Actually, it wasn’t inexplicable. I’d been living the writer’s life for years, happily turning out stories on a stimulating array of topics. I wrote about prisons and wine auctions. I interviewed inventors and CEOs. I discovered how to create a home-made swimming pool and learned about the sexual practices of dude ranch employees. I loved the variety of the work, the ability to poke my nose into places I didn’t belong, the challenge of turning experience into story.

But, alas, I had no book. And books are what writers are supposed to do. It’s what we do to give ourselves legitimacy. It’s what we do to give ourselves an answer when strangers ask—and they always do—if we’ve written any best-sellers lately. As writers, a book is our red carpet walk, our space launch, and the perfect excuse for dropping sixty-five bucks on a designer pen to use at bookstore signings.

* * *

Through some miracle intervention by the publishing gods, I managed to publish two books in two years. Each took much longer to create, but nevermind the details. All you need to know is that I loved the research, and when writing, I forgot to eat and other people’s opinions ceased to matter. Plus, I secretly knew when my second book came out, lights would flash, bells would ring, and Oprah would realize how woefully misguided her previous book selections had been.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

Yes, I acquired the ISBN numbers and Amazon rankings. Yes, I gave some interviews, received some fan mail, and my mother was proud. But alongside these over-in-an-instant firework highs crawled the shimmering snail’s trail lows.

I traveled across the country to a book festival and somehow mustered up the enthusiasm to speak to an audience of two who only came to my reading after being told they were too late for the “reading” by the legless wonder dog whose inspirational life story had been the rage on daytime television.

I spoke at a book club where few members had actually read my book and the person who gazed at me with the most rapt attention was also the one, I later learned, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease.

I read reviews by critics who disagreed with my brilliance. I got notice my publisher filed for bankruptcy. I began to revisit old family slights.

But these exercises in character development were minor compared to the crack dealers who began hanging out in the dark alleyways of my mind, taunting me with all I’d done wrong with my life—namely, having the vanity to think I was a fancy enough to become a famous author.

Ten months passed. I taught, soberly extolling the virtues of the writing life to my students. I still gave an occasional reading, reacting perhaps a bit too eagerly to requests. What I didn’t do was write. Not a single word. Instead, I began dreaming of a more rewarding career as a Mini-Mart Touch-Key professional.

Seeking to distract myself from my misery, I planned a few days at my uncle’s cabin in Northern California. Upon arriving, he took me inside and pointed to a white cardboard box.

“I think you’ll be interested in that,” he said.

The next day, I opened the box. Inside was a stack of yellowing newspaper and magazine articles, on top of which sat an oversized journal. The first page of the journal was labeled “Stories Written Since January 1, 1920.”

* * *

The first column listed the names of stories written each month. The second listed the word count. The third, whether the story had sold or not, and to whom. I’d heard rumors of there being another writer in the family but no one seemed to know the details. Finally, here was proof that long ago it was my great-grandfather who’d lived the same life I do.

All morning, I dug through his box of clippings. He wrote for Sunday school publications like the The Boy’s Comrade, major dailies such as the San Francisco Examiner, and even published a couple of poems in the New York Times. I’d never known anything about my great grandfather, but his stories on Italian aviators, forest restoration and the Civil War revealed he was a person with eclectic interests. His stories also displayed an eerie similarity to my own style. How? Like me, he tended to insert questions into the middle of paragraphs. Like me, he also had a fondness for writing about people outside of the limelight, as evidenced by his story on the annual meeting of The Boy Corn Farmers of America. “Think of it!” he wrote. “Nine thousand boys whose sole qualification is that they know how to raise corn.”

What struck me most about his journal was the workman-like way he went about his craft.

* * *

In January 1920, he wrote eight stories ranging from 1,000 to 4,100 words, sold all but two, and earned an average of one cent for every five words, creating a monthly income of $25, minus the costs of postage and typing services. His output was similar every month that year. Until I decided to write books, I had the same kind of record on my own computer.

