Myron Ward's Blog - Posts Tagged "facing-fears"
Facing Fears and Finding Voice: My Personal Growth Through Writing.
There’s a certain vulnerability that comes with staring down a blank page. When I began working on “Solo Agers,” I expected the usual creative hurdles—shaping characters, refining plot points—but what I didn’t anticipate was how intensely I would have to confront myself. In this process, every fear, every past insecurity, every doubt I’d long buried seemed to rise up, demanding to be acknowledged.
Embracing the Fear of Limitations
One of my earliest fears was that I lacked the formal skills to do my story justice. I’m largely autodidactic; much of my learning came from reading hefty books and wrestling with words whose pronunciations and nuances I never fully mastered. Without formal training or a writer’s pedigree, my grammar and punctuation felt like an exposed weakness. Sometimes I’d labor over a single sentence for hours, questioning every choice. But pushing through that discomfort taught me something crucial: authenticity doesn’t always wear a polished veneer. Grit, patience, and effort can render a passage powerful in its own way.
Self-Doubt as a Constant Companion
If I’m being honest, self-doubt and uncertainty never completely disappear for a writer—they merely learn to share space with you. There wasn’t one dramatic moment of triumph over fear; instead, it was a relentless, daily negotiation. Each page drafted, each revision attempted, was a small stand against the voice whispering, “You can’t do this.” The only way through was forward: writing, editing, and refining until the fear’s hold weakened. It taught me that persistence, not fleeting bursts of confidence, sustains the creative process.
Turning Inward to Shape the Narrative
Delving into my fears led me to unexpected narrative depths. I discovered uncomfortable truths about myself—hidden biases, lingering regrets, and emotional blind spots. Some characters originated as reflections of these darker facets. I had to acknowledge parts of myself that weren’t heroic or admirable to breathe authentic life into the story. As I embraced this complexity, my writing shifted. Originally I wrote in third-person, but it felt distant and sanitized. By moving into a first-person narrative, I could inhabit the characters’ minds more fully, allowing their voices—and, in turn, mine—to resonate with greater honesty and empathy.
Finding an Authentic Voice Through Vulnerability
Stepping into unfamiliar emotional territory required a new kind of courage. In learning to articulate my own emotional states, I grew more patient with myself. I stopped viewing confusion and anxiety as deficiencies and started seeing them as layers of human complexity. This acceptance allowed me to better understand my characters’ internal worlds. By confronting my limitations and no longer relying on blame or defensiveness, I gained a new sophistication in handling difficult emotions—both on the page and in life.
Techniques for Honing the Craft
On a practical level, I became meticulous. I consulted dictionaries, cross-referenced facts, tested metaphors to ensure they truly communicated what I intended. I learned that clarity matters as much as creativity. My mind could conjure vivid images, but if I couldn’t translate them into comprehensible language, the story would never reach readers. The process taught me that writing isn’t just about lofty ideas—it’s about doing the nitty-gritty work of refinement, ensuring each phrase serves the narrative and not just my ego.
Personal Growth Beyond the Page
As I dug deeper, my personal life came under scrutiny as well. I began to re-examine my relationships and patterns, understanding how my past choices shaped my present self. This introspection wasn’t just about creating richer characters; it helped me grapple with the very core of who I am and who I wanted to become. I realized the importance of aging gracefully, of approaching the future without bitterness. Learning to accept limitations as part of life’s natural ebb and flow made me more compassionate—to myself, to others, and to the world I was creating in my fiction.
Shifts in Communication
Embracing my fears changed how I communicate, both in writing and conversation. I learned to approach difficult dialogues without defensiveness, to seek solutions rather than assign blame. This mindset expanded my empathy. Rather than labeling people one-dimensionally, I began to appreciate their complexities. Every person, I realized, is grappling with their own internal struggles—just like my characters, just like me.
An Invitation to Other Creators
For anyone wrestling with self-doubt or feeling stuck, my hope is that this journey offers a light. True creative breakthroughs often come from looking inward. Are you writing something that pushes you to grow, even if it leads you into dark, uncharted emotional territory? Instead of relying on gimmicks or trade secrets, focus on who you are. Your authentic self—fears, flaws, and all—holds the key to originality.
Advice to My Past Self
If I could speak to the writer I was at the beginning, I’d urge openness. Don’t let perceived limitations define you; investigate them. Understanding your constraints can lead to breakthroughs in character development and theme. When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, our stories gain depth. And as our stories deepen, so does our understanding of the human condition—a gift to both writer and reader.
