People sometimes tell themselves, “I’m not very creative,” or, “I don’t have anything interesting to say.”
I have heard versions of those sentences while encouraging people to try writing, storytelling and other creative activities. Yet, once somebody gives themselves permission to begin, they often produce something that surprises them.
It might be one line of writing, a picture, a poem, a character or a moment from their life reframed as fiction.
Whatever form it takes, it is something that did not exist before they created it.
“I’m Not Creative”
I have come to believe—and this is my personal view—that many people mistake creativity for artistic perfection.
They think being creative means producing a brilliant novel, painting a lifelike portrait, performing on a stage or making something good enough to sell.
But creativity does not have to involve any of those things.
It can be practised. It can begin with curiosity, playfulness and a willingness to make something without knowing whether it will be any good.
As children, many of us created things without worrying about the result. We invented games, drew pictures, built imaginary worlds and told stories that changed every time we repeated them.
As we grow older, judgement can begin to creep in.
Is it good enough?
Am I doing it correctly?
What will other people think?
Sometimes we stop creating because we become more concerned about the result than the experience.
We Have Always Shared Stories
Human beings shared stories orally long before books and modern publishing existed.
Stories have helped people communicate experiences, preserve memories, explore fears, express hopes and understand the world around them.
I do not think that impulse disappears simply because we become adults. We may become better at suppressing it, dismissing it or convincing ourselves that our ideas are unimportant.
We can become so practised at ignoring parts of ourselves that we begin to lose track of what we genuinely enjoy.
Why I Started Writing
I began writing when I was a child.
I did not write because I believed I was especially talented. I wrote because I needed somewhere to put things—thoughts that felt too large for my head and feelings for which I did not yet have the vocabulary.
Writing gave them somewhere to go.
Like many people, I drifted away from some of those interests as I grew older. There were teenage years, changing friendships and the familiar stage when we believed we understood the world better than our parents.
We did not. Not even slightly.
Years later, becoming a dad brought storytelling back into my life.
During late-night feeds, I began making up stories for my children. Those stories did not need to be polished. They did not need perfect plots, carefully planned structures or fully developed characters.
My children did not care about any of that.
They cared that somebody was there, making something up especially for them.
Those moments eventually helped inspire the stories of Felix the Fox.
Stories in Unexpected Places
I have also worked in care roles during my life, and storytelling sometimes found its way into those settings.
Making up stories with residents during quieter afternoons could give us something enjoyable to share while we waited for tea and biscuits instead of watching Countdown.
The purpose was not publication or performance.
It was connection.
It was the simple act of saying, “Here is something we made together.”
That, to me, is one of the most valuable things stories can offer.
Your Story Does Not Need to Be Dramatic
People sometimes dismiss their experiences because they do not consider themselves famous, remarkable or important enough to have a story.
Others have lived through extraordinary circumstances but describe them as “just life”.
But our ordinary experiences are still part of who we are.
A story does not need explosions, dramatic revelations or a cinema-style ending to matter. Some of the most affecting stories are built from moments that might appear insignificant to somebody else.
A familiar voice.
A room you still remember.
A decision that seemed small at the time.
Something somebody said that stayed with you.
A person you miss.
A moment when you realised that your life was beginning to change.
The details that feel ordinary to one person may help another person feel understood and less alone.
Stories and Narrative Therapy
The connection between stories and identity is also one of the reasons narrative therapy forms part of my work with clients.
Narrative therapy was developed principally by Michael White and David Epston during the 1980s. It is a respectful, collaborative and non-blaming approach that views people as the experts in their own lives.
One of its central ideas is that the person is not the problem—the problem is the problem.
This distinction can be important. When somebody says, “I am anxious,” “I am a failure” or “I am broken,” the difficulty can begin to sound like their entire identity.
Narrative work may explore the problem as something affecting the person’s life rather than something defining who they are. Together, the client and counsellor can consider when the problem has the greatest influence, when its influence is weaker and what the person already knows or does that helps them respond to it.
Narrative therapy may also involve exploring the dominant stories people have developed about themselves.
A person might arrive believing that their life demonstrates weakness, failure or inadequacy. That story may contain genuine pain, but it may not contain everything. Experiences of courage, persistence, care, resistance and survival can become overshadowed when one problem-focused account dominates the way somebody understands their life.
This is sometimes described as re-authoring.
Re-authoring does not mean pretending that painful experiences never happened or replacing them with an artificially positive version. It means looking for experiences, values, abilities and possibilities that the dominant story may have left out.
As an integrative counsellor, I use ideas from narrative therapy when they are appropriate for the individual client. My role is not to rewrite somebody else’s story for them. It is to work alongside them while they explore the meanings they have given to their experiences and consider whether other, previously overlooked stories might also be true.
Perhaps that is another reason every person has a story worth telling.
Sometimes the story we have repeated for years is not the only story available to us.
Telling Does Not Have to Mean Sharing
Believing your story is worth telling does not mean you must publish it.
You do not have to show it to anybody. You do not have to turn it into a book, perform it on a stage or place it online.
Sometimes writing privately is enough.
The value may be found in remembering, reflecting, imagining or expressing something you have never previously put into words.
The story still matters even if you are its only reader.
A Question to Take Away
If you have ever believed that you are not creative or that you have nothing worth saying, I would gently challenge that belief with one question:
What would you write if you knew that nobody was watching and nobody else would ever read it?
You could begin with one memory, one character, one sentence or one completely invented idea.
It does not have to be polished.
It does not have to be impressive.
It simply has to begin.
That is some food for thought.
Thank you for joining me for today’s collection of thoughts. I will catch you in the next one. :)
Details of future creative and storytelling sessions will be added to the Workshop Corner as they become available.
Reference
White, M., & Epston, D. (1990). Narrative Means to Therapeutic Ends. W. W. Norton & Company.
Important Information
This article reflects my personal opinions and experiences as a qualified accredited counsellor, writer and workshop facilitator. It is intended to encourage personal reflection and creativity and should not be treated as clinical or professional advice.