After hours spent reviewing my grandfather’s stories, I went outside, eased onto a lawn chair, and began writing in my own journal about the experience of finding his. I wrote about the passions he followed into print, the worlds he entered simply because he wrote, the legacy he left with his words. The more I wrote about him, the more I began to get that feeling I always get when inspired by another writer. It’s a feeling that starts with admiration, is followed quickly by envy, and then culminates in determination, in knowing that if I just put my mind to it, I too could write about forests or farmers or aviators or whatever else happens to snag my curiosity.

Reading my great-grandfather’s journal allowed me to recall what I love most about writing and that is the process itself—the doing, the pursuit, the held-breath anticipation of a new idea followed by the exhaled satisfaction of a finished piece. My passion for writing lies in the execution not the accolades, nice though they are, and somewhere along the line I’d forgotten that. It was time to get busy.

As the afternoon wore on, I began making a list of stories I’d been wanting to write but hadn’t because I’d too busy being disappointed in myself for not writing. To date, I’ve written five of the stories on the list, have started two others, and may even have the seedlings of a new book idea.

My great-grandfather’s journal helped me to understand that this passion for writing is in my DNA, and I can’t ignore it any more than I can change my height. I can, however, work to manage my expectations and focus on what I love most about the work as opposed to what it lacks. It’s not always easy. But it’s always been worth it.

This essay originally appeared in 5280:Denver's City Magazine.

At some point or another, in almost every single project, writers will confront a massive wall of uncertainty. The writer will start to question the subject or the way she’s telling her story. She’ll begin to doubt she has anything original to say, or that anyone will care.

If she’s written a lot, she may feel the material spinning wildly out of control. Instead of writing a tidy little essay about, say, travel, she might discover she’s also writing about fear and loss and that trip she once took to Scotland and the tiny old woman she met in a train station late at night who took her home and gave her vanilla cake and a glass of brandy. This, in turn, will make the writer wonder about her own mother and how she would never feed cake to a traveler and why it is, exactly, that her mother keeps showing up on the page.

Alternatively, if the writer hasn’t written much, she may regard it as a sign she has nothing valuable to say. Never has. Never will.

These negative thoughts—whatever form they take—lurk like gang members in the dark alleys of a writer’s mind. They taunt. They cause the writer to question. They make her feel afraid, or ashamed.

I’ve been in that dark alley too many times to count, and so have my clients. And what I’ve learned is this: fear and doubt and uncertainty are a completely normal part of the writing process. Let me repeat: Fear and doubt and uncertainty are a completely normal part of the writing process. Instead of trying to ban these emotions, or take them as proof you should hand over your laptop, learn to listen to them. Here’s what they may be telling you:

1. There is a problem that needs to be solved. You may need to approach the subject from a different angle; your original thesis may be incorrect; you may be emphasizing the wrong details; the structure you’ve chosen may be flawed. Typically, doubt is a sign your writer’s intuition is working. Pay attention to the problem it’s trying to highlight.

2. Slow down. You could be working too quickly through the material. The words might be falling flat because you’re not giving them enough thought.

3. You’re misleading yourself. Many writers, myself included, think they shouldn’t move forward with a project unless they know exactly what a story is going to be about, or how it will be structured, or what voice the author should use. The truth is that the ONLY way to understand exactly what you want to say, how a book should be structured, or what voice to use is by writing. Don’t wait to answer questions of form before you start writing; the writing will create the answers.

4. That you care. Read an interview with any accomplished writer and they’ll likely reveal the ongoing battles they wage with doubt. Doubt is healthy and a good sign because it forces you to engage on a very deep level with your material.

It doesn't matter if the subject is personal experience (designed to be shared in a personal essay or memoir), or knowledge gained in the workplace (for, say, a how-to book). All writers need to go beyond their easy, first impressions of a topic to understand what it is they want to say and why.

