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At a recent meeting to say good-bye to a colleague, one of his staff commented on his long-ago initial meeting with his then-new team, who were as unsure of him as he was of them. As they sized each other up, he asked the group collectively, "What's your story?" and the relationship took off from there. During cake, accolades, and gifts, I pondered this question. Short and succinct, yet full of meaning, depending on how you answer it. Would that we could ask that question at the start of every relationship, it could save a lot of time. (Well, as you may have figured out by now, you can ask all you want.) Would that we could, more importantly, honestly answer it for ourselves.

When I think of my story, I am drawn instead to the stories I write. For to be what I want to be involves expressing myself in a simple, meaningful way, a way people can connect with. That is one way that I define success, by making these connections − by putting my ideas and my words out there and having them connect. These connections ultimately create interrelationships between myself, the reader, and the story I have to tell. The story itself is part of this dynamic relationship. For the story is not a bland principle, but a culmination of what the issue means to people, what they think about it, what it means to them. That, then, is my story − the reaction that occurs between these three.

My life may seem somewhat solitary − I flit in and out of my sources lives and the bulk of my writing is done alone − but I can't function on my own. Seen this way, as a writer, there is an automatic sense of solidarity. Always present is the reader − either a cajoled person thrust into the role or an anonymous, nameless person who may only exist in my imagination (it is you, dear reader), but is still there. And there are those who I write about, either directly or indirectly. I am in solidarity with them all.

I am also in solidarity with my fellow writers, whether I know them personally or not. We all write to be read, whether our work is published or not. Fiction writers may create their subjects, but that doesn't make them any less real. No matter the genre, all writers share the same dynamic relationship between writer, reader, and subject, and all have the potential to change or be changed.

Solidarity: Webster's Collegiate defines it as unity that produces or is based on community of interests, objectives, and standards. Browse through the Google listings and the word truly comes alive. Aside from the "great deals on solidarity" to be found on e-Bay, there are stories of solidarity from Cuba to Mexico to South Africa. Who can forget when solidarity, born in the unassuming shipyards of Gdansk, Poland, changed a nation? Closer to home, in their glory days, unions with their cries for solidarity helped workers gain rights, and solidarity formed the basis for the strikes that were a part of the civil rights movement, just one example is when black workers and their supporters picketed for the right to work on construction of the Prudential Center in the 1960s.

Solidarity is a way to build connections from human being to human being; by uniting in a common cause, we celebrate our humanness. To make everyone's struggle our own is to, paradoxically, lighten our own burden. This web of connections between each other unites us.

It may not surprise you to learn that I am active in the Writers' Union. I also am a member of the Hotel Workers' Union. While both function in a radically different ways, both are based on the same tenet of solidarity − one voice is quiet and can be easily silenced, but many voices in unison have the power to build buildings and nations. This principle, elegant in its simplicity, can color one's thinking in general. Solidarity is a powerful force that can move individuals to action − the amazing thing is that it doesn't really take all that much.

Three years ago, when I was working at a bank downtown, there was a city-wide strike by the janitors' union. One afternoon I was talking to a friend, a bank executive, who told me that he had taken his lunch hour and joined the picket line surrounding our building. Bemusement and disbelief quickly gave way to a deeper awareness. His action alone didn't change the course of the fight, but his action combined with the independent actions of several others did make a difference. Northeastern law students and professors joined the strike for one day, several buildings canceled contracts with UNICCO (the city's chief cleaning contractor at the time and the target of the striking workers), and thousands of dollars and pounds of food were donated by everyday citizens to help support the striking janitors in their bid for fair-employment rights and health insurance. For me, the central image in that struggle was that one hour when the bank executive and the janitor walked side by side.

Why should I care about these things? Because no one's voice should be silenced. With every story that I tell, and for every person who reads it and says, "Oh, yeah?" with every spark of connectivity − I have moved closer to answering that question. That is my story; what's yours?