These days. we’re encouraged to ‘tell our story’. The story of how we started. The story of how we got to where we are. The story of our business and who we’re here to serve.
By sharing these stories publicly, we’re able to connect to others. But telling our stories isn’t just a good idea for our blog or business efforts. Writing our own stories connects us to our past and our future.
Telling our stories – even to ourselves – gives us the chance to see who we’ve been, the choices we’ve made and how we’ve lived our lives. When we write our stories, we see ourselves as characters. With a bit of creative distance, we can develop compassion for our choices, for our fumbles, for our disastrous relationships.
Reflecting on choices we’ve made gives us the chance to make new stories. Stories that suit the truth of who we really are. Through writing our stories, we understand the arc of our lives better.
As I start the Write Your Paris Stories class today, I already see how much this city has formed me. I arrived in Paris for the first time at age 17, fresh from the Ohio countryside.

In three short weeks, I changed. I saw things I’d never seen before – a big city with monumental charm swooped into my heart and claimed me forever. It’s not all pretty, though. Every good story has plenty of drama and pain, and Paris has served up my share of that.
I’m looking forward to teaching this class and also to being a student. Because I know that writing our stories – or making any art – even if it’s just for us, has enormous value. I look forward to the surprises and insights that await me in those well-known tales I’ve lived.
Each of us is an intricate, deep web of stories that define our lives. Finding the ones that we need and want to tell is where we get to bring our creativity to bear.
What stories define you? What stories do you tell to connect with others?
If writing your Paris stories is appealing to you, please join our online writing class. It’s never too late!

I wonder how many great writers might have published their story had they not felt so shamful. Where is the trauma? Where is the crap? What would Hemmingway thought of Cynthia?
*knowing she’s smiling at my own naïveté