EDITOR’S NOTE: Full disclosure: I was the instructor at the writing workshop summarized below. The essay was pitched by the contributor — not assigned — after a discussion about the ethics of using intimate information. At my request, Page did not use my name in the post, but we later agreed that, for this site, it needed the transparency.

BFor about the last 15 years I have struggled with the nagging need to share a story of which I have been a part, but didn’t know how.

I phrased that awkwardly — “a story of which I have been a part” — because I couldn’t quite bring myself to say: “to share my story.” This hang-up probably points to the crux of my problem, which is questioning the appropriateness of sharing details about my own life in a story. There are parts of my life that feel relevant and true to topics I want to write about, and I harbor hope that these personal experiences might resonate with others. At the same time, I harbor fears about indulging in literary naval-gazing or the presumption of self-importance.

I recently wrestled with this question in a writing workshop and found guidance for answering it, which, in a manifestation of irony, I want to share by talking a bit more about myself.

First, let me stipulate: I am not a journalist. I am a neuroscientist, and my writing portfolio consists almost exclusively of academic journal articles in my research domain, which is the biological underpinnings of mental health conditions like anxiety and depression. The writing workshop I attended was a weeklong dive into creative nonfiction; it had nothing to do with my field of study, but I hoped to find and hone a voice suitable for writing about science for the general public, making sense of topics like the marvelous inner workings of the brain and how best to conceptualize depression.

Next: I have depression.

That feels like a weighty confession, but in truth it shouldn’t. As many as one in three people experience a major depressive episode at least once in their lifetime, so statistically speaking it would be more noteworthy for me to share that I am left-handed (one in 10). The ubiquity of depression is one of my reasons for researching it. My own condition isn’t directly related to my professional interests, but my personal experiences relate to how I want to write about the topic. So the question of whether or how to share a personal story was on my mind as I sat in this writing workshop.

In one session, we had been discussing how intimate details within a story connect us to one another and become windows into the universal joys, sorrows, wonderings and experiences that all human beings share. We also discussed the value in privacy and the ethical responsibility of not treating personal information as a spectacle for shock value or page views. So I asked the question that had been nagging me: “When is it appropriate to share personal details, and when is it right to maintain privacy?”

The workshop instructor’s answer was, to put it mildly, unexpected: “Do you know ‘Star Trek’?”

Do I know “Star Trek”?! I thought. It’s only sci-fi at its best, making us contemplate questions about life, time and space as we dream about the future and reflect on the present. The mission of the Starship Enterprise was pure exploration, not conquest, of the cosmos; the Prime Directive was an anti-colonial mandate of non-interference with other worlds. The “Original Series” ran from 1966-69, overlapping with the civil rights and women’s movements, and catching the beginning of the gay rights movement. It portrayed an ethnically, racially and culturally diverse crew in high-ranking positions aboard the starship and the first interracial kiss on television between an African-American woman and a white man. Later series like “The Next Generation” depicted even more racial and gender equality; disabilities like blindness were accommodated without stigma.

Do I know “Star Trek”?!

“Yes,” I murmured.

Others in the workshop were, no doubt, baffled. But the instructor went on to explain how she found a guiding ethical principle for sharing personal stories in “Star Trek:” specifically, the movies “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan” and “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock.” She summarized how, in the first of those two movies, Spock sacrifices himself to allow the Enterprise to escape a deadly explosion. Moments before his death, Captain James Kirk — Spock’s best friend — implores Spock to explain why he is choosing to die. She quoted the crucible moment when Spock calmly replies to Kirk: “The good of the many outweighs the good of the few.”

I couldn’t help but correct her: “The needs of the many.”

She obliged me with a laugh: “OK, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

Then she continued with the story of the following movie, in which the crew of the Enterprise embark on a dangerous journey to reunite Spock’s surviving life force with his body, effectively resurrecting him. When Spock revives and recognizes his old friend Kirk, he turns the question back: Why had they risked so much for him? Kirk replies: “Because the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.”

The instructor called it her “Trekkie Ethics Guide” to sensitive stories, whether yours or someone else’s: If the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, then yes, tell the story. But if the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many, honor the one.

