As You Wish

Why the Stories We Share Matter Most When Life Is Hard

One of my favorite movies ever is The Princess Bride. Every few years it gets a rewatch. It’s one of our family’s comfort movies. Several years ago when our family dog died, we cried and fell apart and one of the things that helped put us back together was sitting down to rewatch The Princess Bride.

I can start almost any of the classic lines in that movie and someone else in my family will finish it.

I’m on the Brute Squad…
You keep using that word...
But I know something you do not know...

Some works of art are so iconic, so magical, so wonderfully pervasive that they create a shared language with the people who have experienced them. I think that’s why we feel such affronted shock when someone hasn’t seen a movie that’s so dear to us. How could someone we like or love NOT be part of this?

Rob Reiner’s classic is just one of those films that endures. And I wish I could end this intro right there, talking only about the joy his work brought us. But like so many people, I’m gutted to learn that Rob Reiner and his wife Michele were found dead in their Brentwood home yesterday. Police are investigating it as a homicide. Their son has been arrested.

I don’t have words that make it better. Nobody does.

But what I do understand is that his work is timeless. His storytelling is universal. And long after this tragedy fades from public view, we will have his legacy.

So this week, let’s talk about the stories that connect us, why they matter, and how they help us make sense of what doesn’t make sense.

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These Aren’t Just Movies

When you quote a line from The Princess Bride and a some random stranger finishes it, something amazing happens. You’ve just found another kindred spirit. You’ve found someone who speaks your language.

That’s what Rob Reiner gave us. Not just movies, but a shorthand for human connection.

• “I’ll have what she’s having.” We say it when we see someone genuinely happy and want a piece of that joy.

• “You can’t handle the truth!” We quote it when we’re about to tell someone something they don’t want to hear.

• “Have fun storming the castle.” We use it to wish someone luck on an impossible task.

These aren’t just memorable lines. They’re an easy way for us to talk to each other about complicated things.

Reiner gave us these cultural touchstones that shaped how we think about love, friendship, life. Stand by Me taught us that childhood friendships matter more than we realize. When Harry Met Sally made us question whether men and women could actually be friends. Misery showed us what unhealthy obsession looks like.

His films created communities of people who didn’t even know that they were a part of communities. Millions of us have had the exact same reaction to the same scenes. We’ve laughed at the same jokes and quoted the same lines at the same times in our lives.

That’s not by accident. That’s craft meeting universal human experiences and it transcends the artist. That’s the power of stories that matter.

They don’t just entertain us. They give us a way to recognize and relate to one other.

The Work Lives On

The Princess Bride is playing somewhere right now. Perhaps in a college dorm room or on a phone screen during someone’s lunch break. Maybe on a family’s TV after a tough day.

It will still be playing tomorrow. And next year. And twenty years from now.

Amazing storytelling and beautiful art outlasts almost everything. It outlasts headlines and tragedy and even the memory of the person who made it.

Reiner spent decades creating moments of joy, connection, and laughter. Those moments are still here. They’re still doing their job.

College film classes will study the diner scene from When Harry Met Sally long after all of us are gone. They’ll analyze the structure and laugh at the punchlines. They’ll write papers about what it reveals about relationships and honesty and human nature.

That’s the strange and wonderful permanence of art. It becomes independent and takes on a life of its own. The artist sets it free and it goes out into the world and does its work without them.

Reiner’s films will be watched by people who haven’t been born yet. They’ll quote lines he wrote. They’ll laugh at jokes he made. They’ll feel emotions he crafted them to feel. And this tragedy won’t be able to touch it. If anything, the loss makes us hold the work closer, treasure it more fiercely.

Buildings crumble. Relationships end. Memories fade. The American President will still make people think about leadership and integrity. A Few Good Men will still make people wrestle with honor and truth. And This Is Spinal Tap will still always go to eleven.

That’s what remains when everything else is taken away.

What Art Does When We Need It Most

When our dog died, The Princess Bride didn’t fix anything. It didn’t bring her back. It didn’t make the grief disappear.

But it helped. It gave us a place to sit together. It gave us something familiar when everything felt wrong.

That’s what art does. It doesn’t solve problems, but it does create space for us to be human.

Rob Reiner’s films have been doing this work for millions of people for decades. They’ve comforted the grieving. They’ve given hope to the heartbroken and made the lonely feel less alone. They’ve reminded us that life can be beautiful even when it’s hard. And y’all I know, life feels pretty hard right now.

That’s the gift artists give. They create something and send it out into the world, and it does its work quietly, privately, in moments they’ll never witness.

You don’t have to be Rob Reiner to do this.

You don’t need to make a film that millions of people love. You don’t need to create something universally cherished. You just need to create something true.

The art you make, the stories you tell, the songs you sing, the things you build, they create these mini communities for the people who experience them. Your nephew might remember the silly song you made up for him during a hard week. Your friend might keep the painting you gave them because it reminds them they matter. Your coworker might think about the story you shared when they’re going through something similar.

Every time you create something and share it, you’re creating an opportunity for connection. You’re giving someone else a way to feel less alone. You’re building the not so secret shorthand that helps people recognize each other.

In Conclusion

Rob Reiner spent his life creating communities of strangers through shared stories. We can do the same, in our own small ways.

So make the thing. Write the post. Share the photo. Tell the story. Sing the song. Paint the picture. Build the project you’ve been thinking about.

Because the world needs more connection, not less. And you don’t know whose life you’ll touch. You don’t know who needs exactly what you have to offer. You don’t know which small thing you create will be the thing that helps someone else make sense of their world.

Create. Share. Connect. That’s how we honor the artists who gave us so much. That’s how we keep the work alive.

Rest in peace, Rob and Michele. Thank you for the gift you left behind.

Ever forward,
— Derek (aka Chief Rabbit)