Today, I'm going to start a semi-regular blog column (a blolumn?) called Thinking Like a Writer, which will offer periodic advice on how to peel back the layers in order to write in a fresh, meaningful and thoughtful way.

The first step toward understanding what you want to say and why is understanding who you are writing for. Understanding your audience may sound obvious, but many writers I've worked with overlook this crucial first step. Here are some questions to get you thinking:

--Who is your ideal reader? (Be specific: How old are they? Are they well educated? What makes them happy, afraid, worried? Are there important demographics associated with your audience--i.e., marital status, income, geographic location.)

--Why would they want to read your book?

--What promise are you making with your material? What problem are you solving with your story?

--Why would someone choose your book over the other 650,000 titles published every year?

--How will your book affect readers? (Will they laugh, take action, feel less alone, understand something in an important new way?)

Dig for the answers. Look for the differentiators. Search to find the ways your topic is in demand by readers, but also how your approach will be unique.

We put it off. We’ll get to it, we tell ourselves. Some day.

It is common—and a healthy sign—for the writer to approach a great subject with humility, uncertainty, doubt. He wants to get it right, and he’s smart enough not to underestimate the challenge.

But a writing project begins not just in doubt but also faith—that if your passion is genuine, if you have mastered the elements of your craft, in the act of writing you will learn the rest of what you need to know in order to do justice to your subject.

As Steinbeck writes in Journal of a Novel, “A good writer always works at the impossible.”

From "Writing a Book That Makes a Difference," by Philip Gerard.

As the article's author, Bruce Grierson, brilliantly summed up:

All a writer really needs are the self-knowledge to decipher his feelings, the judgment to recognize the original ones, and the courage to make them public.

If only it were that easy...

This is what a writer knows about writing:
 
Writing comes out of the writer.

The hardest writing is the writing about things you know nothing about. Sometimes the things you know nothing about include yourself and your attitudes and opinions.
 
The most rewarding writing is the writing that takes you to a place you haven’t been before in your understanding, your knowledge, your comprehension. Much of the time the place you haven’t been before is inside yourself.
 
There isn’t only one way to write anything, let alone only one way to write everything. Most of the time new writing requires new strategies or revisions to old ones.
 
The writer writes by ear, by instinct, by intuition, not by rote, by rule, by requirement. Like riding a bicycle, writing takes practice in order to develop a sense of balance. Like tuning a guitar, writing takes repetition in order to hear when a work is in tune.
 
Not everything you write will be as good as the best thing you could write. Even record-breaking home-run hitters strike out; even gold-medalist skaters fall down.
 
Writing is a process. Sometimes even the most experienced writers forget to give themselves room to experience the process. 
 
Most of the time meaning doesn’t emerge until the end of the process.

An excerpt from “Double Life” by Robert Root

• Coming of Age Plot: The young character matures to understand something about the world he lives in, and his role in it.
• Redemption Plot: The character is saved, or saves someone else.
• Punitive Plot: The character is punished for his wrongdoings.
• Testing Plot: The character is tempted or challenged, but retains his values.
• Education Plot: The character makes a deep change in his view of life, almost (but not) always from the negative to the positive.
• Fulfillment Plot: The character achieves his heart's desire.
• Moral Plot: The character learns a moral lesson. 

*From http://www.dartmouth.edu/~shortflm/process/exercises.html

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a thigh master.  

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.  

He spoke with wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.  

She grew on him like E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef.  

She had a deep throaty genuine laugh like that sound a dog makes just before he throws up.  

Her vocabulary was as bad, as, like, whatever.

Writing Prompt: Can you do worse? Share your bad metaphors here.

Others believe that literal truth is just as, if not more, important. All writers have to decide for themselves where they fall on this spectrum.

That said, there are several good reasons for doing the hard work of uncovering both the emotional and literal truth in a story:

1. Legally, truth is an absolute defense in this country. If you are writing about events involving real people, and you make up a scenario that defames another person, you have no legal leg to stand on. But if you tell a story accurately, and someone merely disagrees with your portrayal, you are in the clear.

