Who am I? Who are any of us? We are all the sum of our experiences. Stories, lies, and beliefs: the things we are told, the things we learn, the things we tell ourselves. There comes a point where we might find ourselves needing to determine which statements are true at our core. Who would we be if circumstance had not dictated what choice we made? Who would we be if the choice someone else made for us had been different? How much of that is determined by the stories we carry with us? What is the significance of storytelling?
Many of the stories we hold are not always true to who we are, and yet, we often cannot let go of them. These lies become as much a part of us as anything else: the versions of ourselves we are for other people, the sacrifices we make to survive, the inevitable cruelty and hardship each of us endures. It’s not uncommon to believe the lies more than we believe the truth about ourselves. As humans, we rely more on lies in life than any of us should. We lie for so many reasons; the only one I could ever personally concede to was to avoid disruption; even then, I’d repeatedly rather tell on myself than be dishonest. I find dishonesty pointless; truth catches up eventually—living a more authentic life prevents that stealthy onset of eventual fallout and the catastrophic meltdown that can accompany fallout is deeply disruptive, more so than any real albeit difficult conversation or uncomfortable moment. I am trying to make peace with the lies we tell to one another to offer peace (‘yes, I’m fine’; ‘no, you look great’; ‘I’m sure you’re going to win next time’, etc.) but overall, I detest the lie. I’ve never really been able to lie well. I’ve never been able to get comfortable enough to do it much less make peace with having told it. Yet, my life is filled with lies. Not only am I surrounded by them in the world but my own sense of self has been a lie by omission. If we have to lie about something, maybe the deeper question to reflect on is ‘why am I ashamed of or disbelieving of the truth?’
Are we as people conditioned to doubt or misunderstand honesty? Yes. Does unfiltered honesty cause more problems than that of the havoc negativity bias can wreak? Yes. Honesty is not always the best policy because a lot of us are not often in the right position to accept it from others, and yet only when we are able to be honest with ourselves (and that often includes being honest with those around us about them, too) can we really thrive. Lies offer temporary peace across the map, it offers enabling of one another as we’re told the things we assume each of us wants to hear, and that’s an easy enough approach to everything if we care little about a sense of permanence, or if we are happy to appease and be appeased, but if we are anxious to find purpose and meaning here and now, it’s difficult, and it’s doubly difficult if we think about what else there is to come long after we depart.
As we struggle to accept what is true and what isn’t, there is often so little that offers genuine comfort or reassurance we can trust, because for some of us, it can be hard to find this within the people immediately around us. Storytelling is a passage between lies and truth.
Books brought me comfort when there seemed to be nowhere else to turn. Fiction and non-fiction alike have value. There’s as much of a lesson within the pages of a far-flung adventure tale equally as valuable to some of us as a piece of scientifically-backed research. Emotional intelligence gleaned from experience and compassion for the struggles of other people from different walks of life is relevant and necessary to a person’s growth. Understanding how something works is fundamental, and having it backed by scientific research is reassuring and reliable and provides a solid basis for understanding so much. I find equal value in an expression of a simple struggle of an average person condensed and honed into something which holds meaning and truth, a truth that can resonate with someone, contain an insight which brings forth a connection and sense of sameness in a world that can often feel so terribly alien, as I find within the fruit of the scientific pursuits of those smarter than I am.
Books let me share the journeys of people I’ve never met, throughout history, across the map, across cultural barriers, against stigma. They’ve taught me empathy and compassion, and given me understanding where I might not have had any. It helps me live for a while or at least, glimpse into the lives that differ from my own so that I can have insight into the people around me. When these lessons are put on hold, when this learning is halted, we become stunted blinded versions of ourselves. Books are windows and eyes, shining lights into our world and the worlds of others and sometimes we need a compelling character to take us on that journey with the author to be able to learn something new, because sometimes, it’s not enough to simply read about the structured research; sometimes, it’s not enough to trust the victor’s history texts; and sometimes, it’s not enough to simply be told a story by one person, or one group.
