When You Love Stories Too Much to Write Them

“Someone come make me write my book!”

“Being a writer is 10% writing and 90% feeling guilty for not writing.”

I often see/hear sentiments like the above, and I’ve expressed similar thoughts. I have a theory about why we (or at least some of us) might love and dread writing: our love for GOOD stories.

A good story draws us in, compels us, and immerses us. We root for characters. We breathe, sigh, hide, and cry with them. Many of us writers love to create stories because we fell in love with them before we could do much else—whether it was through books, mouths, audio recordings, screens, artwork, or any other storytelling medium.

So when we write, we want to make that happen. We’re not trying to make the perfect story; most of us know (probably from stories) that perfection isn’t possible. But the process of crafting forces us to confront our failures over and over. It makes us see: This thing I’m making is not the story I know and love.

It’s hard to work through that. I love the story that’s playing out in my head, and all I want is to convey it to others. This, though, this horrid draft in front of me? I don’t love it. The disappointment is crushing. (This, by the way, is how you know you’re improving. You’re good enough to see the deficits.)

When you’re looking at a first draft, at scribbled ideas and outdated outlines, it looks more like ruins than a foundation. There’s no promise of what it can become. But the promise it does hold is this: If you keep going, it might not be what you envisioned. It might not even be better. But it will be different, and it will be yours.

For me, my love of stories drives some of my anxiety, but it also brings me back to writing again and again (even when I think I’m done). It tells me that I DO want them to be told, shared, and loved, just like the stories that inspired me. And isn’t that what love is? Accepting the parts that are harder to love? The messy, wretched process of drafting, revising, criticizing, and doubting on repeat deserves to be pushed through so I can get to what’s easiest to love: the work. The thing of it all. The finished story, and the people who will receive it.

Anton Chekhov on Details, Expectations, and "Show, Don't Tell"

Arguments for "show, don't tell" often cite Anton Chekhov's famous statement:

"Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."

But not only did he not mean "show, don't tell," he didn't actually even say this. The original statement (translated from Russian in Yarmolinsky's "The Unknown Chekhov") was in a letter Chekhov wrote to his brother:

"In descriptions of Nature one must seize on small details, grouping them so that when the reader closes his eyes he gets a picture. For instance, you’ll have a moonlit night if you write that on the mill dam a piece of glass from a broken bottle glittered like a bright little star, and that the black shadow of a dog or a wolf rolled past like a ball."

"Show, don't tell" is at best an oversimplification of Chekhov's words and at worst a misread. A better accompanying directive might be "Use details intentionally." This aligns with the idea of Chekhov's gun, which he DID use often when giving advice to writers. He thought every detail should be used with intention.

"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”

But most stories are stories not because of where you go, but how you get there and what you experience along the way.

So yes, payoff matters. But a story in which EVERYTHING has intent/meaning/payoff just doesn't—well, it doesn't tell the whole story.

Writing is learning.

Writing is learning, even if you never push for publication.
You learn how to write and rewrite.
You learn to transcribe every lilt and nuance of your inner voice.
You learn your strengths and limitations.
You learn how to communicate to someone you may never meet.
You learn all the things you still need to learn.
You learn about yourself.

Proofreaders are Underrated

My controversial publishing take is that proofreading isn’t actually an entry-level position, and publishers should stop making it the “starting point” for getting into publishing jobs.
Proofreading needs a firm grasp of language, strong attention to detail, and knowledge of industry standards and changing trends. Most people—even authors and editors—don’t know the ins and outs of grammar rules and style guides (nor do they need to! That’s why this is a job!)
Novice editors, especially when proofreading or copyediting, often over-edit. I’ve heard many authors say, “They completely missed the point” or “They changed the entire thing.” This is part of what makes training important.
You have to know the publisher’s guidelines, industry standards, and common vernacular, but you also need to honor the author’s voice, vision, and style. These may be good consideration questions, whether you’re editing, giving feedback, or even reviewing someone else’s suggestions for your own writing.

It wasn't worth it. Now what?