2. Ethically, when you label a work “non-fiction,” you have a responsibility to your publisher and your readers to stick with the truth. One need only look to the James Frey (“A Million Little Pieces”) debacle to see what can happen when writers play fast and loose with the truth.

3. Your credibility can suffer, when you don’t do the due diligence to make sure your work is completely accurate. If a reader catches an error or fabrication in one part of your work, they will begin to question the rest of it.

4. Artistically, the challenge of writing creative nonfiction is the challenge of making art while also dealing with the inconvenience of facts.

Dear Taxpayer

In keeping with the national spirit of renewal, the Internal Revenue Service recently started providing personalized critiques of selected federal tax returns. As Peter Kabibble, IRS commissioner, explains: “We believe everyone has the talent and ability to become a better taxpayer. Yes, some people are more naturally talented in this arena. But with a little support and feedback, we believe every American can acquire the skills necessary to craft the kind of return that would make their grandchildren proud.”

Dear Taxpayer:

Thank you so much for your recent submission to the 2008 tax fund. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that your return does not meet our needs at this time. While your submission was admirable in its reach – we especially enjoyed the clever juxtaposition of the words “writer” and “income” -- we ultimately felt the United States Treasury would benefit most from returns in which actual taxes were involved.
 
However, because you are clearly a taxpayer with promise, we thought it might be useful to provide specific feedback on your submission.
 
For the most part, we found the characterization of your taxpayer to be quite convincing. Given the taxpayer’s job classification as a writer – known in federal parlance as an “LMNOP” – we felt it fitting that your taxpayer would not claim any interest income, investment property or offshore oil leases, but that he would list several changes of address, including one poetically referred to as “the streets of Laredo.”
 
Although a relatively new auditor might dismiss this taxpayer as a stereotypical LMNOP, your pinpoint details – especially in the itemized deductions -- kept the character grounded in reality. Among the deductions that rang true:

• --Four Koosh balls
• --Six bottle openers
• --A case of Kleenex (although in the future you should probably use the non-brand specific “facial tissues”)
• --The entry fee for writing contests sponsored by Mrs. Hardy’s Microwavable Chicken; and,
• --127 books about writing, including one titled, “Why God, Why?”

Added to the long list of strengths, we’d be remiss if we didn’t mention the believability of your taxpayer’s voice. Although we’re not accustomed to receiving handwritten addendums, this taxpayer’s pleading tone rang true, particularly when trying to convince us of the deductibility of three whistles and a gondolier’s shirt, which the taxpayer claimed were necessary to “get in the mood.”
 
While all this shows great promise for future submissions, here are some things you may wish to consider for next year:

1. Secondary Characters: While the hero of your return was memorable, we questioned the believability of your secondary characters – what we call “dependents.” The IRS does not consider dogs, snakes or mynah birds to be legitimate deductions, nor would we allow you to write off your “muse,” even if, as you explained, your muse answers to the name Babycakes and once convinced you to buy a boat.
2. Setting: As an ardent supporter of virtual work, the IRS is happy to allow legitimate deductions for home office expenses. That said, it is assumed that the “office” indeed be in the “home” and not, as you claim, in the employee breakroom at Turntables R Us.
3. Tense: Generally speaking, tax returns record a narrative of events that have already occurred. Thus, the simple past tense usually works best, as in, “I drove 678 miles for work.” We found it a bit disorienting and overwrought when you jumped into the past perfect with such statements as, “I would have driven 678 miles for work if I had a car like you people.”

We sincerely hope our feedback has been useful, and that you will consider resubmitting to the IRS again next year.

Sincerely,
The United States Department of Internal Revenue

There are two general schools of thought about writers and inspiration. The first says that the most creative breakthroughs come in the form of Eureka! moments. These are the fully formed creative breakthroughs that wake you up in the middle of the night -- or while showering – and give you all the clarity you’ve been seeking on a project. I’ve been writing all my life and I’ve had less than five of these Eureka! breakthroughs.

