Your Story Knows More Than You Do

The mysterious and elusive aspects of intuitive writing

Mar 05, 2025

If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is an essay in my ongoing “Writing Fiction to Heal in Real Time” series where I deep-dive into my writing fiction to heal method as field work and a case study. To begin, I will be working through my story, The Archive, which you can find more information on here.

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There I was, staring at a blank document and a blinking cursor, ready to write the next entry in Ari’s story. But when I began to type, that’s not what came out on the page.

Twenty minutes later, I was staring at a report from some future voice—analyzing Ari’s first two journal entries.

I was… surprised. Intrigued. But also thrown off. Where did that come from?

This secondary “meta” voice wasn’t in my initial dreams and schemes for this story. It felt like it had appeared out of left field. And yet, something about it—the tone, the way it fit into the story in a weird, off-kilter way felt right.

I’ve learned to recognize these moments for what they are: gifts from my intuition and subconscious. Because stories often reveal truths before we’re consciously aware of them—if we’re willing to listen and follow the map they provide us.

And this isn’t the first time The Archive has known something before I did. The Archival Reports were just the beginning.

Case Study #1: The Archival Reports

Now that I’m further into writing The Archive, I can see the patterns and connections from the “seeds” I’ve been planting—some intentionally, but many unconsciously.

Just recently, I realized that these Archival Reports—the very ones that caught me off guard—shouldn’t have surprised me at all.

Before starting The Archive, I reread Octavia Butler’s Parable books, and I was pissed when I finished Parable of the Talents.

Asha/Larkin’s tone and perception of her mother infuriated me. She was dismissive, cold, unwilling to give Lauren the benefit of the doubt. It felt like she refused to try to understand what her mother had built or why. She was looking at her mother’s journals through her own bias, through her own pain, and because of that, she misrepresented the truth of who Lauren was.

And now I see it clearly—of course I subconsciously created the Archival Reports. Of course I wanted someone to find Ari’s journals and treat them with the respect and curiosity I wished Asha/Larkin had given Lauren’s.

But this isn’t just about Ari.

This is about me.

The moment I made this connection, I realized I’d been wrestling with my own questions about legacy—ones that have lingered in my personal journals for years. What parts of me will survive when I’m gone? Will my own journals be seen as an archive of emotional survival? Of literary citizenship? What will someone see when they look at the totality of me?

And what if no one does?

What happens when there’s no one left to find or understand what we’ve left behind?

Now, in The Archive, the task of analyzing Ari’s journals has fallen to an AI, which adds another layer of unease—because even if her story is found, will it be understood? Will her truth be preserved or reduced to data points?

I see now that this narrative thread didn’t come out of nowhere. It was always there. I just hadn’t recognized it yet.

Case Study #2: Ari as an Archivist

When I began this project, one of the very few things I did know about Ari was that she worked at a library before the collapse. It was something I just knew about her from the moment she visited my dreams. But beyond that, I didn’t have many specifics.

Then, during one of my “interviews” with Ari, she said she was the library’s archivist. She was very specific and adamant about that.

A few days later, I was working on a mockup cover for inspiration. I began to type Title TBD but instead, I wrote The Archive.

Yeah…

It was freaky. But it also felt right.

So I rolled with it. I leaned into it.

Here’s the thing—archivists are responsible for preserving the past, making meaning out of fragmented histories. Ari knows the importance of this from her life pre-collapse, so it makes sense that she would believe it’s even more important post-collapse. That she would want to preserve what she can, even if it’s only through her own experiences.

And wouldn’t you know—it’s not just Ari.

I, too, am becoming an archivist in my own way.

This project isn’t just about her. It’s about me, about my own impulse to preserve, document, and record. About my need to make meaning out of my own fragmented history.

It’s almost laughable that I thought I chose “archivist” randomly. Of course, I didn’t. The story already knew.

Case Study #3: The Scene & Snippet Bank

One of the biggest differences in how I’m writing The Archive compared to past projects is my approach to structure. I don’t plot traditionally. Instead, I use what I call my Scene & Snippet Bank.

Whenever I get a sudden “download” of a scene, a snippet of dialogue, or even just a feeling, I document it in a spreadsheet. These fragments don’t necessarily have a home right away—I collect them, let them sit, and trust that they’ll eventually tell me where they belong.

Some are broad ideas, like:

Write a scene where Ari has an encounter with someone more prepared than her. Does the other person offer help? Take advantage of them? Mock them?

