Ordinary Windows

Perhaps you enjoy the very private, solitary act of writing. You enjoy sitting with a blank piece of paper and an idea for a story and learning how it will be told. How interesting and revelatory it is to take the world you can see and touch and smell and translate that into nothing but thought and words. You learn to see that world you believed you knew so well differently when rendered in this way, and how grateful you are when you feel as if a window has been opened for you. You opened it both purposefully and accidentally, for it was you who chose to sit at that blank page, but you could not have willed the results for which you were most glad.

It's easy to understand why you enjoy this so much, and it’s also natural that you should want at some point to share what you have written with other people. You have enjoyed reading the stories other people have written at their desks; perhaps someone would enjoy yours. Perhaps. Maybe you have found yourself in the company of others and been uninterested in the conversation that unfolded. God, the things people will go on and on about. And maybe this experience has led you to be a naturally private person who doesn’t seek any kind of social spotlight; wouldn’t want to be one those who bores the table.

All of which might lead you ask yourself, “Why do I think my story is worth telling?” You really mean sharing with others, but you feel that if it’s not worth sharing then it’s not worth writing. This question can plague you, particularly at night or in some quiet moment of your day when you’re not writing, when you’re not discovering how the story will unfold or no windows are being opened for you. All that good stuff happened in private. It seemed great at the time, but now you’re not so sure. Who are you, after all? Why do you think you’re so special?

You’ll never be able to answer that question. You will never feel truly special because you’ve always been yourself and it’s what you’re used to, just like you’re used to the sunrise and the rain and the sound of cars passing by at night. Except when you write, it’s your job to describe a sunrise or passing traffic as if observed for the first time. It’s the only way to bring those common moments to life, to animated them in your reader’s imagination and in your own. You train your artist’s eye on life, and if you sit with it, wait and look upon it without judgment, with only curiosity and compassion, a window opens and you see that nothing in the world is ordinary, not even you.

Check out Fearless Writing with Bill Kenower on YouTube or your favorite podcast app.

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