The other school of thought regarding inspiration is something called Variations on a Theme. This approach says that creativity tends to arise as an offshoot of a creative endeavor already underway. Variations occur when you are working on a story and a new – and better – structure presents itself, or when you’re slaving away on an essay and it gradually, through consistent effort, becomes much funnier or insightful or engaging.

While the Eureka! moment is the most prized form of inspiration, in my experience, Variations on a Theme is the most common.

How can writers capture the muse – in both its forms – so that you can gain its help when necessary? I wish I knew. The only things that have worked for me is to: a. keep writing; b. go for a walk; and c. read the work of other writers who inspire me (this is usually the most effective). These aren't terribly sexy suggestions, I know -- which is why I’d love to hear your thoughts about how you capture your own muse.

In the meantime, here are some thoughts from other creative people about their muses:

“The most potent muse of all is our own inner child.”
--Stephen Nachmanovitch, musician and educator

 “Spend time every day listening to what your muse is trying to tell you”
--Saint Bartholomew

“When inspiration does not come, I go for a walk, go to the movie, talk to a friend, let go . . . The muse is bound to return again, especially if I turn my back!”
--Judy Collins

“So cheat your landlord if you can and must, but do not try to shortchange the Muse. It cannot be done. You can't fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal.”
--William S. Burroughs

For years, I've been telling my students that it would be healthier for them to focus on other rewards -- besides publishing -- that they get from writing classes. But I don't think I articulated the reasons why very well. I certainly didn't articulate them as well as Barbara Moe, a current student, who recently wrote this fabulous list:

The Elixir List (or some reasons why it's nice to take a writing class):
1) It's enjoyable to get creative with words (at least as much fun as doing the crossword puzzle).
2) Writing keeps your brain in gear.
3) Classes put you in touch with like-minded people.
4) Learning to write shines new light on your reading.
5) Writing gives you a new way of looking at the world.
6) If you keep writing and revising (and writing and revising) and finally dare to send something out--over and over and over again--someday you might get published.

1.  Make a list of vivid personal experiences you’ve been wishing to write about.

2.   Next to that list, in another column, write down a word or two (or three) that describes the conflict inherent in each experience. Try writing it this way: This is a story about Me versus X. The best stories have conflict and tension at their core -- if an experience doesn't have any tension, it probably won't make for a good story.

3.   In yet another column, write what larger truth the story is about. At this point, this “larger truth” will be your best guess. More often than not, the larger truth will change as you write the story. Another way to look at the larger truth is to consider what kind of transformation the narrator undergoes as a result of the experience. All stories record a pattern of change -- it's your job as the essayist to determine how an experience changed you. (Hint: Usually the transformation in a personal essays is the narrator's realization of something new.)

4.   In one final column, make a list describing who you were and how you acted during each experience (i.e., fearful, conceited, proud, anxious, etc.). The idea is to become more objective about your actions prior to writing about them.

Finally, after you’ve made your list, choose the experience that has the most inherent conflict, and write a page or two wherein you begin to explore the experience, develop yourself as a character and hint at the larger truth of the story. Don’t worry if the story is not complete. The idea is to get started generating some new material.

The idea behind showing versus telling is two-fold: 1) When readers can visualize exactly what is happening on the page, they become more involved in a story. They feel as if they are there. And, 2) When readers are allowed to interpret someone's actions (Ohhhh, he must be getting angry) they feel smart and engaged, as if they are there interpreting the scene.

All storytellers want readers to become engaged in their stories, and they do this best by withholding generalized descriptions of emotions. Instead of telling the reader that a character is in love, they depict it through action and dialogue and character description. Instead of saying that a character hated someone, they show that character action out his hateful tendencies. Instead of labeling someone as envious, they show what envy looks like, in action.

