Mela Publications
4 April 2025
Why do we keep telling the same old myths again and again? That question has haunted me ever since I stumbled on a worn paperback retelling of the Odyssey at a college yard sale. I paid fifty cents for it on a whim and took it home, thinking it would make nice bathroom reading. Instead, I stayed up all night flipping through pages that felt both ancient and startlingly alive.
I’ll never forget how that faded cover promised adventure and then delivered something more complicated. Odysseus was clever and flawed. He wasn’t a perfect hero but someone I could almost recognize. I remember nodding to myself, astonished that a story from three millennia ago could still give me goose bumps. That’s when I realized: these myths stick because they carry something raw and true about being human.
I think myths endure for three simple reasons.
1. They feel familiar.
Everyone has faced a monster of one kind or another—fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of our own worst impulses. When we read a myth, we see our own struggles reflected back at us in bigger-than-life form.
2. They change with each telling.
I once read a graphic novel version of Persephone’s story set in a near-future city where winter lasted ten months and people waited desperately for the warmth to return. The core idea—loss, return, hope—remained intact. That flexibility makes myths endlessly adaptable to new audiences and new worries.
3. They connect us.
Last year I taught a workshop on storytelling in a small town outside Cape Town. I asked participants to share a local myth from their families. Some spoke of spirits that lived in trees. Others told tales of trickster heroes who outsmarted oppressive rulers. Despite huge cultural differences, every story boiled down to the same themes—power, justice, cleverness. Those similarities reminded me that myths are a shared human inheritance.
A Living Conversation
The best modern retellings feel like conversations rather than lectures. Take Madeline Miller’s Circe. She didn’t just give us the backstory of a minor character from the Odyssey. She gave Circe a voice full of longing and doubt and quiet rage. When I read lines like “I was stripped of everything I valued,” I felt her pain. That moment made me want to rethink my own small acts of courage and defiance.
Prometheus, the titan who stole fire for humanity, shows up everywhere from blockbuster movies to environmental manifestos. Sometimes he’s a rebel hero. Sometimes he’s a warning about unintended consequences. Each version asks us to decide: what are we willing to risk for progress? What might we lose if we push too far?
In a world where headlines change by the minute, myths remind us to slow down and reflect. They let us step outside ourselves and look at our desires and mistakes from a wider angle. When you feel stuck, whether it’s at work, in a relationship, or just in your own head—revisiting, a myth can feel like talking to an old friend who’s been there before.
Consider the story of Narcissus. On the surface, it’s a warning about vanity. But in social media age, it becomes a mirror for our obsession with selfies and online approval. Every time I find myself scrolling through filtered images, I think of Narcissus staring at his own reflection and I ask: am I seeking connection or just applause?
I want to encourage writers and readers alike to keep these myths alive through honest retellings. If you’re a writer, don’t be intimidated by the weight of antiquity. Blend a classic tale with your own experiences and your own voice. Focus on the emotions that matter to you and let the myth shape around them.
If you’re a reader, seek out new versions of familiar legends. Notice how each author chooses different details to emphasize. Think about which parts of the story resonate with your life right now. Share those connections with friends or on social media. Talk about why a particular retelling moved you. That conversation is as important as the story itself.
Sometimes I worry that myths will fade away, replaced by quick-hit entertainment and viral trends. But every time I see a new myth-inspired comic book, hear a podcast discussing Beowulf, or encounter a street artist painting Medusa with bold colors and a punk hairstyle, I feel reassured. We haven’t lost our appetite for these old tales. We’re just finding fresh ways to tell them.
If myths are like seeds, then each retelling is an act of planting. And for every seed we plant, there’s the promise of something new. A twist on an old lesson, a surprising parallel to our modern lives, or just a spark of wonder. Without those seeds, we risk losing a map to our own humanity.
Next time you feel the urge to escape into a story, try a myth rather than a brand-new plot. Look for retellings set in cities you know or featuring protagonists who look and talk like you. Notice how the ancient and the modern collide on the page. Then ask yourself: what did this version teach me that the last one did not?
That is why we keep retelling the same myths. Not because we’re stuck in the past, but because these stories are living conversations handed down through generations. When we add our voice to that conversation we’re doing something vital. We’re reminding ourselves that the challenges and joys of being human haven’t changed, even if the world around us has. And that reminder, more than anything, is worth passing on.