Every story needs a point of view. For a while, I have been struggling with the question, “Should I tell stories from my own point of view?” In my journalistic writing, I have normally answered “yes!” to this question. I then embark on a process whereby I attempt to explore an issue – psychogeography, photoromans, driving across Canada – through a process of discovery. I try to take the reader with me on a journey (sometimes quite literally) and as I learn things, the reader also learns things. This technique sometimes hinges upon self-deprecation wherein I cast myself as the naïve innocent who gets inducted into a strange new world.But sometimes I feel things are getting old. I need to shake it up. I don’t understand somebody like, say, the Edmonton Sun’s Graham Hicks who writes the same kind of column week after week, year after year, becoming a parody of himself. For many years, Neil Waugh was another example of the same tired cliché.

The bigger problem, though, is the very idea of a “self.” The notion of a “self” is arguably a fairly new one. It was constructed around the idea of individual freedom. The notion that there is a “self” that stands in contrast to the “state” or “society” or even the “family” is quite unique in human history.

Once we accept the notion of a “self” we are liberated to exploring what kind of self each of us wants to be. That’s a pretty heavy burden, and not one that a medieval serf toiling away in the fields all day would have to countenance.

Trying to figure out what kind of self to be is an exercise fraught with peril. It might, for example, lead one to fabricate stories for the purpose of looking better than one really is. Hillary Clinton pretending to have arrived on an airfield in Bosnia amidst a hail of bullets comes to mind. Or it might lead to one fabricating stories in an attempt to convince oneself of something. I imagine the Clinton example again: what if she has actually half-convinced herself that the gunfire-in-Bosnia story happened? What if she has half-convinced herself that she is a heroic leader and a safer choice in a time of war than Obama?

There are also stories that perform no apparent outward function at all. For example, I might walk around all day reliving an event from years ago, convincing myself that I am a loser. While I have this mindset, “I am a loser,” my inner narrative is ostensibly hidden, but it colours what I do and the choices I make. The longer I tell myself the same narrative, the more profound its influence will be.

Now, some people in recent years have helped me to form a narrative about myself that not only colours my own view of myself, but also colours my writing. Some people think I am funny.

Let me say this, I am not funny. That is to say, I am not a funny person. I am, in fact, deadly serious. It is very rare that in my private moments away from everyone that I’m smiling and having a laugh. There is nothing inside me that feels intrinsically funny. In fact, I think my spirits tend more toward thoughts of tragedy than the relief of comedy.

So when the question of how to write resurfaces, and what point of view to employ, this unfortunate narrative that “I am funny” taints my writing process. If I write as somebody expecting to be funny, then I employ a “self” that doesn’t reflect reality. It’s a bit of an act, to be honest. However, putting on an act is what we do all day, every day, because as liberated “selfs” we are aware that our very personalities are – to a certain extent – constructs.  We are engaged in constructing our personalities whether we’re writing or simply talking to another person. Rare is the day when we’re truly raw and real. I’ve been raw and real with my bestest bestest friend, sometimes with my family, and often with my girlfriend. But I would not be that way here, and I certainly wouldn’t be that way in a story – especially one that I wanted to publish.

The notion of “being yourself” then, to me, is a bit of a sham. It’s not true that when we turn our hand to writing that we – as writers – simply need to find our voice, express ourselves, and be real. The “self” only has a meaning in terms of its relation to other selves. So I construct a self, as a first person narrator, that I believe will accomplish two goals:

a) relate to the audience
b) convey the content appropriately

In my most recent Edmonton Journal article, I simply removed myself from the story entirely. In a piece about the music industry, there seemed no point for me to be there at all.

Now, however, I face an exercise where I must write from the first person point of view. I must write a column. It’s only for class, but because I’m a deadly serious person, I take it deadly seriously. I have no idea what to write about. There are many issues and activities of interest to this self-indulgent “self” that I call ME. I’m just not sure which me is going to be writing today.

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