On the Story That Asserts Itsef

A writer I worked with some time ago came to a workshop series writing fiction. For three weeks she brought imaginative, visual, deeply engaging work — the kind of writing that pulls you in and holds you there.

Then, in the final session, something else showed up.

A personal story that had apparently been waiting. Something that felt like it had to come out. So she wrote it.

She set the scene at a dog park on a clear autumn day — all warmth and light on the surface. But inside her character, there was fear. Uncertainty. A storm that the setting quietly, precisely contradicted. She used dialogue to raise the stakes. She wrote with an honesty about her character's interior life that none of us in the room were quite prepared for.

It was a stunning piece. Very different from her fiction. And when she finished reading it, the room was quiet for a moment in the way rooms get when something true has just been said.

She's now a member of the Write Things Community, and what I'm watching happen is fascinating. She's learning to bring the depth, stakes, and tension from her personal writing into her fiction. And she's learning to add the detail, the space, the room for the reader that her fiction carried so naturally, into her personal work. The two are feeding each other in ways that are making everything she writes stronger.

But I keep coming back to that final session. And what it taught me about what writing actually is.

The first lesson is about trust.

Sometimes the story will take a turn you didn't plan. Sometimes a completely different story will assert itself — something that needs to come out before you can get back to the work you thought you were doing. It can feel like a detour. It isn't.

Sometimes that story is for you. You need to write through it to process something, to understand it, to be able to move forward. Writing has a way of giving us access to things we haven't been able to articulate any other way. Other times, something entirely new emerges — a character, an idea, a story you weren't looking for but can't now unsee. Something you can choose to follow immediately or hold carefully for later.

The key is to stay open to what's asserting itself. To trust that if something is pushing its way onto the page, there's probably a reason.

Which brings me to the second thing.

I don't teach people how to put words into sentences that others might find entertaining.

I believe that writing — whether it's personal or fictional — is an art form. And art is personal expression. It's something we needed to create, to articulate, to put out into the world. And the more authentically and precisely we capture it, the more powerful it becomes.

That's what makes writing valuable for the writer — the act of creation gives us new perspective, new insight, and a particular kind of satisfaction that comes from having made something true. And it's what makes writing valuable for the reader — a new experience, a new way of seeing something, a feeling of being understood by someone they've never met.

Here's what I've come to believe: a reader's experience of your writing is a by-product of you digging deep. Of finding the right word, the right image, the right moment to let the reader breathe. Whether the story is fiction or memoir, strange or familiar, when you strive to capture what you're imagining or remembering as honestly as you can, truth emerges. Your reader will believe it. They'll take something from it.

The writer I opened this newsletter with wrote that piece because she had to get it out. She listened to what was asserting itself. Then she honoured it. And because she shared it with a room full of fellow writers, she unlocked something — a new set of skills, new possibilities, a whole new understanding of what her writing can do.

She hasn't taken her foot off the gas since. Whatever she chooses to bring to the world is going to have heart and depth. I have no doubt about that.

This August, I'm hosting a Writer's Camp — a chance to come together online, wherever summer takes you, and write. We'll share our work, learn some technique, and practise reading with an eye for craft. It's a warm, supportive space to explore your stories, try something new, and see what asserts itself when you give it room.

Registration is now open. If you've got stories you'd like to tell and creativity you'd like to explore, I'd love to support you this summer.

Register here: www.ihelpyouwritethings.com/writinggroups

Wishing you and your stories all the best,
Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S. No experience needed. Just a desire to write. That's more than enough.