Show, don't tell
In life, and on the page
I’ve been thinking about Anaïs Nin a lot recently.
I first read her when I was 18 years old. It was a pre-loved copy of her diary, a gift from one of my high school teachers. A life-changing read, and anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t say that lightly. Through her diaries, I learned there were other ways of being, and that I could live those other ways without shame. Her approach to the self, writing and sex were the first embers to illuminate the themes that continue to define me today.
Like, the desire to constantly experience new cycles, rather than always look back and get stuck in nostalgia. The concept of continuity and relatedness, that everything is connected, that nothing truly ends. The commitment to confronting yourself over and over again, so that you never stop growing. And especially, overcoming the compulsion to conform to an archetype, and becoming the most authentic version of yourself so that you can tell your stories.
Nin also introduced me to the “feminine” way of writing, characterized by a deeply introspective exploration of emotions, sexuality, and the female experience using language that is sensual, fluid and less formal/technical.
I owe so much to her writing and to the courageous way she lived.
Did she sometimes take things too far? Absolutely, without question, yes.
Nin was simultaneously married to two men, living with one in New York and the other in California, and neither was aware of it. She also had a consensual sexual affair with her father, and once said that her “recipe for happiness” was to “mix well the sperm of four men in one day.”
Listen, I see it too. She possessed an all-devouring narcissism that exerted a heavy psychological toll on those around her. Years of unhealed trauma will do terrible things to a person. But the one kernel of insight I can extract from this incredibly dark mess is that writers are always finding a balance between what is told and what is withheld, both in our writing and in our personal lives.
A writer is a romantic figure, thus perpetuating the myth that in order to be a writer, you have to live a wildly outrageous life of flamboyant excess. Now that we have social media, many writers also feel compelled to share that life online in order to make their writing more interesting, to have people envy their talent and their friends and their outfits and their parties. (Nin would have loved Instagram!).
But I’ve adopted “show, don’t tell” as good writing advice and good life advice too. I lead a rich and beautiful existence, full of fascinating friends and extraordinary moments, but I don’t feel the need to be broadcasting those details every moment of the day. Some of it is recorded in my journals, some of it shared with friends, but I keep most of it to myself. All that noise takes time and energy away from the writing. The quiet is what also allows me to better process what’s happening, and consequently, better transform that experience into insights for the writing.
Everything ends up in the writing anyway, so why dilute it with video edits set to indie music first?
You can have a wildly outrageous life, but I don’t think it needs to be the focal point of your entire personality—especially if it takes away from your creative work. For all of Nin’s complexities, it always came back to the writing, her one truest love. How she spent her nights did not cut into the important focus of her days. So let your writing speak for you and your biographers can sort out the rest.
PS. I know, you’re still hung up on the incest thing. It’s a hard idea to get around. Instead, try reading this very satisfying reflection from Nin on being an artist.
