When I first read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic (1), her idea that stories exist independently of the writer and seek a human collaborator fascinated me. She spoke of ideas as living entities, wandering through the ether, waiting to be received by a willing participant. It wasn’t about creating something from scratch, but about being open, with an antenna propped for the ideas of inspiration. I found a similar notion in Alan Watt’s 90-Day Novel (2), in which he asserted that storytelling is an act of becoming a conduit—a listening device for what wants to be written, rather than forcefully using certain “rules of engagement” to shape it.
These two reputable books influenced my process of creating. In this essay, I will try to explore it in more detail than I did before (3). So let me tune in my antenna to the signal that wants to be received.
With my antenna tuned, I begin. When I close my eyes and sink into my mind, what do I see? It's not a landscape, not a scene with clear edges, but more of a fog—an endless haze where fragments float in and out of reach, like shadows moving beneath the surface of a still, dark lake. Images, half-formed phrases, and vague sensations rise slowly, like bubbles that burst before I can catch them. I resist the urge to reach out and grasp them; instead, I wait, breathing deeply, allowing whatever want to surface to do so on its own.
But my restless mind soon stirs in the silence, rattling like a loose window in the wind. What if there’s nothing there? it whispers. I feel its presence settles in like an impatient guest, but I try not to chase it away. There’s no expectation here, just exploration, I remind myself, my breath steadying the nervous edge creeping in.
Gradually, the fog shifts and something begins to coalesce—a faint impression of a room, its walls not made of stone or wood, but words. Stories rest against these walls like old books on dusty shelves, some half-written, others dog-eared and familiar. A low hum vibrates through the air, not quite a sound but a sensation as if the stories are alive with a pulse of their own. Is this where they live? I wonder, feeling the question as much as thinking it.
Then, a sharp voice cuts through, blunt and authoritative, wearing the tone of my no-nonsense cousin: Get real. Don’t entertain this nonsense. I can almost see him, arms crossed, jaw clenched ever so slightly, his face carved with disapproval. Stories aren’t just floating around like phantoms, he would say, voice firm and impatient, with that subtle edge of irritation. People have real work to do, not this sleepwalking nonsense.
And yet, despite his skepticism, I feel drawn to this place where the idea resides that stories aren’t merely crafted from scratch but are instead found and channeled—like faint radio signals waiting for someone to tune in. The doubt lingers, but it’s accompanied by something else: a quiet surge in my chest, like the first spark igniting a flame. What if there’s truth in it? I wonder. Another voice, softer and more familiar, like the whisper of an old friend, gently offers its support: It’s not about inventing, but discovering. Don’t dismiss it. Stay open. Stay tuned in.
In that moment, it feels as if something fragile and luminous has taken root, a small seed of trust sprouting in the shadow of doubt. Not certainty, but curiosity—an invitation to listen further, to what seems a distant and elusive presence waiting patiently, ready to unfold if only I’m willing to linger a little longer in the fog.
And then, like a fish darting up from dark waters, a memory surfaces—Tina, animated as she recounts something from a podcast she’d been engrossed in. She talked about an expert discussing narcissism and shame, weaving them together like strands in a tangled web. I hear her voice vibrating in my mind: “You know, people who act superior often have deep insecurities. It’s a defense mechanism. Projection.” Her words land with an uncomfortable weight, and a pang of recognition stirs in my chest. Do I do that? The question sits there, raw and unblinking, forcing me to face it. Do I hide behind smartness to mask something I’m too ashamed to acknowledge?
The thought prickles under my skin, scraping at my mind like a key turning in an old lock. Is that why I’m so quick to judge? A memory replays in sharp detail—my own voice, cool and detached, dismissing someone’s choices as 'stupid,' as if that would somehow prove my competence. There was a twisted satisfaction in it, a fleeting sense of feeling safer, above the fray. But now, as I relive it, the question circles back: Why?
A witness in my mind wants to dig deeper, but there’s another voice—a provocateur—eager to stir things up, pushing for a shift in perception. I murmur the question aloud, almost afraid of what it might reveal. In the silence that follows, a fragile voice rises—soft and painfully familiar, like a child trying to be brave.
Maybe it’s not about them, it whispers. Maybe it’s about hiding. About not wanting to be exposed, seen as weak.
The realization spreads slowly, like ink through water: beneath the harsh judgments, the casual dismissals, lies a deeper fear—of being inadequate, of being laughed at, of standing defenseless in the open. Exposed. Vulnerable.
I lean into discomfort, letting it unravel a little. There’s a narrative here, I realize—a storyline about the duality of our public and deeply private existence, of who we present to the world and what we conceal beneath the surface. It’s stitched together with threads of judgment, tangled with tight knots of fear that lie hidden under layers of practiced restraint. Tina’s words come back to me, clear and pointed: “Shame runs like an underground river, carving deep, unseen channels beneath our bravado. We scramble for whatever armor we can find to shield ourselves from the shadows we’ve pushed away—those fragmented, unwanted pieces of ourselves deeply hidden, unconscious.”
Did I use the mirror of narcissism to gloss over those fractures, to build a shiny fortress of perfection? Did I sharpen my words into spears to keep others at bay, fearing their eyes might pierce through to something shameful within? Beneath the surface, was there a quiet desperation under all the noise? I have to acknowledge the murmurs within and accept that I delighted in the applause, the smiles of approval, like a performer indulging in fleeting spotlight moments on a stage. But each compliment only covered the cracks for a moment, like thin plaster over a fault line ready to split.
Beneath the applause, a different fear coiled very tight: What if they see past the armor, see me as I truly am—ordinary, flawed, fragile? What if the polished façade crumbles and I’m left exposed, stripped of pretense, like a warrior standing naked on a battlefield? No, that couldn’t happen. I couldn’t bear the world seeing the cards that propped me up, each one pulled would send the whole house collapsing into dust. I’ve built this fortress too carefully, each piece a necessary defense against a truth I can’t allow to show up.
The room in my mind shifts, the walls rearranging, opening up to new possibilities. If I could write that story, I think, if I could find the courage to explore those shadows… If I could lower my weapons or even throw them away, accept who I truly am… There’s a familiar pull, a mixture of excitement and fear. That would be something worth telling.
The hum fades, slipping into the background like the ebb of a receding tide, as if it’s content to rest, having whispered enough for now. I make a quiet pact with myself to keep my ears tuned, to let the vibrations ripple through without trying to stifle them with logic or brush them aside with distraction. Even if the signals are difficult to decipher, there’s a strange liberation in embracing that uncertainty—in letting curiosity be the compass rather than seeking safety.
Maybe that’s where the magic of the story lies—not in mastering the script, but in surrendering to the recording of channeled wisdom. In showing up without armor, living in the moment, and allowing it to shape me, instead of forcing my limited beliefs—fueled by fear and shame disguised in the clothes of narcissism—to shape it. It feels like stepping out of a room filled with mirrors into an open field, where the air is pregnant with possibilities. No illusions to maintain, no roles to play, just a simple, unguarded presence. There’s something almost sacred in it: being unburdened by expectation, willing to explore without a map, and open to whatever truth might rise like mist from the grass.
1. Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, by Elizabeth Gilbert, Riverhead Books, 2016
2. The 90-Day Novel: Unlock the Story Within, by Alan Watt, Writers Tribe Books, 2017
3. Reflections of a Psychiatrist, by Zelko Leon, Independently Published, 2022
yes! creation is about vulnerability and openenss.