Ordinary Trust

It’s impossible to write without trust. Even if you outline every scene in your novel, you still need trust when you sit down to actually write the story, to find each sentence, each line of dialogue. What, however, are we trusting in? Our knowledge of craft? Our intelligence? The Muse’s generosity? It’s not always clear, but what every writer learns almost immediately is the best stuff, the most interesting and exciting stuff, are the surprises and the discoveries. They are what give every story and poem and screenplay life, but they can’t be planned for or demanded or manufactured. They come when they come.

Fortunately, people learn to trust all kinds of things. Whenever I fly, I’m trusting the pilots and the navigators and mechanics, none of whom I’ll ever meet. I trust the strangers I walk by on the street, the other drivers on the road, the cashiers at stores. It’s true that sometimes doors fly off mid-air, strangers might try to steal your purse, and cars collide – but I can’t dwell on these rarities. I’d never leave the house. Without trust, my world shrinks.

And without trust, my stories won’t get written. Sometimes, when I sit down to a blank page with no idea what I’ll start that day, I feel a bit as if I’ve approached the edge of a cliff, and the waters into which I’m about to jump look deathly far below me. I’m all alone, and I’m unprepared, and the void of failure looms near. So it often begins, me feeling small and uncreative. But then, after some more sitting, and wondering, and remembering, and listening, one small idea arrives. That’s usually all I get. Today all I got was the word “trust.” But now, I’ve got something to focus on, something to explore, to ask questions about, and I don’t feel alone or afraid anymore.

It's normal. It’s as normal as a plane taking off and landing safely. Ultimately, trust is as ordinary and familiar as breathing. Mostly, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. It’s only when you hold your breath that you appreciate the first time you fill your lungs again with air, and it’s only when I doubt an idea will come that I’m aware I must have faith that one will. It’s life itself I’m trusting in, something beyond my immediate understanding, that I can’t control or touch, but is just there, and there, and there like the thoughts that never stop coming to me.

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