There’s this saying that you don’t regret the things you did—you regret what you didn’t do. You regret the friendships you never forged and the experiences you never tried. The newness of it all and the novelty of what you haven’t tried will, in themselves, make whatever it is “worth it.”

But what if it doesn’t need to be worth it?

I’ve opened my heart to people who misused it. I’ve tried new drinks and wished I’d just ordered my usual drink. If I could take some of those things back, maybe I would. Because it wasn’t worth it.

But so what? Why do things have to be worth it for us to try them?

I know life is easier when we only do what is “worth” our enjoyment. I’m a person who finds happiness easily in little things—a scene from my favorite show, a three-second interaction with a puppy, a cup of my favorite beverage. Because of this, I fall easily into comfortable routines. I’ll order the same drink from the same place every day for a decade and never tire of it. I’ll rewatch the same scenes from the same show 40 times, quote every word and sigh and breath by heart, and still enjoy it.

I’ve become so careful that my friends and family have gotten used to me suddenly standing still in public settings, paralyzed with indecision while I weigh the pros and cons and listen as my heart argues with my brain.

So, I’ve taken it upon myself to do it first and consider later. If I’m not sure whether I want to try something new (assuming it’s not horribly unhealthy or dangerous), rather than giving myself time to weigh all the pros and cons, I just go for it. I remind myself that it’s likelier I’ll regret not having tried something than regret trying something and hating it, because true regret, at least for me, is wondering what was and could have been.

I want to live a life I won’t regret. I don’t want to hurt others, or do harmful actions, or maybe even hurt myself too much. I don’t want to live my life like a business transaction, saying only the things that might benefit me, forging only the friendships that are likely to succeed, trying only the things I’ve known and liked. I want to look back on things and say “Yes, that was horrible, but I tried it. And now I know (better).”

Maybe that’s the writer brain in me speaking, knowing I can use my experiences in my work. But maybe that’s just me, and maybe that’s the part of me that aids my writing. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because in the long run, not much does. My time isn’t only spent on worthwhile things. My tears aren’t shed only for meaningful people and meaningful experiences. And that’s okay.

So if I try it and hate it, I’ll stop. If I regret it, I won’t do it again. If it hurts, I’ll try to move on. That’s the cruelest and kindest thing about life—it’ll keep going and everything will fade, for better or for worse. At least we can try to make it work for the better, right?

Letting My Love Be Heard

I lost my first music therapy client about a month ago.

She was a hospice patient, and she was the sweetest person I had ever met (which says a lot, because I’ve had the fortune of knowing so many wonderful people).

When I first got the news, even though I knew she had been in hospice for many reasons, I was still taken aback. We’d thought she had more time. I’d been planning my next session with her. I was going to see her in just a few days.

Plus, she had requested a song at our last session that I didn’t know, and I’d promised to learn it for her. That night after receiving the call, I cried. I felt like I’d broken a promise, and I wanted so badly to follow through on it.

In the weeks since then, I’ve processed this with my colleagues, therapist, and supervisor, and I realize repeatedly how lucky I am for such a strong support system. They reminded me that I had given her positive experiences before she passed, and that telling her I’d learn the song for her was a gesture in itself, and that she’d been peaceful. Hopeful.

Two sessions before that, she had told me what songs she wanted at her memorial. She said her husband had never been a musical person but once heard a specific song, came home to her, and said, “This is my song for you.” That was the one she wanted at her memorial, even though she said she wouldn’t need it. She’d be with Jesus, she said, but she knew her loved ones would feel better holding one for her.

My supervisor performed those songs at her funeral, and she passed away surrounded by people she loved.

At what I didn’t know would be our last session together, I sang two hymns for her. Near the end, she wanted me to sing one more song—she didn’t care what it was, but she wanted it to be something I loved.

So I sang “Come In With the Rain,” which I thought I’d never sing to a patient, and she loved it. She said the lyrics were lovely, and I told her I looked forward to our next session. I meant it.

Today it hit me that that was the last song she ever heard. It hurts that she is no longer here, but I’m thankful I got to know her in her last few months, that I had such meaningful interactions with her, that our sessions brightened her days when we were there. And reflecting now, I realize there is no greater moment of genuine connection—singing a song I loved deeply to a lovely woman who understood.