Looking to the Future
As I move forward, I’ll carry these lessons with me. Before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), I’ll remind myself of what I’m trying to say—not just to readers, but to myself. The tension between what I reveal and what I hide in my characters can mirror my own growth. By embracing discomfort and striving for honesty, I can continue to craft stories that speak to universal truths.
In the end, facing my fears and finding my voice wasn’t a linear journey. It was a messy, iterative process of uncovering what makes me human. And that, perhaps, is the true magic of writing: in daring to tell stories, we discover the stories we carry within ourselves.
Solo Agers: Kakistocracy
Embracing the Fear of Limitations
One of my earliest fears was that I lacked the formal skills to do my story justice. I’m largely autodidactic; much of my learning came from reading hefty books and wrestling with words whose pronunciations and nuances I never fully mastered. Without formal training or a writer’s pedigree, my grammar and punctuation felt like an exposed weakness. Sometimes I’d labor over a single sentence for hours, questioning every choice. But pushing through that discomfort taught me something crucial: authenticity doesn’t always wear a polished veneer. Grit, patience, and effort can render a passage powerful in its own way.
Self-Doubt as a Constant Companion
If I’m being honest, self-doubt and uncertainty never completely disappear for a writer—they merely learn to share space with you. There wasn’t one dramatic moment of triumph over fear; instead, it was a relentless, daily negotiation. Each page drafted, each revision attempted, was a small stand against the voice whispering, “You can’t do this.” The only way through was forward: writing, editing, and refining until the fear’s hold weakened. It taught me that persistence, not fleeting bursts of confidence, sustains the creative process.
Turning Inward to Shape the Narrative
Delving into my fears led me to unexpected narrative depths. I discovered uncomfortable truths about myself—hidden biases, lingering regrets, and emotional blind spots. Some characters originated as reflections of these darker facets. I had to acknowledge parts of myself that weren’t heroic or admirable to breathe authentic life into the story. As I embraced this complexity, my writing shifted. Originally I wrote in third-person, but it felt distant and sanitized. By moving into a first-person narrative, I could inhabit the characters’ minds more fully, allowing their voices—and, in turn, mine—to resonate with greater honesty and empathy.
Finding an Authentic Voice Through Vulnerability
Stepping into unfamiliar emotional territory required a new kind of courage. In learning to articulate my own emotional states, I grew more patient with myself. I stopped viewing confusion and anxiety as deficiencies and started seeing them as layers of human complexity. This acceptance allowed me to better understand my characters’ internal worlds. By confronting my limitations and no longer relying on blame or defensiveness, I gained a new sophistication in handling difficult emotions—both on the page and in life.
Techniques for Honing the Craft
On a practical level, I became meticulous. I consulted dictionaries, cross-referenced facts, tested metaphors to ensure they truly communicated what I intended. I learned that clarity matters as much as creativity. My mind could conjure vivid images, but if I couldn’t translate them into comprehensible language, the story would never reach readers. The process taught me that writing isn’t just about lofty ideas—it’s about doing the nitty-gritty work of refinement, ensuring each phrase serves the narrative and not just my ego.
Personal Growth Beyond the Page
As I dug deeper, my personal life came under scrutiny as well. I began to re-examine my relationships and patterns, understanding how my past choices shaped my present self. This introspection wasn’t just about creating richer characters; it helped me grapple with the very core of who I am and who I wanted to become. I realized the importance of aging gracefully, of approaching the future without bitterness. Learning to accept limitations as part of life’s natural ebb and flow made me more compassionate—to myself, to others, and to the world I was creating in my fiction.
Shifts in Communication
Embracing my fears changed how I communicate, both in writing and conversation. I learned to approach difficult dialogues without defensiveness, to seek solutions rather than assign blame. This mindset expanded my empathy. Rather than labeling people one-dimensionally, I began to appreciate their complexities. Every person, I realized, is grappling with their own internal struggles—just like my characters, just like me.
An Invitation to Other Creators
For anyone wrestling with self-doubt or feeling stuck, my hope is that this journey offers a light. True creative breakthroughs often come from looking inward. Are you writing something that pushes you to grow, even if it leads you into dark, uncharted emotional territory? Instead of relying on gimmicks or trade secrets, focus on who you are. Your authentic self—fears, flaws, and all—holds the key to originality.
Advice to My Past Self
If I could speak to the writer I was at the beginning, I’d urge openness. Don’t let perceived limitations define you; investigate them. Understanding your constraints can lead to breakthroughs in character development and theme. When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, our stories gain depth. And as our stories deepen, so does our understanding of the human condition—a gift to both writer and reader.
Looking to the Future
As I move forward, I’ll carry these lessons with me. Before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), I’ll remind myself of what I’m trying to say—not just to readers, but to myself. The tension between what I reveal and what I hide in my characters can mirror my own growth. By embracing discomfort and striving for honesty, I can continue to craft stories that speak to universal truths.