Others are fully formed snippets, like:

“I didn't think it was possible to hate potatoes, but here we are. We’ve been eating them for three straight weeks now—boiled, fried, mashed, you name it. Demi says they’re saving our lives. I say they’re killing our taste buds.”

At the time I write them, I don’t always know what they mean or where they’ll fit. But later—sometimes much later—they almost always find their place.

The fact that this works is proof of something I already know but sometimes forget:

The story is working even when I’m not.

Even when I don’t have the full picture, the pieces are already assembling themselves.

The Layers of Knowing

So why does this happen? Why do the right details emerge at the wrong time—only for us to later realize they were never wrong at all?

The answer lies in the different layers of knowing.

The Subconscious at Work

The brain doesn’t stop processing just because we’re not thinking about something directly. It gathers and sorts information, making connections behind the scenes.
That’s why “random” details—Ari’s profession, the Archival Reports—weren’t random at all. My subconscious had already recognized their significance.

Intuition & Pattern Recognition

Our brains are wired to detect patterns and make meaning, even when we don’t realize it.
The Archival Reports, Ari’s profession, and my own questions about legacy were already forming a web of connection. I just hadn’t seen it yet.

Writing as a Form of Divination

Sometimes, it really does feel like stories have their own shape, their own will. Like we’re not creating them as much as channeling them.
Writing isn’t just putting words on a page—it’s listening. The details we think are accidental might actually be signposts, guiding us toward something we need to uncover.

If the story knows more than we do, our job isn’t to force it—it’s to trust it. To let the snippets, the unexpected details, the seemingly random choices be there without demanding an explanation too soon.

Because the meaning will come.

It always does.

Learning to Trust the Process

The biggest challenge in intuitive writing isn’t the writing itself—it’s trusting the writing.

It’s easy to look at an unexpected detail and second-guess it, to assume it’s just a throwaway idea rather than an essential piece of the story’s deeper architecture. But every time I’ve tried to ignore or rationalize away these “random” elements, I’ve found myself circling back to them later, realizing they weren’t random at all.

So how do you recognize when the story is telling you something deeper? And more importantly, how do you stay open to it rather than shutting it down?

Let the Intuitive Details Stand—Even If They Don’t Make Sense Yet

One of the most important things I’ve learned is to leave the odd, unexpected elements alone. Just because I don’t understand why they’re there right now doesn’t mean they don’t belong.

The Archival Reports were an example of this. I could have easily deleted that first report, convinced myself that it was out of place or unnecessary. But I felt that it was right. That feeling is what matters.

If something in your writing surprises you, keep it. Follow it. Let it stay on the page and see what it wants to become.

Revisit Past Notes, Scene Snippets, and Character Choices

The act of returning to old notes or fragments can be revealing.

I do this all the time with my Scene & Snippet Bank. There are moments where I’ll look at something I jotted down months ago—a line of dialogue, a setting, a half-formed idea—and suddenly see where it fits. It’s as if my past self left breadcrumbs for my future self, knowing I’d eventually understand.

If you have an idea that doesn’t quite fit yet, store it. Keep a list of snippets, discarded lines, or moments that intrigue you. They might not belong in the story right now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t belong later.

Trust That Even “Random” Elements Often Have Meaning Later

If you allow a story to breathe, if you let it evolve naturally, patterns will emerge—whether you intend them to or not.

I didn’t set out to make Ari an archivist because I was thinking about the themes of preservation, documentation, and legacy. But those themes were already forming in my subconscious, and they found their way into the story before I consciously understood them.

The same goes for the way I chose to tell the story itself. I didn’t plan for The Archive to have a fragmented, journal-like structure. But isn’t that exactly what an archive is? A collection of moments, memories, scraps of meaning?

The story already knew what it needed to be.

I just had to trust it.

What This Means for The Archive

Now that I recognize how much of this book is revealing itself to me, it changes the way I approach writing forward.

Instead of trying to control the process or force a strict structure, I’ve embraced the fact that The Archive is unfolding in its own way, on its own timeline. There are still pieces I haven’t uncovered yet, patterns I haven’t noticed, themes I haven’t fully grasped.

And that’s okay.

Some truths aren’t meant to be seen immediately. Some themes won’t crystallize until the very end—or even long after the book is finished. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t already there, waiting to be discovered.

So I’ll keep listening.

I’ll keep writing forward.

And I’ll keep asking myself—what is my story trying to tell me before I’m ready to hear it?

Because the answer is always there.

I just have to be willing to find it.

Next time…

Next week is TBD because there are a few competing topics and I’m not sure yet which one will win out, so you’ll have to wait and tune in to see what it ends up being ;)

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