Better the Devil You Know?

Maybe not.

I am a writer.

It’s still a surprise to see those words appear on the page in front of me.

It’s more a passion than a vocation, maybe even more therapist than anything else. Writing has taught me more about myself than anything else in my life.

It’s a solitary journey. You may read the words I share, but the act of digging them out of my heart and mind can only be done alone. Perhaps that’s what draws me to it. In sixty-six years, I’ve lived alone only twice, a total of less than two years. I think I crave solitude, which may also explain my interest in meditation and backpacking.

It was a circuitous journey that led me to writing that first sentence. As an engineering student, I gave the liberal arts building a wide berth. Nothing of value could happen in there, I thought. The only class I ever flunked at Virginia Military Institute was English 101. I avoided retaking it until senior year. That first day back, I walked into a room full of dazed freshmen “Rats,” their shaved heads turning to smirk at the hotshot first-classman who couldn’t pass freshman English.

Drawing further unwanted attention, the professor called out, “Ah! Mr. Monnette. You’ve been in my class before, haven’t you?”“Yes sir,” I answered, trying to keep my composure.“Well, I would understand if you’d prefer a different professor.”I glanced at the smirks around me. “No sir. That isn’t necessary.”He nodded. “I see. Better the devil you know than the angel you don’t.”

I sat down in the back row, determined to avoid more attention. I earned an A, probably out of fear of appearing “less than” in front of my so-called inferiors.

After graduation I was commissioned as a Marine Corps officer. As one of the junior lieutenants, I was often handed the tasks the senior officers shrugged off. One day the executive officer asked me to write a nomination for a Meritorious Service Medal. I didn’t know the officer or the medal, but “Yes sir” was the only answer available. Quietly, I questioned his judgment for giving me the task. Somehow, the officer received the medal, and I was forever after assigned the duty of Squadron Awards Officer, a task I hated with a passion.

Fast forward forty years, and I published a memoir. Life has a strange way of teaching us the things we most need to learn.

When I began that journey, I thought I was writing a history of my life for my children. Instead, it became a deep dive into who I was at my core. That’s the reward of writing: it teaches you what you didn’t even know you needed to learn.

Friends often tell me, “I wish I could write.” My answer is always, “You can.” Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird gives the secret: just sit down and write that “shitty first draft” no one will ever read.

I tell them to think of it as a private journal entry. That’s when the magic starts.

But that lesson is not about writing. It’s about life. In my case, writing never looked like a path for me. I didn’t think I could, nor could I even imagine why I would want to. Mostly, I was afraid to try. And then, by chance, I stumbled into it, and my life changed forever.

Maybe the lesson isn’t about choosing the right path, but about being open to the unexpected turns. About letting yourself be taught by the very things you once dismissed. Writing wasn’t a plan. It was an accident that changed everything.

That professor all those years ago said, “Better the devil you know than the angel you don’t.”Looking back, I’m not so sure. Sometimes the real gift is in stepping toward the angel you don’t.