Hello friends,
A bit of housekeeping to start this week—I think I screwed up the delivery of last week's letter. If you missed it, I adopted a cat. Ok, the house has been kept. Onward.
Recently, my Spotify Discover Weekly playlist unintentionally waxed poetic. It suggested two songs, one after the other: "Coriolis" and "Pomegranate." Naturally, I saved the phrase "Coriolis Pomegranate" in my note of cool-sounding titles. I don't know if there's a way to make those words mean something together, but they sound beautiful as a pair, a type of cellar door. And even as I typed that sentence, my brain began churning out ideas. And between those two sentences, I created a new list of Coriolis pomegranate thoughts. I have a habit of writing books in my head while working on other projects. It's like I see the ideas from the corner of my eye. I notice their general shape, but my brain needs time to process the details.
I think that delay is a good strategy for life. I let myself investigate before responding. (Yes, I'm talking about meditation techniques again. Sorry, not sorry.) Reacting is simple—scratch an itch, cry in pain, laugh at a joke. Instant reactions aren't uncalled for. Sometimes a paper cut just stings. But things often become more interesting upon further investigation. A Coriolis pomegranate takes shape.
I've never been good at outlining stories. My brain works better when it's allowed to wander. Free-range brain—the secret to my storytelling. I tried for years to learn how to outline, but I always read about outlines instead of creating them. Then, when I let my mind do whatever it wanted, I wandered into the details. At times, stories feel like animals. They're so beautiful that I want to rush up and hold them. I don't want to spook them, though. I hold out my hand slowly and let the story take a sniff, let it come to me. None of this letter was in my head before I wrote it. Now here we are.
Free-range brain works for more than writing stories. Although, now that I think about it, we're all the main characters of our own story. It's cliche, but it works. Four years ago, my brain took a hard turn. Back then, I'd practically stopped writing. I was in the early stages of turning a side-hustle into a business. I was girl bossing it up. Then my face went numb, and my life began on a path I hadn't even noticed. Initially, that path frightened me. It seemed only to exist in the twilight. Rather than squinting, I paused to let my eyes adjust. I slowed down. And when I put the fear aside, I noticed the details.
Too fatigued to be a secretary, let alone run my own business, I stopped working. But I started writing again. I remembered how much I loved it. My whole life, I wanted to be a writer. I strayed from that to try other things, to be more practical. Then I got sick, and "practical" took on a new meaning. My reality shifted. Contentedness became my primary goal. And somehow, thirty years down the road, I found myself back in my childhood headspace. I began telling stories again. I slowed down, and my own story revealed a bit more of itself.
What did you want to be as a kid? Where did you imagine life taking you? What road are you on now? Let me know in the comments.
Until next week,
Yardena
Weekend Potpourri
I related hard to Suleika Jaouad’s recent experience caring for a puppy while ill.
I also read yet another shit story. It’s time to build the Poop Ark.
Are you an Asker or a Guesser? I’m an Asker, through and through.
On repeat this week