Continuing Author journey to become a Storyteller.

The Defining Losses That Shaped My Life and Storytelling
Much passed under the water as I was growing up and certain personal details I shall omit.  Leaving school, I joined the Royal Airforce and served for 23 years. But almost thirty years later after Mr Crannigan’s prophetic words I received the news that would change my life. Married to Sarah after 10 years we were blessed with a beautiful baby girl, Christina. I was on leaving the military, fortunate to enjoy a second career working as a London University Marketing Manager.
And yet, strange as it sounds, Mr Crannigan's words began to come true—not only through writing, but through telling stories.
In my work, I curated graduate success stories each year, writing a magazine twice a year and sharing them at open days, higher education fairs, and school visits—not just across Britain, but in several countries abroad.
Coupled with this writing and storytelling to prospective students, when my daughter was six years old, I began telling her bedtime stories too.
A Heartbreak
My marriage lasted a long time—twenty-seven years—but eventually, for several reasons, I took steps to dissolve it. My daughter was fourteen at the time. When I left the family home, she expressed sympathy, though the details are not mine to share in this tract of my life.
But then, months later, a bombshell arrived: my daughter refused to meet me or speak to me.
Years passed. I saw her only occasionally, only by accident, living in the same town.
And then I experienced tragedy.
Christina's Death: Prague, a Phone Call, and Silence
I was holidaying in Prague for a week, on the last two days with my new wife and our three-year-old son, Jonathan.
My new wife and our son were in a crystal shop with her Chinese friend. I was lingering outside when my phone rang.
I remember thinking: Who is calling me here? I had recently left my job early for retirement—so it couldn't be work.
I answered, and it was a vicar: a gentle, sincere man—pastor of the church we had attended, with Sarah (my second wife) and our daughter long ago.
He asked if I was alone.
I replied, no—and explained where my family were.
Then he said, carefully and with deep sorrow:
"Tom… I am deeply sorry to tell you. Your daughter has died. She passed away peacefully and unexpectedly in her sleep a few nights back. The entire world and its dog has been looking for you. Your former work gave a head's up to the police, and they contacted me. I have your number."
My mind went numb. Christina was only twenty-one—the same age my brother had been when he died.
I listened to the vicar's comforting words almost separately from myself. He closed by saying he would share more details if he learned them, including funeral arrangements once known.
Then the phone went dead.
And I realised I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I always believed that when Christina left university, she was in her final year, and that with time and maturity we might rebuild our relationship. But life had other plans.
Life cruelly and brutally said: Not so. You now must wait an eternity.

After the funeral, I met Sarah—Christina’s mother—for lunch. We hadn’t seen each other for many years. We tried to help one another with our mutual grief.
She then said something that broke me further.
“Tom,” she said, seeing my tears cascading down, “Christina did love you. She only recently said, ‘I miss my dad’s stories at bedtime.’”
I struggled to speak. Finally, I said:
“Sarah… your talk of bedtime stories. It is so incredibly sad. There is no comfort in it, because I can’t remember the details of even one single story.”
After that meeting, I did not see Sarah for some years.
Then—three years later—Jonathan announced something that I will never forget.
He had finished his nighttime toilet and said:
“Daddy, tell me a story like you told my half-sister Christina in Heaven.”
I was shocked. “What story would you like?”
“Any, Daddy,” he said. “What about The Dragon and the Window?”
I paused, then smiled. “OK. Here we go: Once upon a time…”
But this time, storytelling became something different.
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The Birth of Jonathan’s Tales
Jonathan’s Tales began in the most practical and personal way possible: I started recording the bedtime stories on my Android phone. Over three years, I recorded more than one hundred stories.
That is how the project became real: Jonathan’s Tales—not just bedtime entertainment, but something built to last.
There were two major differences between the stories I told Christina and the stories I told Jonathan:
1.    I recorded them, capturing them as they happened.
2.    I intentionally made them meaningful, not only comforting.
The stories included moral lessons: love, kindness, honesty, friendship, forgiveness. Many stories celebrated difference, showing that differences are not threats but something to honour and celebrate.
