Writing What I Know

I have noticed recently the difference between the stories I am willing to tell other people and the stories I sometimes tell myself. For instance, I’ve never been able to bring myself to write a story about how revenge will bring someone closure from loss, or that finding the right lover would end loneliness forever, or that victory and approval can grant peace of mind. I couldn’t tell these stories long, long before I had any idea why I didn’t want to tell them. I just found their endings unsatisfying, the way I found certain foods distasteful.

The stories I told myself, on the other hand, were often filled with fantasies of revenge, lust, greed, envy, longing, applause, and ceaseless recognition. In all these stories, the world and its ever-shifting conditions finally arranged itself such that I could feel content, and stop worrying about money and my self-worth. These stories did not make me happy, but I told them anyway because I couldn’t recognize the discomfort they brought with them. That’s just what life felt like most of the time, I figured.

I don’t consider myself a hypocrite for sometimes saying one thing and then thinking another. One of the reasons we choose to actually write our stories down and then share them with other people is because this act of translation from the interior to the exterior reveals so much to ourselves about what it is we actually value and believe. Writers often say they don’t know what they know until they write it down. I suppose this is true, if by knowing we mean admitting and accepting.

As I wrote in an earlier piece, it has been my desire for many years now to live as I write. Practically speaking, this means applying the same rigorous aesthetic to the stories I tell myself as the ones I tell other people. It’s trickier, since writing a story takes time, time that grants me the opportunity to feel the effect of my words as I lay them out one beside the other. My inner stories happen instantaneously. No matter. The effects are just the same. Suffering and ease are the universal language of the soul, guiding me unerringly no matter how long or short my journey.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com