Why You Should Start Living in the Past
You can't know where you're going until you see where you've been
It was 2009.
Despite having been a successful corporate comedian for years I couldn’t find anything funny about losing all my gigs when the economy crashed, the event industry collapsed, and corporate America slammed on the brakes.
I anxiously erased the canceled gigs off my whiteboard calendar until it was blank. With two teenagers and my wife pregnant with a third child, I reverted to a bad habit of gnawing on my fingers. Both my ragged nails and our bank account were growing painfully short.
We needed money fast.
I started making plans to pivot to web design to keep our family afloat. But, despite the desperation of our situation, when I shared this idea with my wife, she surprisingly—and fiercely—forbade it. “You are NOT a web designer,” she insisted.
Somehow, she had faith that I could generate work that was fully aligned with my passion and strengths, but I don’t know what made her so brave. Maybe it was the new life she was nurturing in her womb. Everything about pregnancy suited her. She was a rosy, glowing orb of expectant joy—like a human orchard, ripening with fruit.
I was an anxious, sleep-tossed wreck.
The conviction of someone who knows you and loves you is one of the most motivating forces on earth. How do our loved ones see our heart and purpose better than we can ourselves?
But comedians were a luxury that no corporation could afford during the downturn. Struggling organizational teams needed fresh ideas and inspiration to rise out of the ditch. As a result, motivational speakers were the only presenters seeing work. That’s when I realized I would need to become one.
But I had a big problem.
I had nothing to say.
My brand of entertainment involved silent physical comedy. I’d been discovered as a street performer by a business executive who opened the door to corporate gigs. My shows featured juggling and circus stunts.
I didn’t talk. At all.
I decided if I wanted to become a speaker I’d need to start writing to legitimize myself as a thought leader. I’ve always been prone to extremes, especially under stress. So, of course, my solution to being a man of few words was to write an entire damn book.
With determination I committed to the path, but the first day at my desk was a wordless slap in the face. I sat for hours, staring at the thin, hard cursor that was blinking on my computer screen.
I squirmed, fidgeted, and floundered.
Perhaps because of my desperation, I forced myself to stay at my desk, cursing my distractibility. Craving snacks. Picking up lint off the floor. Starting half-hearted sentences and deleting them.
I was a mental desert. Barren of any ideas worth sharing.
Then I remembered the famous Mark Twain quote, “Write what you know.”
But what did I know?
When I started to take inventory, I didn’t like what I saw. It was a random, weird collection of skills and experiences. I’d been an actor, comedian, and street performer.
I knew the fastest way to count quarters by hand, roll them, and exchange them for bills with vendors in the public market where I performed.
I knew how to juggle 5 balls.
I knew how to move quietly backstage during a theater performance.
I had traveled by bicycle across Australia entertaining in town squares, got chased out of the country by local performers, cycled over mountain passes in New Zealand with a hundred pounds of camping gear and juggling props, and got punched by a sheep farmer who thought I was making fun of him during a street performance.
As these memories started to surface they dislodged other submerged experiences, like chunks of an iceberg being carved off from beneath. Soon I was skipping across a flotilla of forgotten adventures that had drifted up from my past.
That’s when it hit me.
I knew my stories.
Suddenly, I was beating the blank page. The more life experiences I recalled, the more enriched and enlivened I became. It was as though I was just discovering the gifts hidden in my past. I’d never understood the importance of self-reflection. The truth is, life moves too quickly to fully appreciate or craft its meaning as it occurs.
Being out of work registered as a luxury, a stroke of good fortune, necessitating a review I would have never engaged in of my own accord.
Patterns emerged, as though I was rubbing the flat of a crayon over the hidden textures of my past and a narrative landscape emerged. The lines of my character, the grooves of lifelong passion, the rough terrain of my challenges all started to form a picture.
This picture contained stories.
The stories had themes.
The themes became chapters.
The chapters became a book.
The book convinced a speaking agent to sign me on, and in the next year I made double the income I had ever earned in my life.
