I once took a workshop with Jim Shepard, and he has this term

There are ideas that belong not merely to the craft of writing, but to the art of living itself. Laura van den Berg, speaking of her mentor’s wisdom, reveals one of these eternal principles when she recalls: “I once took a workshop with Jim Shepard, and he has this term, ‘rate-of-revelation,’ that has come to mean a lot to me: ‘the pace at which we’re learning crucial emotional information about the stories’ central figures.’ An ever-increasing rate-of-revelation is good; a stagnant r-of-r is not.” Though born in the classroom of literature, these words ring with the truth of the human spirit. For whether in story or in life, what gives meaning to existence is not mere motion, but revelation — the deepening understanding of who we are, what we feel, and what we are becoming.

The rate-of-revelation is, in essence, the rhythm of awakening. In a story, it is the gradual unveiling of a character’s heart, the illumination of the shadows that define their choices. In life, it is the unfolding of the soul’s awareness — the pace at which we come to know our fears, our longings, and the invisible forces that guide our paths. To increase the rate-of-revelation is to keep discovering, to keep seeing more clearly the hidden dimensions of ourselves and others. A stagnant rate-of-revelation, on the other hand, is the mark of a life or a story that has stopped growing, where understanding ceases and repetition takes its place. Thus, van den Berg’s reflection speaks not only to writers, but to all seekers of truth.

The ancients would have understood this deeply. The philosopher Socrates spoke of the “examined life,” insisting that self-knowledge was the root of virtue. To live without reflection, he said, is to live asleep. This is the same law that governs storytelling — for what is a great tale if not the awakening of a soul under the pressure of time, loss, and love? In the plays of Sophocles, the hero’s downfall comes not from fate alone, but from blindness to his own heart. When the truth is finally revealed — when the rate-of-revelation reaches its peak — tragedy becomes wisdom. The audience, too, is transformed, for revelation shared is revelation multiplied.

In the realm of art, one can look to Leo Tolstoy as a master of revelation. In Anna Karenina or War and Peace, his characters evolve not merely through events, but through waves of inner discovery. Each page deepens the reader’s knowledge of their hearts — their vanity, their courage, their capacity for forgiveness. This is what van den Berg means when she praises an “ever-increasing rate-of-revelation.” The story that continues to reveal, to surprise, to deepen — that story lives. The one that repeats itself without new understanding — that story dies, no matter how elegant the words.

And what is true of writing is true of the human journey. Many live long lives with little revelation, trapped in familiar patterns, unwilling to confront the deeper truths within. But those who seek to understand — who face discomfort, change, and contradiction — they live with a rising flame. Their rate-of-revelation increases with time. Every hardship becomes a mirror; every encounter, a teacher. To live this way is to live as the hero of one’s own story — ever evolving, never stagnant.

Even Jim Shepard’s teaching, though meant for writers, carries a spiritual undertone. He reminds us that revelation is not a matter of speed, but of movement — the constant unveiling of the heart. It is not enough to tell events; we must reveal essence. It is not enough to live through time; we must grow through it. A stagnant soul, like a stagnant story, loses its vitality. But one that learns — from sorrow, from joy, from silence — will keep expanding in meaning until its final breath.

Let this teaching be carried forward as both art and wisdom: keep your rate-of-revelation alive. Do not let your understanding of yourself or others rest on the surface. Seek out what lies beneath your habits, your emotions, your choices. In every relationship, every failure, every quiet moment, ask, “What am I learning about who I truly am?” For life, like a great story, is not measured by its length, but by the depth of its unfolding. And when the final page is turned, may your story, too, be one of constant revelation — a journey of ever-deepening truth, where the heart continues to awaken until the very end.