As you work on your new story, see if you can cross out thosebig emotion words -- Love, Hate, Envy, Lust, Happiness, Sadness, Anger, Anxiety, etc., --and replace them with action and scene and dialogue and description. Chances are good, the story will be much richer for it.

And by the way, the technique of showing versus telling works regardless of whether you're talking about a story told on the page, a story recited to an audience, or a story sung in song. In fact, E.Y. Harburg, who wrote the lyrics for the "The Wizard of Oz," used to pride himself on being able to think up as many different ways as possible to write about love without actually using the word.

In the midst of thinking about fear, I came across this quote by one of my favorite authors, John Irving:

"If you don't feel that you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, of losing control of the whole thing, then probably what you are doing isn't very vital. If you don't feel like you are writing somewhat over your head, why do it? If you don't have some doubt of your authority to tell this story, then you are not trying to tell enough."

Seeking an environment sure to stimulate creativity and concentration, you decide to join a friend in the mountains for the weekend. While she attends a conference, you'll have long, uninterrupted hours of joyful productivity.

You check into the hotel, your friend heads to her workshop, and you wander around the hotel room. You spin the dial for the ceiling fan trying to figure out which direction makes the fan go slower. You look out the courtyard window convinced you'd be more creative if only you had a river view. You eye your folder full of notes on the coffee table and feel like you're back in college avoiding a term paper on the history of journalism. 

White noise! That's what you need to stimulate the creative juices! You gather your notes and trek down to the lobby. On the way, you see a sign for the hotel spa and before you know it you're inquiring about a hot stone massage. Relaxation! That's what you need to be creative! You hear the price and quickly calculate you can either purchase one, 50-minute massage or two pairs of on-sale shoes. You opt for the shoes, thank the muscular blond woman behind the counter, and continue your search for a creative work spot. 

You round the corner into the lobby where you see, of all things, a hotel library complete with dark floor-to-ceiling bookcases and overstuffed chairs. That, for sure, is the best place to get your project done.

You settle into a wingback chair. It's a little drafty on your ankles so you move to another chair where the pillow is too big so you move once again. Finally, you settle onto a couch and smile faintly at a middle-aged woman who is reading a paperback on the loveseat nearby. She seems upset with you for some reason.

After reviewing your notes, you close your eyes and try to settle your mind in an effort to let the best creative ideas emerge. Instead, you become distracted by a conversation about a lost luggage tag.

"What do you mean you lost it?"

"I mean it was here a minute ago and now it's not. How hard is that?!"

"Don't get snippy. You always get snippy."

"I'm not snippy. I'm trying to get our luggage."

You open your eyes. There must be an idea here somewhere. Laying blame. Finding fault. Miscommunication. These are excellent topics! You watch the arguing couple -- both of whom are overweight and dressed in fringed western wear -- and your enthusiasm for the topic fades.

Opening your notebook, you force yourself to jot down several potential ideas for an essay. Acquaintance versus friendship. Loss and forgiveness. Cancer and mercy killings. You look, disgustedly, at the brief list. Nobody wants to read about these things.

You pull out a fresh sheet of paper and, with great effort, jot down a few more ideas, one of which grows into an enormous half-page doodle involving flowers and lightning bolts. Tapping your pen on your thigh, you smile at the paperback reader who is glaring at you once again. What's her problem, anyway? Maybe you need quiet time after all.

You gather your materials and head back to the hotel room where you spend twenty minutes deciding where the most creative place would be. The couch? Too stiff. The bed? Too tempting. This is ridiculous. The environment has nothing to do with creativity and deadlines. Discipline does. Sit down and start working.

Once again, you pull out your notebook and, what's that, a granola bar? Cool! You eat half of it, wipe the stiff pebbly crumbs off the table and onto the floor, and think about how difficult it is to come up with creative ideas on your own. Brainstorming is so much easier in a group. All that energy and attitude and adrenaline forces good ideas to the surface. This project would be so much easier if only you could write with other people.