I was relieved and grateful for the financial boost, of course, but I had no idea I’d made an investment that would deliver a much larger pay-off than a stable bank account. I thought I had invested in writing a book, but I’d actually invested in a way of looking at life—through the lens of conscious storytelling.
Each of us are already storytellers, but often we’re not the authors of them.
We are storytellers by default—assigning meaning to our experiences according to the cultural and familial scripts we’ve inherited and missing the chance to choose our own beginnings, endings, and adventures in the middle.
No one lacks meaning in their lives.
What many of us do lack, however, is meaning we’ve freely chosen—unborrowed meaning that enlivens us, and sings with significance to our soul.
Why hadn’t I heard anyone advocate for taking charge of your own story before—for reviewing it, and rewriting it as needed?
Why had no one explained that if you want authority over your own life, you literally need to take the time to author it?
This is why you should start living in your past.
Because the stories we tell about our life experiences are the birthplace of meaning, and it’s never too late to plant new seeds there.
“7 Rules You Were Born to Break,” was the title of the book I finally wrote—the story I decided to tell about the life that I had lived—and the life I intend to live in the future.
As soon as that title showed up I went out and had a new business card made.
It read:
Rick Lewis
Professional Misbehaver
I made up my dream job and have thrived as the sole provider of its services ever since.
When you author your own life you instantly eliminate the competition, because no one else is qualified for the position of living as you. In retrospect, I could see that banishing my pursuit of web design was my wife’s instinctual connection to this truth.
It makes sense that a reminder about the fundamental principles of birth would come from the fierce protection of a pregnant woman.
We can all have that birth.
It only requires that we stand up against an entire culture that is obsessed with the future by creating a conscious relationship to our past. Then we can claim a greater measure of authority over where we’re going by reflecting on where we’ve been.
That’s the invitation of conscious storytelling.
Join the Waitlist
A few weeks ago I announced a ground-breaking new tool I’ve been working on with a developer to help anyone who wants to find and catalogue their life stories.
Raise your hand if you know that you would benefit from being a better storyteller, but you can never remember your best life stories when you need them.
Your notable life experiences pop into your mind when you’re . . .
waking up in the morning
chatting with friends
out for a walk or at the gym
doing the dishes
after your guests have left the party
in the shower
But are nowhere to be found when you . . .
sit down to write
are in the middle of an interview
prepare to walk on stage
network at conferences
teach a class
coach a team
or think about writing your memoir
Now you can recall, capture, and keep your best life stories at your fingertips so they’re always available when you need them to inspire, educate, or connect with the audience you’re dedicated to serving.
It’s especially targeted as an irreplaceable tool for writers.
You can record your stories at any time with the click of a button—by voice, text, or both. The tool will ask you how old you were when the story took place and then automatically seed your story in chronological order on your experience timeline.
You can go back later and fully develop the story, add media, even import videos—and then share your stories with members of your inner circle; family, friends, or colleagues.
There are many more cool features to geek out over, but I’ll save a full description of them for the full public launch.
The Beta launch of the app is going to the first 100 subscribers who want lifetime use of the tool for a one-time payment.
(If you’ve previously responded, you’re already on the list.)
We’re very close to opening the doors and wait-listers will get first priority to onboard for the discounted one time price.
Saturday Is Story Sharing Day
Saturday, May 11th, 9 am PST
Here’s this week’s prompt.Identify a story you’ve told the same way over and over about your past that you’d like to frame in a different way— a way that better suits the life you want to live in the future.
Watch
4 Elements That Will Improve Your Storytelling
If you found this storytelling tip useful, don’t forget to subscribe to my YouTube Channel. I tell a new story illustrating one storytelling principle every week.
Woah I didn't know this was the genesis to your book. You're so inspirational. I'm so glad you didn't become a web designer!
This concept touches me deeply. I remember very few things from my past. Even when I actively try to retrieve them. It's scary.
Do you think using your stories can work even if they are extremely mundane?
I never backpacked or busked.