Many of us carry a silent narrative within, a story we tell ourselves about our limitations. For me, it was “I can’t write stories.” Where this belief originated, I’m not sure, but it became a self-imposed boundary, overshadowing my genuine love for writing. Throughout my career, writing has been the consistent thread of joy in every role. From crafting professional correspondence to composing detailed reports, engaging blog articles, and even instructional manuals, I found myself drawn to the power and craft of words. Colleagues often remarked, “You should be a writer,” a sentiment that, while flattering, felt disconnected from my own perception of my abilities. “No,” I’d counter, “I’m not a writer. I don’t have novels in me. I simply can’t tell stories.”
This internal dialogue persisted, even as I ventured into copywriting, a field that surprisingly felt comfortable and natural. That is, until a particular assignment landed on my desk: a request for a short, fictional story. Panic set in. Fiction? Storytelling? My carefully constructed wall of self-doubt loomed large. Non-fiction, give me any topic; but fiction felt like uncharted, and frankly, forbidden territory. The computer screen seemed to mock me. I might have even indulged in a brief, stress-induced moment of frustration. Laptop closed, television on – escape. “I can’t write a story,” I repeated, the mantra solidifying my perceived inadequacy.
Yet, the desire to write, the deep-seated yearning to embrace the title of “writer,” persisted. Writers do tell stories. This realization sparked a conflict within me. Could I truly claim to be a writer if I avoided the very essence of storytelling? Doubt clouded my thoughts as I went to bed. If a simple short story was beyond my reach, then perhaps the writer’s life I envisioned was just a fantasy. But the pull was undeniable. The desire to be paid for doing what I loved, for living a writer’s life, was too strong to ignore.
At 4 AM, the internal debate reignited. Lying awake, wrestling with my self-doubt, I finally reached a turning point at 5 AM. A decision solidified: I would confront this self-imposed limitation and become a writer, story-telling and all. The challenge that sparked this internal revolution? It was an assignment with delightfully quirky parameters: a very short story about a green, dancing octopus with a PhD in English Literature, situated in the FTX offices on November 8, 2022.
The green octopus, a creature of refined intellect and unexpected rhythm, found himself observing the mounting tension from within his spacious tank at FTX headquarters in the Bahamas. “Serves Sam Bankman-Fried right,” he mused, tentacles swaying gently, “meddling with people’s lives.” His own life, previously serene in the company of a literature professor, had been disrupted when Sam, in a poker game of questionable judgment, had won him as a prize.
He missed the professor, his former companion in countless hours of literary study. Having been present through the professor’s doctoral journey in English Literature, the octopus felt a certain kinship, a shared academic experience. As news reports of November 8, 2022, flashed across the office television, detailing FTX’s escalating crisis, the Green Dancing Octopus sensed opportunity amidst the chaos. The staggering $6 billion in customer withdrawals signaled potential collapse, and with it, perhaps, a chance for him to return to the tranquil life he once knew, back in the professor’s book-lined study. A silent, tentacled jig of hope rippled through the water. Only time would reveal his fate.
And so, I wrote. It wasn’t a literary masterpiece, nor a children’s book destined for greatness. But it was fiction. It was my first story. And in that act of creation, I found a victory far greater than the story itself. The lesson resonated deeply: we truly don’t know what we are capable of until we dare to try. Instead of succumbing to the limiting narrative of “I can’t,” what if we simply asked, “Why not?” Our first attempts might not win awards, but even literary giants like Hemingway and Dr. Seuss started somewhere. The journey of a writer, it seems, begins with the courage to simply begin.
