I

arrived early and took a seat on the couch. I’d been looking forward to this creative writing class and was ready to begin. Blank pages awaited me, sharpened pencil in hand. What could be more fun?

I glanced around at my fellow group members, curious about the people who would be joining me on this writing journey. “Sharing” wasn’t one of the mandatory fundamentals of this class, but when you write together with others, you end up discovering a lot about their souls.

This concept is explained in the beginning of Mesillas Yesharim. Says the Ramchal, “The foundation of piety and the root of perfect service [of Hashem] is for a person to clarify and come to realize as truth what his obligation is in his world.”

Note that the Ramchal addresses us in the singular: “a person,” “his obligation,” in “his world,” showing us that each person’s service of Hashem is unique.

The instructor looked around at each of us and held each gaze. We were a varied group, both in ages, personalities, and backgrounds. Headgear was as diverse as the varied clothing and bags. But we all were ready, waiting for her words. “So as a get-to-know-you exercise, I’d like each of you to write three short paragraphs describing yourself. Past, present, hopes for the future… you decide. But”—here she paused and made sure we were with her—“I want two of the paragraphs to be true and one not true. Afterward, whoever would like to share her writing, the rest of the group will try to guess what’s true or untrue about her descriptions.”

I settled more comfortably on the couch, pencil poised. Anticipation played out with words in my head. The true stuff was easy. But what should I fabricate? Can’t be too wild as I doubt anyone would believe I’m a double agent working clandestinely for the CIA.

And wasn’t that the challenge? To write something that dances on the periphery of truth with enough basis for belief, yet still manage to throw credibility off track? I was lost in the magic land of imagination, my pencil scratching along with the rest of the group.

Even if a person is a talmid chacham and fears Hashem, but has never delved into discovering his own personal mission in his world, then he’s flawed. He’s like a person who builds a house without a foundation or plants a tree with no roots.

A person has to constantly be in a state of upward motion, reaching higher, but it must be within the unique parameters of his world, ensuring that each of his todays are greater than his past and are building toward his personal future.

“So who would like to read her work?”

Initially, I hadn’t expected to share my writing; this class was a chance to talk to myself on paper. But this exercise would be fun to throw out to the group. Apparently other women shared my thoughts because there were many volunteers to share.

As each read her three paragraphs, I marveled at the creativity and innovation that allowed each woman to sketch a scene within specific parameters, while skirting substantiation.

Yet despite the talent and innovation, what was interesting was that the truth stood out. Invariably, as each read her three descriptions, there was someone in the group who seized upon the falsehood. Many times it was because truth was stranger than fiction.

The session ended shortly after and I looked around the group with new appreciation. The outer trappings were still the same. But I now knew that one woman worked in a hospital while another was a sixth-generation Yerushalmi. And one did not travel to Europe despite the many details she wrote about her trip.

We were a study in contrasts, a map of mysteries. Yet each was distinct, with her personal essence speaking louder than any twists of truth.

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 642)