When I was in college, I had the good fortune to have Joyce

Jonathan Ames, in recalling the wisdom of his teacher, reveals a truth about the creative spirit and the hidden depths of the self: “When I was in college, I had the good fortune to have Joyce Carol Oates as my writing teacher. She told me that I could take an aspect of myself, and from that one bit of personality, I can create a character. This is what I have done, particularly in my novels.” In these words, we find not only a method of writing, but a philosophy of creation, of turning inward to draw from the seed of the soul the endless variety of human expression.

The origin of this insight lies in the timeless tradition of storytelling. From the ancients who spun myths around the fire to the modern novelists who capture the subtleties of human thought, the foundation of all characters rests in the human heart itself. Ames’ teacher, the renowned Joyce Carol Oates, gave him a compass: to look within, to find a fragment of his own personality, and to let it bloom into a character, separate yet connected, a reflection and a distortion of the self. It is the act of transforming the personal into the universal.

This method is not new, but eternal. The great tragedian Sophocles poured his understanding of pride and frailty into Oedipus. Shakespeare magnified his own observations of jealousy, ambition, and wit into Othello, Macbeth, and Falstaff. In more recent times, F. Scott Fitzgerald wove his longing, his disillusionment, his glittering and broken spirit into Jay Gatsby. Each took from themselves—just a fragment, an aspect—and from it created beings who outlived them, characters who still breathe in the imagination of generations.

The wisdom here is heroic in its intimacy: one need not invent entirely from nothing. The writer’s power is not to conjure from void but to expand what already dwells within. A nervous tic, a quiet longing, a concealed anger, a moment of joy—these small sparks become the flame of a character. What Ames reveals is that every life, no matter how ordinary, contains the seeds of countless stories. To mine the self honestly is to tap into the endless reservoir of humanity itself.

There is also in this teaching a paradox of self and other. For though the character is born from the self, once shaped, it becomes its own being, walking into the world with its own choices, its own destiny. The writer births them, but then they speak back, surprising even their creator. This is the mystery of art: to transform the inner life into something that transcends the self and speaks to strangers, binding reader and writer through shared recognition.

The lesson for seekers of wisdom is thus: look within to create without. Whether in writing, in speaking, or in living, know that your own personality, your own experiences, are not chains but fountains. Do not dismiss your quirks, your wounds, your joys—they are the soil from which great expressions can grow. What you believe is small may, when nurtured, become a voice that reaches beyond your time.

Practically, this means to practice self-awareness and observation. Keep a journal, noting fragments of your thoughts and emotions. Pay attention to how you react to fear, to love, to uncertainty. From these fragments, weave stories. If you are not a writer, apply the same truth to life itself: use your own strengths, flaws, and experiences to connect with others, to build empathy, to guide your actions. For the aspects of self that you embrace and understand can be the very tools by which you touch the world.

Thus, Ames’ words remind us that art begins not in distant lands but in the soul of the artist. To take one aspect of the self and shape it into a character is to acknowledge that we each contain multitudes, and that from our depths can rise voices that endure. Carry this teaching with you, O seeker, and know: the universe of stories lies already within you, waiting only for the courage to bring it forth.