The Last Personality Quiz You Will Ever Need: A Storyteller’s Guide to the Examined Life

Steve Edwards wants you to know that thinking about your life as a story will tell you way more about your personality than any online quiz ever could.

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You’ve taken those imminently clickable quizzes and know which Star Wars or Harry Potter character you are. Fine. But you aren’t really those fictions—you’re you. You’re the hero of the story of your own life, which is different by degrees from anyone else’s life. If you really want to know who you are, think of yourself as a character. Take a cue from storytellers and consider what they consider when crafting a story. If you are honest, it’s the last personality quiz you’ll ever need.

You are a son or daughter, a husband or wife, a lover, a friend, a co-worker, a boss, an inspiration, a pain in the ass, a hero, a villain, a survivor. But underneath those labels, what are you really? You are what you do. You are your actions, your obsessions, how you spend your time. Maybe you take your dogs to the park, call your folks on Sunday afternoons, volunteer at the food bank or the Veterans’ Home. Maybe you say things you sometimes shouldn’t. Maybe you hurt inside: where, when, how and why? The roles you play and the actions you take (or don’t) in the performance of those roles—that’s you, your character. And your character, as they say, is your fate.

What do you want? No, what do you REALLY want? What obstacles stand in your way? What are you willing to love, lose, and risk to get what you want? The plot of your life is a function of what you most desire. Thoreau famously said that “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” and I believe it’s partly because we’re so cowed by fear—fear of failure, fear of being disappointed in ourselves, fear of the hurt we will bring to those we love. But the day you understand and articulate what you want and what it’s worth to you—that’s the day you take ownership of your story.

Good luck having a heroic life story without conflict. Conflict is the driving force of all narrative, and how it gets resolved (or doesn’t) teaches us about what we can endure and overcome. But here’s the real takeaway: conflict is not about winning or losing. Nobody wins every battle, and to take winning as your measure of success will ultimately guarantee failure. Instead think of conflict as something with which to have a steady relationship. How much of your relationship with conflict is governed by anger and fear? How much is it governed by love, forgiveness, compassion? Look back at outcomes from conflicts you’ve had, and tell me intention doesn’t make a difference.

The writer Leo Tolstoy said that there are basically two types of stories. In one, a stranger comes to town. In the other, someone ventures off on a journey. Both start right where you are. Do you know where you are? I’m not talking metaphorically here—I mean: Do you really know where you are? Where does your drinking water come from? Where does your trash go when it’s hauled away? What kinds of trees live in your backyard? What do your people do for fun? What do your people eat and drink? How do you fit (or not) into the geographical jamboree going on right outside your door? Have you always wanted to leave? Or do you never want to leave? Is leaving or staying a question that looms like a cloud over your days? A part of who you are is where you are.

When Socrates said “Know thyself,” he didn’t mean that we should engage in 24/7 navel-gazing. He meant that an honest assessment of our character had better include a nod to our weaknesses, our smallness. So think about how others perceive you—how they really perceive you, not how you’d like them to perceive you. Think about your worst enemy delivering the eulogy at your funeral. What points would you concede? Yes, I had a temper. Yes, I was incredibly selfish. Yes, I fucked up. The hero is not a perfect person, blameless in every way. The hero is someone who knows him or herself well enough to humbly accept his or her limitations without having to justify or explain them away. The question here is: Can you own your shit? Can you just own it?

This is not actually a craft element of narrative that storytellers worry about. Nor should you. Until it’s over and you’ve breathed your last breath, your life story will not have a definitive theme. Theme is something made up by high school English teachers to kill time, to quiz you about later. Theme is a radio-collar that signals your whereabouts so a biologist can track you down and dart you—but you, my friend, you are the wolf. You are driven by hunger, intuition, a devotion to the pack. You are life’s longing for itself. The meaning of your howl is not the chill down the back of someone else’s neck: it’s its own meaning, unique to you and yours. Hold onto it like a secret.

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Your mission now, should you choose to accept it, is to answer these questions as truthfully as possible. And once you’ve done that, your job is to question your answers. Take all the time you need.

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Background Image: Credit—David Flores/Flickr