Improvement sucks

Improving is HARD.

If I've made a goal to run 5 miles in a week and I succeed, I feel great physically and emotionally. If I decide to practice piano more than usual and I have a smooth lesson... obviously, that's ideal.

But the biggest adjustments take so much more sacrifice; sometimes, even just wanting to improve is difficult. It would be so much easier to say, "This is just who I am. Whoever doesn't like it can deal with it."

One thing I'm always having to challenge is my pride. I know—my low self-esteem is a constant, ongoing joke for me and a cause for concern among adults and even some friends. But pride actually plays a huge role in that—pride that I think I know what's best for myself (of course I should eat one meal a day!), pride in trying to be the best at something, pride in not wanting to change my thoughts.

These are all things I hate changing. I hate having to redefine my self-identity, even if it means I'll stop beating myself up for the occasional horrible grade. I hate having to let go of grudges and reach out to people I've pushed away, even if it means we might reconcile and find peace. I hate admitting my emotional vulnerabilities to people and giving them the power of rejection, but look at how unhealthy that is!

I'm learning that the more an improvement can pay off, the harder it is. I've always known sacrifice is essential to change, but the deeper it goes, the more it feels like a self-redefining experience than it does a simple breaking of a bad habit.

My bad habit is sometimes a cognitive distortion (if I drop something, I'm clumsy, because I'm a horrible person) or inertia (why go running when I can rewatch a show?). My bad habit is sometimes not even my fault, like when my anxiety tells me to stay in bed and hide from everything.

My bad habit is sometimes a safety mechanism—if I push people away, they can't hurt me.

I wish I could write an inspirational, feel-good post about self-improvement, but it wouldn't be true. The truth is improvement starts with motivation, but motivation eventually runs out once the going gets tough. So, I guess my lesson this season is this: when motivation runs out... just keep going.

At least it means I won't have to look back on my life and wish I'd just pushed through.

Giving out love in an angry world

I'm always being told that I'm not enough.
I'm not nice enough — I don't give enough love.
I'm too nice — I give too much of it away.

It's hard enough trying not to internalize the hatred I see everywhere, and it's hard not to become bitter when everything I try and do seems wrong. Sometimes, I wonder if there's a point in trying to be kind in such an unkind world. Right now, sending love to people feels a lot like throwing it into a void. Once it's given, it's gone — no reciprocation, just a lot of angriness and emptiness looking back.

Sometimes, as I think about this, I find myself harboring bitterness and cynicism. I even accept that jadedness for a while, and I think: I'll just have to live with this. It seems inevitable given how awful people can be. It seems unavoidable given how unlovable I can be, and how I can never escape that and will always be aware of it.

And there's the issue. The way I perceive the world has so much to do with how I look at myself. The more I think of myself as a bad person, the easier it is for me to see others that way.

I look around a lot when I'm outside. Often, when I'm resigned and angry and defeated, something someone does brings me back.

I see the way a mother looks at her daughter — proud and joyful, and her daughter isn't even aware of being looked at like that. All she knows is when she lifts her arms up for a hug, her mom will pick her up.

I see an elderly man drop his items and sigh as he bends down to pick it up, and suddenly five different people are there helping him.

I'm driving, and I need to get into a lane or else I'll take an accidental exit, but someone flashes their light and waves me over.

I'm having a bad day and I'm glaring at the ground as I walk, hoping no one will start berating me for something they think I should've taken care of. Then someone I'm sort of friends with smiles at me, and we talk, and I walk away realizing we've just strengthened our friendship just a little bit more.

I still get yelled at for being too nice, then turn around and get berated for not being nice enough. Sometimes I want to withdraw all of my love so I'll never get rejected and I'll never see myself hurt again. But who is that punishing?

It doesn't hurt the people who already hate me and hate the world and hate people in general. It only hurts the ones who love me. It hurts the ones I love. It hurts me.

This is a world that's hard to love in and hard to love in general. I get it. But for every bit of anger, hate, and recycled hurt out there, some bit of kindness is always happening too.