Attaching ethics to purpose

Much ink has been spilled by “Star Trek” fans (aka Trekkies) debating whether saving Spock was indeed ethical or not, but regardless, the Trekkie Ethics Guide works for writing, or at least for hopes and aspirations for my writing. It’s another way of asking: “What is the purpose of this story?” That question is entwined with other key questions in the writing process, such as: “What is my story really about?” “What is the key message I am trying to convey?” “Why does it matter?”

In nonfiction writing, I am learning, it is important for the purpose of a story to be greater than the personal details it contains, but at the same time to connect to the universal experiences of being human.

I am trying to take the Trekkie Ethics lesson to heart and recognize that, in the right context, sharing personal information can be a selfless act of setting aside ego and fears of vulnerability to let a story be told. In the words of writer and performer Will Reynolds: “An artist processes their lived experience in public so that others may process their lived experience in private. Art is always an act of service.”

This is not to say that I don’t still struggle with fears of being self-indulgent, or even selfish. But I know I’m not alone in that fear: In Andrew Solomon’s seminal book “The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression,” he shares a snippet of a correspondence with a friend who also suffers from depression. The friend writes: “I have a need to share my self-obsession. I am so aware of it in my life right now I wince every time I hit the ‘I’ key. (Ouch. Ouch.)”

When the personal is the universal

As I continue to venture into non-academic writing, I am doing so with the needs of the many in mind. Mental health struggles are extremely common and are still in need of de-stigmatization, and everyone can benefit from a better understanding of how their brains work. If any of my personal details help me tell those stories, then I want to share them. If they don’t, then I won’t.

When to share something personal in a piece of writing is not an objective question, and Trekkie Ethics is not an objective answer. Writers will always disagree whether personal details are serving the needs of the many, what those needs are and if the benefits outweigh the costs. Still, the Trekkie Ethics Guide is helping me find ways to approach this problem, and I hope it can help you, too. When handled conscientiously and intentionally, even the smallest personal details can serve the larger needs of the many.

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Chloe Page is a neuroscience PhD researching the mechanisms of mental health conditions like depression and anxiety as well as the basic biology of how we experience and process emotions.

The post “Star Trek” as a guide to sharing intimate, personal details appeared first on Nieman Storyboard.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Six mid-career freelance journalists who specialize in science and environmental stories offered takeaways from a weeklong workshop on nonfiction writing held at a guest ranch in Tucson, Arizona.

One thing we journalists tend to forget: There’s safety in numbers.

With time, we get good enough to get the job done, but maybe not as great as we dreamed we would be one day. We feel mostly alone in this journey. We have colleagues, bosses, rivals, friends and that jerk who always gets the story just ahead of us. But the road to the Big Story, the Great Story, feels like one we walk alone.

What I learned from a weeklong narrative nonfiction workshop is that we’re all on that path together. We stumble in the same ways, dawdle in the same ways, get lost and rediscover ourselves in ways that, while not identical, are so similar as to point to something beyond a personal failure.

That’s true of the bowel-tightening, headache-inducing, existential terrors of the job as well as the pettiest bad habits and oversights. One journalist at the workshop said she’d lost the joy. Gulp. Another had beautiful ideas but stalled on execution. Guilty. Slathering every sentence with tedious introductory dependent clauses? Me. Getting lost in the fog between reporting and focusing a story? Uh-huh.

But this week those admissions came with a surge of liberation.

It was a happy jolt to realize that your bad habits and flaws and soft spots, your frustrations and stumbling blocks, are not your unique failings; they’re occupational hazards. These are professional failings, just like a runner gets an Achilles glitch after years of training, or a baseball player gets the yips. It comes with the territory. They are things we all wrestle with as professionals, the result of trying to solve the same problems in similar ways.

But if the same challenges afflict many of us, the same solutions can help us make it to that Big Story. Below are just a few of the things my fellow word-travelers are taking away from the week.

~ Kat McGowan, Berkeley California

As a science journalist, I’m used to tackling a story — new or familiar — with an open mind, curiosity and a word count. My job is to get the details right every time. Whether it’s DNA heritability, the chemistry of polluted water or the speed of a new variant, if it’s off by 10x or 100x, it’s wrong.

