How would you feel if the deepest recesses of your soul became material for your therapist’s next novel? I suppose it’s possible you would feel honored – hey, at least it means your life is in some way interesting (unless your therapist’s next novel is entitled, The Biggest Wastes of Blood and Tissue I’ve Ever Counseled). I suppose it’s possible you would feel betrayed – the sacred secrets spilled on your therapist’s couch/chair/zafu are the building blocks of your life and not sources of creative inspiration. Yes, both reactions would be valid and understandable. But stop for a moment and think about the life of a therapist/analyst/healer. Day after day they are inundated with human dramas. Whether tragic, hilarious or frustrating, these human dramas are all real…and therefore inherently compelling. I imagine your therapist leaves her office every day filled to the brim with the joy, pain and universality of the human experience. So, what does she do with it all? If she lives in Manhattan, she very well may be writing about it.  

In a recent article in the New York Times, Sarah Kershaw reports on a collection of NYC psychotherapists that, “may be the most nurturing and deeply connected creative writing group to arrive on the literary scene.” Created by psychotherapist Bonnie Zindel, the group has been in existence for seven years. Professional ethic codes require these therapists to secure permission from their patients before writing about them in either academia or fiction, and the group claims that they seek permission even when they go to great lengths to disguise their patients. Because, as Zindel says, “If you didn’t feel safe with your therapist, where could you go?”

It is the struggle of the human experience that compels us to write (and read), and Zindel says the stories that come about as a result of our shared human struggle are beneficial to both therapy and creativity:

“We all need stories to make sense of our lives, we’re all wired to tell stories, and nature gave us that. For us, we wonder, ‘What is the story that our patients are telling?’ There are mother stories, father stories, ghost stories and the eternal universal story of a child trying to separate from its mother.”

Zindel n’ Co. is certainly not the first to explore this idea. Just off the top of my head, I can think of two of my recent reads that employ this technique: the literary work of Kim Chernin, and Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ masterpiece, Women Who Run With the Wolves. True stories inherently carry more weight and drama because they are real — they really happened to somebody, and that somebody could have been you.

But when these therapists are writing about “the ever-unfolding narrative of life,” they are writing not about their own lives but about the life of their trusting client. And that client could be me. Or you. (Well…not without our permission, of course.)

Yes, this idea is a bit creepy, but it also has the potential to be inspiring. Reading this article made me think: so, then why am I not writing the “ever-unfolding narrative” of MY life? And when you think about it that way, this article could serve as the basis for some creative inspiration. 

Try this writing exercise: Imagine your life from the point of view of your therapist/analyst/healer (and if you’ve never had one, make one up….complete with character profile). Imagine that this person maintains a professional and detached distance from your life. Imagine that she only hears about your life for an hour a week. Outline (and title) the book that she would write about you.

Then write out some of the scenes. It could be funny. Heroic. Banal. Depressing. You could reduce the real people in your life to snapshots of characters mentioned in therapy sessions. You could write about very painful periods in your life with a clinical bent. You could be kind. Or totally self-deprecating. Or completely absurd. You could make fun of your life. You could celebrate your life. The possibilities are endless.

It could be a free therapy session between you and your computer. And then you could publish the book and sell a bunch of copies and actually be able to afford therapy with a Manhattan psychotherapist.