And many of the narratives placed the main characters into awkward, demanding situations—because real life is like that. The stories told how people come through hard times and become better versions of themselves.
Finally, I wove education into the stories across many fronts: culture, science, evolution, anatomy, geography, geology, history, famous people, poetry, idioms, sayings, proverbs, and general wisdom.
I marked these educational notes within the narrative, and then expanded them further with a comprehensive glossary at the end of each volume.
So, Jonathan’s Tales is more than a remembrance of bedtime stories. When Volume 4 is released, it will become a veritable encyclopaedia of over 1,500 idioms, sayings, proverbs, and facts.
When Jonathan was nine, bedtime stories were about to be naturally phased out as he grew up. I always regretted not remembering a single story I had told Christina.
Then—one night—Jonathan (or perhaps “someone above” who helped me) gave me the one thing I needed to move forward.
“Daddy,” he said, “Can you tell me a story about a Robin and a Penguin?”
I fell silent.
Then after a few seconds he added, anxiously: “Daddy! Daddy!”
Eventually I suggested something better:
“Son, I have a better idea. I have just remembered one story I told your half-sister. The story tonight is The Robin and the Black Mole.”
And that is what I did.
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Turning Audio Into Books — and Turning Pain Into Purpose
When I began authoring the stories down from the recordings, I often did it in places like Wetherspoons, a hospitality chain or a coffee shop I frequented.
As the volumes increased, my work grew more intense: translating stories from audio to written form required a second kind of creativity—beyond storytelling itself.
Sometimes, while writing, I would become overwhelmed in those public settings. I was remembering the beautiful times Jonathan and I shared. But just beside those memories was another: Christina. And when she surfaced, so did the tears.
Sometimes acquaintances—nearly friends—would bring me tissues without needing to ask.
I always smiled then, because even in grief, kindness still exists.
After publishing three books, I realised I had deliberately avoided turning The Robin and the Black Mole story into print.
But then, one day, I knew it had to be included in Volume 4—a tribute and honour to my beloved daughter.
So, Volume 4 will be the most poignant yet. It will be a shared legacy for Jonathan as he grows older—and for Christina, in Heaven.
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Storytelling as a Unifying Force
It is said that storytelling, across the millennia, has functioned as a uniting force to those all around.
When my first book was published, I acknowledged Christina in the front pages, and I thought it fitting that I should give Christina’s mother a copy. I knew where she lived, and I drove to see her.
I knocked on what I believed was her address.
A woman opened the door. She looked at me with thoughtful, kind eyes.
“Is Sarah living here?” I asked.
“No,” she smiled. “She lives in the next block — Number 7.”
“Oh?” I said, surprised. “I have a book I want to give her. It’s very personal, connected to her and to our joint family history.”
The woman said, “Tom… my name is Miss Noble. You don’t remember me, do you? I was at Christina’s funeral.”
She promised to give the book to Sarah, and asked me to write my telephone number on the envelope because Sarah was working at the time. That very morning, she told me, she and Sarah had shared a cup of tea in that same location.
That night, Sarah called me. We spoke for ages catching up on our two busy lives in the intervening decade.
I had not seen her for many years, but when my second book was published we met for lunch. That pattern repeated with my third volume recently.
And now, through storytelling, something extraordinary has happened: Sarah and I once intimate and by circumstance rendered strangers, have now become friends.
An impossible thing occurred, proof that stories have a way of reaching beyond grief, beyond time, and beyond what should be possible.
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Conclusion: Mr Crannigan’s Prophecy
So, I look back on sixty years, beginning with that classroom and the unforgettable kindness of Mr Crannigan.
I remember his fateful words:
“One day, Tom Kissack will be a great storyteller and writer.”
He could not have known what form it would take. He could not have known that my very personal journey would become Jonathan’s Tales—many things at once, but essentially metaphors for a life that has been, indeed, very “interesting” and far from simple.
Reader, I leave you to judge whether his words were true.