Greetings, writers—
There was a time in my life—quite a few decades ago now—when I couldn’t bear to not know.
I unwrapped (and then carefully rewrapped) my presents before Christmas. I read the ends of novels before I’d finished the middles. And if you made the mistake of leaving your diary out, I knew all about you.1
Obviously, only the third tendency was truly uncool. But it kind of seemed okay to me back then. As a kid I felt below certain rules, as opposed to above them. And a person’s right to privacy—what was that?
Now I’m middle-aged and I follow every rule there is.2 I can be trusted with any secret, and there are many, many things that I don’t want to know.
Occasionally I even find myself stopping someone just as they’re starting to tell me something really juicy (“Are you sure you want to talk about this?”), which feels kind of idiotic, especially for a writer.
But I don’t need to know exactly how quickly the Arctic ice is melting. And what my 14-year-old writes in her diary, which she leaves open on top of her desk, is her business alone.3
My reasons for not wanting to know are different, of course—existential terror on the one hand; a grown-up’s appreciation of confidentiality on the other—but in both cases, relative ignorance is the state I’m aiming for.
Today, write a scene in which your character (which, again, can always be you) is given the opportunity to find out something important, something they may or may not be happy to learn.
Do they come by this information honestly or otherwise? What are the consequences of their new knowledge?
Happy writing—
Emily
I would keep your secrets to myself, though.
Except for one, which I will not write about here!
Okay, maybe a tiny part of me wishes I knew some of what she wrote.