On knowing how this will end

writing, timing, and forecasting

What makes the story worth telling today is different than what made it worth telling yesterday.

Photo by Joanna Kosinska

As I get older, I find myself annoyed when I guess how a book or movie will end. It’s happening more often. “It’s the brother who started that rumor—it has to be him,” I’ll say about some series, and my husband will roll his eyes.

“The brother for sure. We’ll find out in episode 6. Or 7.”

As we accumulate experience, we see patterns with more clarity (hopefully), and this is a gift. The beauty of aging, after all, is that it comes with discernment. But the polarity is that novelty can be increasingly difficult to find.

I recently attended a short class on writing, for instance (which was a glorious feeling because I’m usually on the teaching end of such things), and it all felt a little too familiar. From the intros to the request for trigger warnings to the prompt and reflection. This particular course was about how to pace nonfiction, which has been my genre of choice for the last year, and I wanted to get some ideas for a few new essays.

When our enthusiastic and whipsmart instructor offered our first assignment, I felt my stomach sink. It’s one I’ve taught in many workshops, and when I heard her instructions, that been there, done that feeling revved up. I started thinking about all the housework I could catch up on in this hour and a half.

The assignment is one you may have taught or learned as well. It’s a good one. It begins with creating a timeline, from birth to now, and identifying moments in that timeline that felt like transitions or shifts in the way you saw the world. The most poignant memories.

I love giving this assignment because it’s solid and reliable. It produces material for most writers, and you can position these moments in times through various sensory entry points (remember what you felt, remember what you saw, etc…). But because it was so familiar, I just kept thinking, “I know how this will end.”

I’d explored the timeline of my life ad nauseam, so with my cursor circling the Leave Meeting button, I had a little discourse with myself and decided No. I’d paid $60 for this class, so I was going to stick with it. Why not practice what I’ve purported here and elsewhere many times? Why not adopt the yogic concept of a “beginner’s mind.”

I dropped my narrative about the been there, done that. And, folks, it was WELL worth it.

When I stopped trying to predict the end of the workshop and what it might bring, and instead asked myself—as though it was the first time—what felt urgent to me today, something novel arrived. What I realized (or remembered) is important for creative people to return to often.

Our view of the world is always changing. What is resonant on Monday is different than what it was fourteen Mondays ago, maybe even a few days ago.

And this is the beauty of writing. It will always be there for us with something new. Any creative act will. Creative output is never exhausted or done. Each day, we have something new to offer because we have gathered more input, have found new ways to see, and find ourselves in a different emotional/spiritual/philosophical state.

Michel de Montaigne recognized this in the 16th century. Sometimes referred to as the grandfather of the personal essay and a great influence on my early nonfiction writing, Montaigne famously returned to his essays (usually titled something similar to what I’m doing here “On [Something]”), and he’d add new thoughts as he gained insight and life experience, numbering his additions to watch how his outlook or beliefs had changed.

We can do this, too. Every day is an opportunity to create something from a slightly different angle. And to do so while still sharing authenticity and still offering all the wisdom we have today. If we adopt Montaigne’s commitment to self-study, it can be all the more interesting to revisit what we thought we knew.

Writing Prompt: Go back to something you’ve explored before (in any genre/medium). What’s changed in the way you see this scene/subject?

Special note: I’d like to invite you to an online reading on Saturday (1/13). I’ll be sharing a very short story inspired by my studies on charisma that appeared in The Shape of a Curve. RSVP here.