Stories
Until recently, I never harbored any desire to be a novelist. I always believed that I lacked the imagination to create a satisfying story from nothing.
Telling other people’s stories or laying out well-researched facts for others to absorb? I can do that. Or telling my own story filled with my own observations and lessons learned? I think I can do that.
At this moment, however, other people’s stories are entangled with my own. Some of these stories are not mine to tell yet, and some may never be mine to share. Most of the story, however, is missing. There are empty pages that need to be filled with someone else’s memory of the details.
Details, however, can change shape and form in memory over time. So how close I can ever get to what was real is unknown.
And right now, I find my previously unrecognized imagination creating its own scenarios.
While doing research, it is natural for the brain to start filling in blanks when it encounters them and then to look for evidence that supports the those filled-in blanks. Sometimes that’s the right thing to do; the most obvious answer is most often the correct one. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
The imagination has to be kept in check. Stick to what can be proven and avoid drawing a conclusion until the facts support that conclusion.
In journalism school, professors would often recite some version of a quote that is supposed to have hung in the newsroom of the Chicago Tribune: “If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out.” Preferably with two independent reliable sources and a bulletproof paper trail.
In looking for my own answer to the question of how I came into this world, I thought I had created a strong paper trail. That trail has evidence behind it. Exhibit A was a scientific fact that led to the discovery of Exhibit B and that led to the probability of Exhibit C being the correct answer.
Since I lack imagination, linear has always been my favorite order. A to B to C.
But what if that discovery of B that led to a conclusion of C answers the question of A, but those revelations disrupt the rest of the alphabet, thus unintentionally rewriting the life stories of other people who were never looking for a different version?
That was a convoluted metaphor that cryptically describes the angst I’m feeling that I may, however unintentionally, cause hurt and confusion to others who didn’t sign up for this. I really don’t want to be that asshole.
In my desire not to be that asshole, I keep imagining all the ways I could be wrong. I mentally recalculatie A, B and C to find new answers. Far from bulletproof, I want shoot holes through my paper trail big enough that those zebras — whose hoofbeats I keep hearing — can stampede through it.
But my lack of creativity is making it difficult to construct those stories.
The search for my origin, I have learned, does not exist in vacuum. As much as I wish otherwise, the truth has a way of finding the light, no matter how deeply it was buried and no matter for how long.
I believe I have the right to know who I am. But what right do I have to wield the shovel that unburies a few well-hidden truths and, during the dig, I throw the dirt all over other people’s lives?
Why can’t I just imagine my own resolution and then just walk away from this story?
Probably for the same reason I keep writing twisted metaphors — I am just lacking in creative talent.
Or I may just be an asshole.
