As a reasonably prolific writer, I am deeply aware that what I write speaks a great deal about myself, about those subjects that bother me or concern me, about my own personality and worldview and approach to life and other people, and about a whole host of obscure questions that I might never think to ask myself but whose answers are given in the course of my creative works. I have found that this reality is fairly frequent among creative people. Those of us who create tell on ourselves by virtue of what we create. Sometimes we tell on ourselves in good ways, sometimes in bad ways. Sometimes we tell on ourselves in ways that are open and well-known and obvious to anyone who would get to know us even on a superficial level, and sometimes we tell on ourselves in deeply private ways that we would not openly admit even to our closest friends. That is the nature of life and creativity, though.

I was struck by this fact, as I often am, by reading a book. I have not gotten far in the book, though it is a short volume and I hope to write a book review about it before too long, but even so, already I can tell a fair amount about the author given what I have written. So far I have a reasonable list of works that might have inspired the author’s work, the author’s attitude towards friendship and loyalty and adventure, and so on. I assume that my blog entries and other writers tell on myself in a wide variety of ways, including my frustrations with lack of open communication, my own dark personal history, my voracious appetite for books, my dark and sardonic and ironic dry sense of humor, my frustrated longings for love and belonging and a host of other things. I accept, however unwillingly, that my writings provide material for people to both understand and willfully misunderstand me, depending on their own character and integrity, even if it does bother me to be misunderstood.

This matter seems to be a concern of creators in general. For example, in Romans 1:18-23, the New King James Version reads: “For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness, because what may be known of God is manifest in them, for God has shown it to them. For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead, so that they are without excuse, because, although they knew God, they did not glorify Him as God, nor were thankful, but became futile in their thoughts, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools, and changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like corruptible man—and birds and four-footed animals and creeping things.”

An understanding of creation ought to lead us to some understanding of the creator(s). We may think that we are able to slyly disguise our nature and create with impunity, but our words and actions will tell on us, sometimes in ways that we might like (as most people, I believe, create with at least some intention of gaining respect and honor from others, beyond the peace of mind and spirit that come from a clear and open conscience), and some in ways that we might not like. Still, if we take it upon ourselves to imitate our Father in heaven and engage in acts of creation (or sub-creation, as it was called by J.R.R. Tolkien), we too will expose our own nature to those who bother to read it and seek to understand it. That does not mean that our nature will be correctly understood, but merely that those who misunderstand it will be without excuse because they are futile and dark in their understanding.

I often think of the people I know to be like books, an understanding that I am aware might seem a bit strange to others. If Natasha Bedingfield can be forgiven for considering her life to be a book in which the rest of her pages are still unwritten, I suppose I may be forgiven for thinking the same thing about myself and others. As I cannot see the end of my life (however glorious I hope it may be), I am not sure whether my book will be some sort of embarrassingly honest memoir of a man reflecting on the challenges of his life, the sort of melodrama that ends up being made into a Lifetime Network movie, or a deeply moving and tragic tale of pathos. Who’s to say? I don’t know how many pages remain in my own book, or the sort of dramatic material that will fill up those pages, and so the verdict and ultimate genre of my work is still unwritten.

Nevertheless, it is indisputably true that my own works, in whatever genre they exist, tell on me quite a bit. Occasionally (and happily!) I hear of those who find my works to be intriguing and thought provoking and inspiring, and less happily I sometimes hear from those who dislike my writing, when they are not too busy gossiping and spreading bad reports to others without letting me know, contrary to the ways of God. Still, one cannot accept the positive aspects of creation without accepting the tradeoff of having the raw material of one’s character and personality (and the raw material of one’s relationships with others) come out in ways that are often unsettling and uncomfortable. It appears that such openness is an inevitable consequence of creation, though, as the effort necessary to create art and give it meaning also expose some aspect of the nature of the creator to others.

It is therefore unsurprising that those societies and classes of people we have the best understanding of are those who are the most creative. We can read someone’s books and private diaries, poetry and plays, look at someone’s art, and see someone’s concerns about love and religion and philosophy and politics, if we bother to put forth the effort. It is those silent and apparently uncreative people whose lives remain obscure to us, and blank pages for us to pour forth our own ideas and our own speculations, which also reveal more about our own political and religious worldviews and perspectives than it does about others. I prefer to let people, insofar as they are willing and able, to speak for themselves, so that may understand them even if I do not agree with them.

If we understand others well, and can comment with intelligence and skill on their creations, that too ends up telling on ourselves, as it tells us those matters we see worthy of discussion in a particular context, as well as the way in which we appreciate life and art in general. As one cannot express oneself without telling on oneself, I accept the possibility of my character and nature being known for the privilege of being able to make my thoughts and opinion known. It seems to me a fair tradeoff, after all. The costs of speech, as a general rule, outweigh to me the doubtful and limited benefits of silence. One therefore has to accept the inevitable tradeoffs.