There has always been a place for storytelling and there has never been a bigger space for it than now. Books hold inside them lessons, and there are enough of them and so vast a variety of them, to contain a lesson for every one of us no matter who we are and how different or alike we may be. Books are valuable tools—they aid us; if something aids the growth of a human mind, it has value. Reading (+ listening, consuming) has been equally, perhaps more valuable than writing has, but I use this quantifier cautiously, so as not to undo the hard work of finding value and worth in the self. Books teach us things, and when we write stories ourselves (and maybe more importantly, write the story OF ourself) we learn how to be true to who we are.
It’s okay to tell our own story. As we embrace our diverse selves as we exist, we discover other stories which speak to us, not only resonating but teaching us yet more about our differences, and ultimately teaching us acceptance. Acceptance of ourselves begins here, and yet, if we only ever consume stories of others without telling our own, (at least to ourselves, enough to solidify who we are,) acceptance is ever elusive. It’s important to have the gatekeepers stand down as we enter a different era because as we share more about ourselves, we create more opportunities for acceptance. A gatekeeper might be as common as a neighbour reminding you that we all have problems, and maybe there is truth in that: telling the seemingly same stories over and over is inevitable, but differences matter. Same as we all are, mere biological matter in the ecosystem, our experience of something and the way we express it can offer insight. It can be what helps another person with those same or similar struggles understand themselves or others, or us, just a little more.
Writing offers a deeply personal exploration into the human experience. Life should not be a ruthless expedition to figure out the self. It’s often a struggle to stay afloat and meet expectations while holding onto an authentic version of yourself, seizing the quiet moments to understand what remains confusing or unknown. As we learn more, we become more aware of the world around us, and it becomes ever more important to be able to keep ‘your story of yourself’ authentic. The story of ourselves is important to bear in mind and reflect upon and correct what isn’t true for us. If we don’t do this often enough, we allow too much loss of self-control and we become complacent to other people’s systems, both within our personal spaces and in the wider world. We make decisions out of these states of mind that aren’t authentically mindful enough; we adopt masks and personas that become integrated with who we are and we can default to an auto-pilot system. Auto-pilot is different for everyone. … Where those patterns take us depends largely on how our beliefs and values are shaped around the stories we’ve been told: you are shy, you are awkward, you are weird, you don’t know any better, or you are smart, and brave—you’re resilient; and the stories we resonate with as we grow.
I began journalling as a child of eleven. I kept journalling, a deeply private undertaking, never with an intention to share anything I wrote. I loved it and yet, it felt shameful to have the urge: to be self-indulgent in not only writing about my experience and view of the world, but to assume later that anyone might want to read about them. I used to think that memoirs — even the act of writing itself — was a self-absorbed undertaking, simply because of the transference of disdain. Now, I understand that whether or not I share my story, telling my story (even to myself) is necessary. When you’ve spent a lifetime hearing about yourself from others, being told who to be, what to think, how to dress and behave, how to love and who to love and what not to love and what’s wrong and bad and unacceptable according to the biases and projections of others, it becomes almost crucial to get your own story straight—to get your truth documented in a sense, so that the narrative of who you are and how you show up in the world is real and authentic to you—instead of being a jumble of other people’s ideas and ideals.
These are things worth reflection, and yet, with the pace of the ever-evolving world, there is less and less time and space to do so. When our own discomfort with who we are spills over, there is a need for pause; the difficulties aren’t always something we can improve until we look back—but we’re also told to ‘never look back, keep moving forward’. Yet, how can we ever reflect on the things that have happened to us if we refuse to briefly glance back? If anything, refusing ourselves this act causes buildup, a backlog of information, unfinished thoughts, opinions from others without sufficient time given to ourselves about what we really think and feel. Personally, I got stuck in the past because it had been too long a time without reflection, too long without writing, writing not just as an outlet but a tool for processing, and as a means of writing the story of who I am.
AI and Storytelling
I don’t have a lot to say AI within storytelling other than this: I wouldn’t use it to tell a story because it creates too much distance, it removes authenticity; it would no longer be my story, my truth (however abstract that truth might be). Writing, the very practice of writing is not something that can be replicated. To use AI in that kind of writing is about as useful to me as getting someone else to experience my life and the world while I step further away. That’s not my goal. With AI replicating what life is partially like for us, some people may wonder why anyone would want to write when it can be done for them. I would say that those people misunderstand the significance of storytelling.