In the end, facing my fears and finding my voice wasn’t a linear journey. It was a messy, iterative process of uncovering what makes me human. And that, perhaps, is the true magic of writing: in daring to tell stories, we discover the stories we carry within ourselves.
Solo Agers: Kakistocracy
How Stories Shape Our World: Reflections from ‘Solo Agers’
There’s this moment I keep coming back to, a memory that reminds me just how deeply a story can shape our understanding of life. I’m eight years old, and my mother is looking at me—really looking at me—while telling me about her addiction. In that instant, the safe, familiar world I thought I knew cracked open. I glimpsed something raw, human, and complicated behind her eyes. I didn’t have the language then to explain how that truth hit me, but it planted a seed of empathy that would grow over time. It taught me that every story—no matter how painful—can open your heart and shift your perspective.
Years later, when I first saw The Matrix, something clicked into place again. That film introduced me to the idea that reality can have layers, that the world we navigate is more flexible and mysterious than we imagine. It was a wild fusion of philosophy, religion, and sci-fi wrapped in a narrative that dared me to question everything. Stories can do that: they nudge us beyond our comfort zones, challenge our assumptions, and ask us to consider possibilities we never saw coming.
I carried these lessons into the writing of Solo Agers. Crafting this novella confronted me with my own doubts and forced me to face uncomfortable truths—about aging, isolation, and how our society values human beings. I found myself asking: How will we handle the day when there are more of us growing old alone, without traditional family structures to lean on? How do we respond when the systems we rely on begin to falter, and people who’ve worked their whole lives slip through the cracks?
Putting these questions into a story wasn’t just an intellectual exercise. It felt more like rolling up my sleeves, getting in the dirt, and wrestling with something that mattered deeply to me. Along the way, I discovered that readers come to stories from vastly different angles. When I shared early drafts with others, some embraced my older female protagonist—admiring her strength and resolve—while others scoffed, questioning how a 65-year-old woman could possibly command such narrative territory. Their reactions said as much about their own beliefs and biases as they did about my characters. In that sense, my story became a mirror, revealing both what we find inspiring and what we stubbornly refuse to accept.
This is the quiet but profound influence of storytelling. Novels, films, and even simple anecdotes can whisk us into unfamiliar worlds, allowing us to inhabit the lives of people we might otherwise overlook. Historically, the written word broke social barriers, letting those in power catch a glimpse of the lives beneath them—leading, over centuries, to seeds of empathy and democratic ideals. Today, stories remain vital because they don’t just state facts; they draw us into the emotions, struggles, and hopes of others, fostering understanding where ignorance might prevail.
Of course, there’s a fine line between guiding a reader’s perspective and pushing an agenda. When writing Solo Agers, I realized that authenticity matters more than any grand statement I might want to make. Readers can sense if you’re preaching at them, and the best stories don’t browbeat; they whisper, they suggest, they invite. To keep it real, I had to acknowledge my own biases—my personal lens as a man writing an older female protagonist, my preconceived notions about how the world works—and let my characters breathe on their own terms.
In a world drowning in information—headlines clamoring for attention, social media feeds scrolling endlessly—a story that matters is like a compass. It cuts through the static because it addresses something essential: our need to understand ourselves and each other. It might reveal a hidden truth, challenge a comfortable lie, or shine a light on a future we didn’t know we needed to consider. When I researched for Solo Agers, talking with doctors and psychologists, I wanted to ground the narrative in real, pressing concerns. To me, that’s how storytellers earn trust: by showing we’ve done our homework, that we’re not just spinning fantasies but engaging honestly with the world’s complexity.
The truth is, our storytelling traditions have always evolved. Oral epics, ancient myths, classic literature—they adapted as societies changed and as new voices demanded to be heard. Today, our culture is in flux, and stories become anchors, helping us rediscover our bearings. As religious faith wanes for some, as technology redefines relationships, as we struggle to find common ground, stories remind us that we’re not alone. They say, “Hey, someone else has felt what you’re feeling, thought what you’re thinking, and dared to dream differently.”
Do we as authors and creators bear a responsibility for shaping society through our narratives? Sure, but we can’t police how everyone interprets our work. What we can do is approach our craft with care, honesty, and respect. We can commit to exploring truth rather than spreading harm. Stories carry immense potential for both illumination and deception, and choosing the former is part of our moral compass as artists.
Looking forward, I expect the power of storytelling to grow even more essential. As the future becomes less predictable, we’ll cling to narratives that help us make sense of who we are and where we’re headed. I hope my work, including Solo Agers, can serve as a modest lighthouse—a way for readers, now and decades from now, to navigate the uncertain seas of societal change.
