He spent many nights until dawn, under the covers with a flashlight, reading everything he could get his hands on. His parents loved to tell the story that he read through the six volume encyclopedia that they bough on time payments before they were paid for ... including the Parents Guide as well, which gave instruction on all sorts of issues that parents needed to face when bringing up children. He read it, they didn't. This gave him an edge.
He read novels in history class and comics during science class, anything he could prop up between the covers of a textbook that he was supposed to be reading, or manage to sneak a page at a time by lifting the top of his desk as often as he dared.
He got caught, sure, plenty of times, but managed to get away with it somehow. His teachers loved him. He was so quiet and smart, and respectful, with his yes sir and no ma'am and please and thank you.
He made it through high school and into college, and would you know it, ended up a writer. Making his living putting words on paper. Telling stories of one kind or another. Not famous. Not a millionaire. But a paid and published writer.
And he lived happily every after. Well, happily most of the time anyway, so far. But the real story, yes the real story, is the life he lived. The dreams he dreamed, the stories he read and listened to, the story that he made of his life, and the stories he told.
There are as many stories in the world as there are people. Each one different, unique, interesting to someone. There are still many stories to be told, and to be listened to.