I read as a writer: with curiosity, with interest in the writing style, with superiority sometimes, humility other times; with admiration and with jealousy, and sometimes with a sneer on my face. But I always read with the knowledge that someone sat down and wrote a story, crafted it upon a page, and gave it to the world.

That’s no small thing. Telling stories is a tradition that goes back to the beginning of man, to the most basic communicable acts—pointing out a new food source, a new water source, a new danger to be avoided. The stories grew as humankind grew. I have never hunted big game in Africa, but I have read stories that made it seem as if I have.

We are all storytellers. The man at the water cooler on Monday, talking to his fellow workers about an impressive round of golf he had that weekend. The woman at the coffee shop, confiding to her best friend that she is thinking about leaving her husband. Stories everywhere, all the time—the heart of great conversations, great parties, great events.

And some of us write them down. We craft them. We spend a solitary night placing words in a certain order and rhythm, to say things we are not even sure of ourselves. Still the stories insist on coming out.

So bless the writers of the world. Let the stories they write be set in print and circulate and remain, to be passed around and shared and talked about. Their value is felt first, sometimes by only one or two readers, before it is understood.