Why I Believe Everyone Has a Story Worth Telling

There is a moment in almost every workshop I run when someone says something along the lines of — "I'm not very creative" or "I don't really have anything interesting to say."

And every time, without exception, by the end of the session, that same person has produced something that surprises them. A line of writing. A picture. A poem. A character. A moment from their life reframed as fiction. Something that did not exist before they walked into the room.

I have come to believe — and this is entirely my own view — that the idea of not being creative is one of the most damaging things we tell ourselves. Creativity is not a talent you either have or don't have. In my experience, it is much more like a muscle. One that most of us were told to stop using somewhere around the age of eleven, when we were informed that our drawings weren't quite right and our stories needed to follow a particular structure. The age where we had to prepare for exams and were told we had to prepare to be adults. The age where we were told something like, “You can’t keep acting like this forever, you will be an adult soon, with a job and your own house to look after, you need to stop living in these dream worlds.”

Well, my wonderful readers, we are, all of us, storytelling creatures. We have been since long before writing existed. Before books, before paper, before any of it, human beings sat around fires and told each other stories. About what had happened. About what they feared. About what they hoped for. About who they were.

I don't think that impulse ever goes away. I think we just get better at suppressing it. We get better at suppressing so many things that we sometimes lose track of who we are.

I started writing as a child. Not because I was particularly talented, I wasn't — but because I needed somewhere to put things. Thoughts that were too big for my head. Feelings I didn't have the vocabulary for yet. Writing gave them somewhere to go. I did lose track of some of these things as a child, as it wasn’t classed as cool, and I went through the usual rebellion teenage years with friends. The stage where we thought we understood the world better than our parents. We didn’t. Not even a bit.

Years later, when I became a dad and started making up stories on the spot during late-night feeds, I realised something. The stories didn't need to be polished. They didn't need to follow any rules. They just needed to be told. And my children didn't care whether the plot was coherent or whether the characters were well developed. They cared that someone was there, making something up, just for them. I have worked in many care roles over the years, too. I did the same thing there with residents during the afternoons. It was great fun and sometimes made us giggle while waiting for afternoon tea and biscuits instead of watching countdown.

That, I think, is what stories are really for.

Not publication. Not performance. Not impressing anyone.

Just a connection. Just the act of saying — here is something I made, and I made it for you.

I have met people who have lived through extraordinary things who believe their story isn't worth telling because they're not famous. I have met people who have survived things I cannot imagine and dismiss it with — "Oh, it's nothing really, it’s just life."

It is never nothing. It’s life. It’s our life script, our story. It’s what makes us who we are. It’s our uniqueness.

In my opinion, the most powerful stories are rarely the dramatic ones. And by this, I mean the way the big blockbusters at the cinema have us believe things play out. No, I am talking about the ones that seem like nothing to some but the world to you. The specific ones. The ones that say — this is what it felt like to be me, in this moment, in this life. Those are the stories that make other people feel less alone.

Which is, when you strip everything else away, that underneath is each and every one of us.

If you have ever thought you don't have a story worth telling, I would gently challenge that. Not with advice. Just with a question.

What would you write if you knew no one was watching?

That is some food for thought.

Thank you for joining me with my thoughts today. Catch you in the next one. :)

This post reflects my personal opinions and experiences as an author and workshop facilitator. If you'd like to explore your own storytelling in a relaxed and supportive setting, come along to a Workshop Corner session at keithgumbrell.co.uk — the first story belongs to you.

This blog reflects my personal views only and is not intended as clinical or professional advice.