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“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” — William Faulkner
Faulkner wasn’t wrong. The past doesn’t ask permission. It just shows up, usually when we’re least prepared for it. Ever notice how memories have impeccable timing? You’re pouring coffee, folding laundry, or staring at a blinking cursor, and bam. A name. A moment. A mistake. A ghost of the past.
That was me this morning. I hadn’t even gotten my slippers on before the shadows of the past came knocking. Not with a bang, but with a whisper. A few familiar memories slipped in, the kind that bring along a little guilt, a little ache. Old ghosts like to do that. They don’t shout, but they sure know how to rattle the morning quiet.
I almost took the bait. Almost fell into the trap of playing out the “what ifs” and “should haves.” But instead, I told those yesterday echoes, “Not today.” And I meant it.
Because here’s the honest truth: those haunting memories are going to show up from time to time. They’re part of the fabric now, threads woven through our story whether we like it or not. They may fade or grow quiet, but they don’t exactly go away. The good news? We don’t have to let them set up camp every time they knock.
If you’re just passing through this post as a casual reader, maybe that sounds familiar. Maybe your own emotional baggage doesn’t bang and crash but it hums in the background. It surfaces in traffic jams or on sleepless nights. It shows up in a smell, a sound, a random Tuesday.
You’re not alone. Not even close.
And if you happen to be a writer? That stuff, the hard stuff, the unresolved stuff, the scars that tell a story, that is the good soil. That’s where the deep roots grow.
Characters don’t come from the air. They come from buried emotions, from old regrets, from the parts of us we don’t post about. Maybe your character carries a secret from their personal history, or maybe they’ve been dragging around their own version of skeletons in the closet. These aren’t just backstory. . . they’re narrative ghosts. They’re what give your story weight and your characters depth.
So next time when the past that shapes you comes knockingh, don’t slam the door. But don’t set an extra place at the table either. Nod to it. Learn from it. And then, if you’re a writer, ask it a question.
“Is there a story here worth telling?”
You might be surprised by the answer.
Whether you’re writing it down or just living with it, your past doesn’t define you. But, it sure can teach you something if you let it.
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