These are the fundamental tools of science writing. But when do I analyze my words as closely as my sources’ findings?I didn’t. Until I was shown a way to examine my writing in a logical, stepwise process: All it takes is a print-out of my copy, a highlighter and a methodical approach to seeing my writing habits, one part of speech at a time. It’s quite scientific, really.

I can highlight how many adjectives I’ve used, and then I can see whether they are all bunched in the lead or (hopefully) spread throughout the story. Do I use “that” way too often, like a demented twitch? Do I rely on too many questions in an attempt to keep the reader engaged? These are all crutches if overused or misused. Once pulled apart, they are revealed as such.

Writing can be an art, but first, like any art, it’s a craft. You have to know how the pieces fit together. And you can’t know that until you dissect it.

~ Starre Julia Vartan, Bainbridge Island, Washington

Imagine your dream backpacking trip, maybe the Camino de Santiago or the Pacific Crest Trail. You think about the friend you’ll hike with, where you’ll camp each night, what you’ll eat, the spectacular landscapes and sunsets, what you’ll eat. Everything is going to be perfect and you can’t wait to start.

That’s the “maximum” approach to planning, whether it’s a backpacking trip or a reporting project. For a reporting project, imagine everything that would make your published story match your ambitions. Every source says yes, gives you all the time you want: “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything else” You have funding for travel anywhere you need to go to capture perfect scenes and description. You have time to shape a compelling story structure, then massage it to a perfect flow. Lean into your enthusiasm and make a list of everything you need and want for that ideal story.

Now take a deep breath and plan for potential obstacles. Are there rivers you might need to ford? What about sources who might not return your calls? What if China closes airports to international travel and you can’t get to Shanghai?

Don’t abandon your enthusiasm now. But be realistic. If everything doesn’t break your way, what’s the most you can do with what you know you can get? Is it enough? This is the place to think hard about whether you can make your plan work.

~ Jennie Dusheck, Santa Cruz, California

Sensory details make the characters in your story real.

Characters can be people, places, or things. The details used to describe your characters should not only activate the senses (sight, smell, sound, taste, touch and even emotion), but also be relevant and meaningful in the context of your story. For example, telling the reader that your character is a “35-year-old woman with childbearing hips but no child” makes sense in a story about a woman freezing her eggs but not if the story is about a woman scientist studying dog cognition.

In short: make sure the ornaments on your Christmas tree each have a special meaning and never overload it with tinsel!

~ Korinna Duffy, Edgewater, Colorado

I often find myself stuck at the same point when I’m working on stories: trying to find the focus.I started with a good idea and reported the hell out of it. I’ve got good stuff in my notebook. But when I sit down to write, my notes are a jumble of ideas and issues competing for my attention, and I struggle to identify the key point of my story. I always manage to somehow muddle my way through to some clarity, but it’s a slow, frustrating process that doesn’t feel like a process at all.

Sound familiar? Here’s a strategy to help find that key point: Ask yourself where you are trying to take the reader. If someone gets to the end of your piece and walks away with just one thing in their mind, what should that one thing be? Or, to mix a metaphor, which strand of spaghetti do you want to stick to the wall?

Shifting from thinking about what you want to say to what you hope the reader will hear should help that key point rise out of the morass.

~ Betsy Mason, San Francisco Bay area, California

Put metaphor and simile to work in making the exotic familiar and the familiar exotic.

Metaphor and simile can be one slip of the pen away from cliché. Like most writing techniques, they should be used sparingly and to powerful effect. One of the most impactful uses of these literary tools is to help readers see something in a new way.

On one hand, metaphor and simile can help the audience understand something they might never have thought they could relate to. This can be used to connect someone to a deep emotional or cultural experience that previously seemed completely foreign or simply to give a handhold onto a technical term: “A centrifuge works like the spin cycle on a washing machine.”

Metaphor and simile can alternatively shine a different light on a familiar topic or concept, illuminating hidden facets that lead to an “aha” moment when a reader discovers how to articulate an experience they knew but never could quite describe.

Consider this metaphor after a weeklong writing workshop: Writers are all trying to navigate a lonely, obstacle-filled road. No one can make the trip for us, but maybe we can share some maps.

~ Chloe Page, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

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A version of this post was first published as a Storyboard newsletter on Friday, Jan. 13, 2023

The post Guidance on the lonely road of writing appeared first on Nieman Storyboard.