invites them into my space and hijacks my time. To read about how newsmakers curate news in order to generate viewership is one thing, the actual experience of allowing myself to be sucked in is another. No single source is unbiased. And while I believe I naturally gravitate toward balanced, objective news accounts—imagine my abrupt wake-up a few weeks ago when my husband and I went out to dinner with good friends. Our conversation revealed that they lived in an entirely different frame of reference, backed by their own set of evidence, completely contrary to mine.

I felt a bit dismissed—but then again, wasn’t I dismissing them?

Whose 'truth' was I actually holding?

The good old days when I listened to trusted news anchor Walter Cronkite report in the ‘60’s and ‘70s on world events alongside my parents and siblings—so that the majority of people had that same reference point—are long gone.

Today, whose frame of reference is right?

Cleaning Up the Clicks: Reclaiming Mental Space

Here’s where I’ve landed.

One approach all of these news sources have in common is fooling us into thinking the story is all ‘out there.’ In reality, I am the one entertaining it in my head.

Stay with me on this.

We take it in; we respond. All of that energy is directed into feeding a story machine. One that simply wants my attention, not my judgment. What feeling is rising within me in response to the news? I’m trying to pause to notice that.

An arm’s length noticing, different from owning.

Am I fearful? Feeling cornered? Fascinated by a celebrity?

Some damn robot algorithm has been programmed to manipulate my response.

The Power of Community Over the Story Machine

As a result, there are only a few news sources I turn to now. Even better, if I wait and hear about the news from another person, then instead of being trapped in my thought, the information is being spread in community. In conversation that I can then investigate, consider context and background, and so convert that energy into learning.

We have mastermind storytelling among us this century. Some naive, like my Mom tales; some extraordinarily creative, like the filmmakers; or nefarious in the public sphere. It’s not out there, but in me and just as I abruptly stopped the storytelling that alarmed my 3-year-old, I’m alerted to stay mindful—at the vey least—of minimizing my feeding/repeating the misinformation.

In my own work, I’ve tried to honor this by surfacing the true story of Jo van Gogh, who was far from a supporting character; she was the unrecognized architect of the global Van Gogh brand.

In a world of loud, fabricated noise, I’m looking for the quieter stories—the ones that light the way rather than just taking up space.

Warmly,