Trying to change the world is important, but when I try, I tend to fixate on the things that need to be changed. Sometimes, I just need to unplug and remind myself of all the things that don't need changing. All the kind and wonderful people I know and all the kind and wonderful things they do. All the kind and wonderful things that will keep being done, no matter how bad it gets.

So I'll allow myself to take a deep breath, be angry if I need to, and retire from company for a few hours or a few days. And then I'll try to add at least one more instance of kindness in this hectic, scary, impassioned world.

Being okay with being lost

"Not all those who wander are lost," but maybe some are. What happens then?

This semester has seen me living a much different kind of life than whatever I'd foreseen over winter break. February has come and gone, and somehow I feel like the semester still hasn't started.

I keep questioning myself lately, more so than usual. I am so lucky. I have so many opportunities and I am in a place with so many ways to be connected to people and I have a lot of material and societal blessings. What can I improve on? How can I use it to spread it to the people around me? How can I spread it to people who are not near me? Why do I become so caught up in my own day and schedule that I waste precious moments I could spend making someone else's day better?

Life is so short. Have I really lived my life if I haven't done something truly worthwhile for others?

As everyone knows about me, I'm a relationship-based person. I love building relationships with people and walking with them on their journeys, laughing with them, crying with them, celebrating with them. Friendships, familial relationships, mentorships. All of it.

Yet only recently have I found myself trying to be a more "fun" person rather than a better person. I've gone out of my way to seek approval and friendship from people just because I think they're my close friends, as if I'm only just barely staying "cool" enough to be kept around. Beth McColl said it best in a tweet the other day: "I can't watch myself nurture a neglectful relationship, or try and cheat rejection by working harder to be liked."

...which is what I saw myself doing, and I'm done with that. Yes - I want to be friends with so many people. I want to love on my friends (almost to the extent of Leslie Knope), but I can't force that upon anyone. If you do many things for someone who wants you to be their friend, it's entirely different from someone who's wondering why you're investing in a relationship that's not mutual.

I often post about the people around me on Instagram, but the most meaningful moments of my life usually don't make it. Instagram is just a highlight reel. Substance comes from the daily conversations, the late-night food runs, the phone calls when you absolutely need someone to talk to whether it's about a sudden heartbreak or Chance's Grammys performance. Sometimes I feel emotionally closer to people hours away than people who are right here on campus with me; I have been so frightened of losing these relationships, as if I'm just not worthy of friendships where people really want me around, but for once I need to step away from being so focused on trying to see if my friends view me as a friend. The way to invest in myself isn't by gaining others' approval - it's by investing in the community I'm in and trying to make a single drop of change in this rapidly changing, occasionally frightening, always giving world. The world gives to me - I can give so much more back.

So I'll keep doing this -- this floating in limbo as I begin a new way of being part of this community. I don't know where I fit, but maybe now without searching so hard, I'll find somewhere I belong where I'm not too loud, too quiet, too annoying, too boring, too innocent, too non-innocent, too... everything. This world is wide enough.

With every loss, something changes

It's always kind of eerie returning home after a semester in school now that I'm no longer living with my family.

You know that feeling when you walk out of the room and someone pranks you by moving things around in subtle ways? Maybe your couch shifts three inches to the left, or a centerpiece gets replaced...

That's how it feels.

After an extra-long winter break, I feel like I'm leaving just when I'm finally part of my own family again. It's easy to fall into the visitor role going home once every few weekends, but now, I'm relearning my family's habits, learning the little changes in their lives—what places they frequent, what days of the week my sister has lessons, who finishes what chores—all the things I once knew by heart. All knowledge of which I once took for granted.

It just never occurred to me to think about it. In a way I feel that I'm coming to another loss associated with growing older: my life has always, I thought, revolved around my family, but it doesn't look the same anymore. It can't.

With every loss, there's always a moment of bewilderment. A period of grief. And then, once the shock of it all wears off... we find a new "normal."

My family doesn't look the same anymore, but then again, neither do I. As with so many things, with both tragic losses and tiny lost moments, readjustment happens.

The new "normal" has to be built, bit by bit, and then it becomes lived-in and familiar, like a brand-new house that becomes a home.