charisma of the storyteller

Photo by Sam J on Pexels

today’s wordle was my name
and I actually got it on the first try
because I’m one of those people
who’s so self-absorbed that they play
their own name because it’s also
a word and it also means sincere
and honest, but am I really?
I know I try to be, but I’m just so good
at making shit up sometimes,
I think it’s in the genes — 
I come from a lineage of liars,
but isn’t that the whole human race, really?
and well, I don’t know, sometimes
I just like to think I use it for some
sort of good, by writing the things I do,
frank is real, frank is candid on the face of it,
but Franco writes fiction and swirls
reality into poetic picnics, so how frank
can we really be in this line of work?
will you have a picnic with me?
the implication is quite stark,
the possibility that we’re all
responsible for some inner
and outer truth…
I’ve experienced much
and I’ll continue to negotiate
with life and reality
as I’ve always done,
because life, well…
life is stimulation
life is celebration
and being alive is to consume
and be consumed…
so be credible when you can,
be responsible now too,
love each other feverishly,
because it’s no coincidence — 
the charisma of the storyteller
means always being willing
to break the rules

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Garbage Notes:

This poem is about self-perception and truth. It’s about the image we present to the world and how that differs from the reality of what’s inside us. And yes, it was sort of inspired by me reflecting on how absurd and self-indulgent it was that I played my own name in Wordle and how it actually was the correct answer one time back in September of 23.

It’s kind of a strange thing being a fiction writer or a poet. You write things that are supposed to be imbued with some kind of fundamental truth, and yet you clothe it all in metaphor and trickery—in all manner of surreptitious devices. You work hard to build layer upon layer of irreality just to get a point across.

It takes a certain talent to communicate a real message within a forest of lies. It takes a certain charisma and voice to gain the reader’s trust—something writers work very hard to achieve. Or sometimes they don’t work very hard at all. It depends. But either way, if you read something that feels like the author is speaking the thoughts that are in your own head, the effect can be transcendent. Yet at the same time, the learning and the practicing of this sort of linguistic alchemy can create a whole host of self-doubt and confusion and uncertainty and tension within the writer. This is the magician’s sacrifice.

We grapple with these issues as creators, questioning what we’re all about. We’re constantly monitoring ourselves. Carefully paying attention to how we are perceived by others. Trying to determine whether or not, as people, we are full of shit.

Yes, many writers are full of shit. It’s why we seek release. It’s why we pursue the most honest of all catharsis. Because when it comes down to it, we want to let parts of ourselves go.

We don’t want to be wrapped up in ego. We don’t want to be thinking of ourselves all the time. That’s not our job. We just want to be in the moment. We want to lose ourselves in the craft, in the making. We want to lose time, lose awareness. We want to fall into that unconscious zone, where the work imagines itself.

That’s the real magic. The idea that the object of our creation already exists out there, somewhere. And that we, out of sheer thought and careful attention, can guide the force of our hand to find that story.

And yeah, I’m not gonna lie, even as I just wrote that sentence, I was asking myself, careful, isn’t that just another piece of bullshit? That if you’re really, truly, good, the story writes itself? Who the fuck knows.

All I know, is I like to write. I like to make shit up. I also love honesty and connecting with people in real ways. Is that a contradiction? Maybe. Does that make me a hypocrite? Probably. But who cares, it makes me human.

Carrying mental states that are in direct opposition with each other is the hallmark of humanity. I can be self-absorbed while also caring about the reader’s attention. You can love something and also feel like it’s driving you mad.

So, keep contradicting yourself. Keep telling truth wrapped in lies (or vice versa). And keep speaking loudly out of your hearts and your asses. It’s a symphony as old as time.

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wordle screenshot from September 18, 2023

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Franco Amati 2025

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