Or would it?

You cock your head, look at your list of rejected ideas, and realize that every single good idea for any project you've ever done has always been preceded by a long list of very bad ideas. Hard work. Frustration. The pull of an overpriced massage. You always feel these things when you face an important deadline. Haven't you learned that you can't rush the process? That creativity is not inherently easy?

You hear the ding of the elevator in the hallway and it dawns on you that managing all those bad ideas may be frustrating, but it's a necessary part of the creative process. Why? Because you never know when and where that singular good idea will arise. The key is to keep going, like a child's wind-up toy, past the dread, past the doubt and past the early sense of disappointment that always accompanies an important project.

If you keep working and quit looking for quick fixes, the work will get done. It always does. And usually without the benefit of a massage.

Understanding mythic structure can also help you in your work as a writer. Once you understand the different forms, you can:

• Understand what you might be leaving out of a story. A romantic hero, for example, will lose her allure if the obstacles she faces aren’t challenging enough.
• Get yourself out of writing rut. For instance, if you find yourself continually drawn to ironic stories where ambiguity rules, try experimenting with another genre where the theme or moral or message is more clear-cut.
• Overcome writer’s block by analyzing the genre you’re working in to see how other writers have approached it.
  
• Understand the lens through which you critique others. Don’t push fellow workshoppers toward a happy ending (your myth), when a tragic outcome is more fitting.
  
• Identify the biases of agents, editors and publishers, and in the process, avoid shopping your story places where it won’t be appreciated.
  
• Accept the fact that not everyone will like what you write – not because your writing sucks (and I mean that politely, of course), but because people have different ideas about what constitutes a good story.
  
• Finally, and most importantly, understanding your personal myth can help you become more self-aware of what drives you as a writer and a human being.

As you read the descriptions below, think about which mythic form you most identify with. Chances are good that particular form is also reflected in the books on your nightstand and the stories in your computer.

The four mythic forms

Comedy: Comic stories, whether or not they are funny, involve people seeking happiness and stability while minimizing obstacles and constraints. The hero is typically an ordinary person who seeks pure and simple pleasures. Domestic love, everyday life and happy endings are the stuff of comic plots. Examples include Friends, Sleeping Beauty and Much Ado about Nothing.

Romance: While comedy affirms the joy of ordinary life and love, romance celebrates the excitement of adventure and conquest. Stories of a hero’s exploits, from Homer’s Odyssey to Raiders of the Lost Ark to Undaunted Courage are the raw materials of romance. In this genre, the protagonist embarks on a perilous journey, overcomes great obstacles and triumphs in the end. The message? Life is a long and difficult journey in which circumstances constantly change and new challenges arise. But we are confident we can win.

Tragedy: Tragic stories often concern gods and heroes dying, falling from grace, sacrificing themselves and accepting isolation. The tragic hero may be proud, passionate and of soaring mind, yet these attributes are exactly what make for imbalance and eventual ruin. The stories of O.J. Simpson, Oedipus and Bernie Madoff are good examples of tragic plots where exalted heroes become victims by their own hand.

Irony: An ironic myth attempts to sort out the shifting uncertainties and complexities in life. The ironic protagonist can be either an antihero, whose life is devoid of opportunities for comic, romantic or tragic heroism (think Mystic River), or the rogue or fool who employs satire to expose absurdities and hypocrisy in social convention (think Seinfeld). In short, irony records failed attempts to solve the mysteries of life. The message: We encounter ambiguities that are larger than we are and beyond our comprehension. We must do the best we can. 

Naturally, few lives are pure comedy or tragedy. Instead, each of us draws from every form in constructing the myths of our lives. That said, most personal myths do tend to emphasize one or two forms and minimize the others. Furthermore, there is not necessarily a factual correlation between the events of someone’s life and the myth used to explain it. Our personal stories are purely subjective creations.

Coming next: How to use personal myths in writing