Why I tell fables

I grew up believing that evenings were made for stories. The lamps turned low, a cup of something warm in hand, and the day finally letting go of its grip — that was when the best tales arrived. I still think it's true.

My inspiration came from the stories I read when I was young. I carried them around like treasures: Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book, Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, and the Tales of Robin Hood. Each one was an adventure, and each one — without ever seeming to try — was also a quiet lesson about friendship, courage and patience.

Those books taught me that a story can be two things at once: a journey you can't put down, and a gentle hand on your shoulder. That's what I want my own fables to feel like for new listeners — exciting enough to stay for, slow enough to learn from.

I tell fables about animals because animals let us talk about the hard things gently. A mongoose learning patience, a peacock learning to keep his word, a small tarsier who sees everything but says very little — these are just our own worries wearing fur and feathers. It's easier to be brave for a sun bear than for ourselves, sometimes.