Stories That Need to Be Told and the Ethics of My Storytelling

Woooo two posts in one day! Be sure to check the post below for double the fun.

I was daydreaming again about being a famous author when something a professor once said to a writing class I was taking popped into my head: “All of you are here because you have stories that need to be told.” Those may or may not have been her exact words, but those words rang true. I wrote – and chose English-Writing as a major – because I felt I had something important to say and that other people would want to read those things. I would imagine others in the class felt the same way.

It’s no secret that I haven’t written much in the way of short stories like I did in college; everyone, naturally, asks “why?” My standard answer as of late has been that I simply have nothing more to say, that college seemed like the right place and time to write about what was bugging me. This still holds true; as you can see by reading the stories on the right, almost every one of them has to do with girls. I was the emo kid of short story writers, forever bitter and whiny towards any human being with a vagina.

Now, of course, I am in a long-term relationship and that bitterness, for the most part, has receded. What the hell do I write about now?

I tried my hand at writing about music, sports, politics, and anything else under the sun that I could think of. Though I wouldn’t say any of the stuff on this blog or any other one was horrible, I don’t think I’ve written anything that was particularly important either. When I wrote in college – and it could very well be the support of nurturing teachers and classmates that artificially pumped up my ego – I got this intense feeling of satisfaction after I wrote a story. I felt like I wrote things people could relate to and empathize with. I haven’t had that feeling since.

While I was daydreaming about being that famous author, I think I may have hit upon what I could write about that could be fulfilling on this end, and perhaps insightful and compelling on yours. I’m talking, naturally, about my life.

(Stop laughing.)

I don’t mean it as a biography or anything like that. Nobody wants to hear about a 26-year-old from the suburbs of a Midwestern city. I wasn’t raped or molested; I don’t lead a double life as a gigolo; no one close to me has died (yet). In fact, I am not imaginative enough to create a character that has endured any or all of those things. Hell, my most harrowing moment thus far has been having my wisdom teeth pulled out. The biggest culture shock I experienced was going from a Catholic grade school to a public high school. The general details of my life are boring and average.

I thought college was the period in one’s life where you’re supposed to find out who you are. All I learned was that I liked beer and didn’t like people much. I’ve been trying to figure out since high school why I am the way I am. Why don’t I talk to anyone? Why don’t I have many friends? And why don’t I make any effort to meet new ones? In short, why am I so fucked up in the head?

This is where ethics come into play. Though I’ll be a primary character, there are people in my life that will be involved in these stories too. What of them? I write in a primarily creative non-fiction style, meaning that the gist of the story is true but some details may be embellished to make it more appealing or because our memories are imperfect.

I don’t have that tiny little editor in my head that says, “If you write this, there’s a good chance you could hurt someone you love.” On the one hand, I don’t really care because truth is truth and it needs to be told. On the other, I have few meaningful, good relationships as it is and I don’t really want to do anything to jeopardize them.

I need to make something clear about this: I don’t have dirt on these people. I don’t know any other way to explain what I’m talking about other than that they may be things that could be said, but shouldn’t or at the very least don’t really need to be.

An example: My relationship was shaky at best with my dad during my teen and college years (yeah, yeah, who’s wasn’t?) – it’s important to me because I feel it shaped who I am as a man – yet do I have to right to say things that may or may not be hurtful about a man who put a roof over my head and put me through school?

I don’t know. I can feel myself rambling now, again, and it’s of no use because I don’t have anything concrete in my mind anyway…

My idea for this project was a weekly blog comprising of mostly essays but some short stories too. Think anyone would like to read that? Would it be too much of a downer? Is the potential for jeopardizing my close relationships too great? Would anyone care?

I’ve been wrestling with this the last few days, and would love to hear what you think.