So, I invite you to consider the stories that have shaped your world. Which ones opened your eyes to new truths, and which ones made you question what you knew? My guess is that those moments stuck with you, not because you agreed or disagreed with the story, but because it moved something inside you. That’s what storytelling does—it moves us, reorients us, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, helps us see each other with a kinder, clearer gaze.
Solo Agers: Kakistocracy
Years later, when I first saw The Matrix, something clicked into place again. That film introduced me to the idea that reality can have layers, that the world we navigate is more flexible and mysterious than we imagine. It was a wild fusion of philosophy, religion, and sci-fi wrapped in a narrative that dared me to question everything. Stories can do that: they nudge us beyond our comfort zones, challenge our assumptions, and ask us to consider possibilities we never saw coming.
I carried these lessons into the writing of Solo Agers. Crafting this novella confronted me with my own doubts and forced me to face uncomfortable truths—about aging, isolation, and how our society values human beings. I found myself asking: How will we handle the day when there are more of us growing old alone, without traditional family structures to lean on? How do we respond when the systems we rely on begin to falter, and people who’ve worked their whole lives slip through the cracks?
Putting these questions into a story wasn’t just an intellectual exercise. It felt more like rolling up my sleeves, getting in the dirt, and wrestling with something that mattered deeply to me. Along the way, I discovered that readers come to stories from vastly different angles. When I shared early drafts with others, some embraced my older female protagonist—admiring her strength and resolve—while others scoffed, questioning how a 65-year-old woman could possibly command such narrative territory. Their reactions said as much about their own beliefs and biases as they did about my characters. In that sense, my story became a mirror, revealing both what we find inspiring and what we stubbornly refuse to accept.
This is the quiet but profound influence of storytelling. Novels, films, and even simple anecdotes can whisk us into unfamiliar worlds, allowing us to inhabit the lives of people we might otherwise overlook. Historically, the written word broke social barriers, letting those in power catch a glimpse of the lives beneath them—leading, over centuries, to seeds of empathy and democratic ideals. Today, stories remain vital because they don’t just state facts; they draw us into the emotions, struggles, and hopes of others, fostering understanding where ignorance might prevail.
Of course, there’s a fine line between guiding a reader’s perspective and pushing an agenda. When writing Solo Agers, I realized that authenticity matters more than any grand statement I might want to make. Readers can sense if you’re preaching at them, and the best stories don’t browbeat; they whisper, they suggest, they invite. To keep it real, I had to acknowledge my own biases—my personal lens as a man writing an older female protagonist, my preconceived notions about how the world works—and let my characters breathe on their own terms.
In a world drowning in information—headlines clamoring for attention, social media feeds scrolling endlessly—a story that matters is like a compass. It cuts through the static because it addresses something essential: our need to understand ourselves and each other. It might reveal a hidden truth, challenge a comfortable lie, or shine a light on a future we didn’t know we needed to consider. When I researched for Solo Agers, talking with doctors and psychologists, I wanted to ground the narrative in real, pressing concerns. To me, that’s how storytellers earn trust: by showing we’ve done our homework, that we’re not just spinning fantasies but engaging honestly with the world’s complexity.
The truth is, our storytelling traditions have always evolved. Oral epics, ancient myths, classic literature—they adapted as societies changed and as new voices demanded to be heard. Today, our culture is in flux, and stories become anchors, helping us rediscover our bearings. As religious faith wanes for some, as technology redefines relationships, as we struggle to find common ground, stories remind us that we’re not alone. They say, “Hey, someone else has felt what you’re feeling, thought what you’re thinking, and dared to dream differently.”
Do we as authors and creators bear a responsibility for shaping society through our narratives? Sure, but we can’t police how everyone interprets our work. What we can do is approach our craft with care, honesty, and respect. We can commit to exploring truth rather than spreading harm. Stories carry immense potential for both illumination and deception, and choosing the former is part of our moral compass as artists.
Looking forward, I expect the power of storytelling to grow even more essential. As the future becomes less predictable, we’ll cling to narratives that help us make sense of who we are and where we’re headed. I hope my work, including Solo Agers, can serve as a modest lighthouse—a way for readers, now and decades from now, to navigate the uncertain seas of societal change.
So, I invite you to consider the stories that have shaped your world. Which ones opened your eyes to new truths, and which ones made you question what you knew? My guess is that those moments stuck with you, not because you agreed or disagreed with the story, but because it moved something inside you. That’s what storytelling does—it moves us, reorients us, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, helps us see each other with a kinder, clearer gaze.
Solo Agers: Kakistocracy
