“The Curious Case of ‘The Other Iain’ - an AFOOT story

As part of the Edinburgh version of Whisper Walk from the "AFOOT" series, I give you one of the monologues/short stories I have composed for this deliciously Scottish incarnation (that we on the creative team refer to a "whispers.") 

From the press release:  

Confessional stories, unuttered truths and personal memories are whispered through headphones in a documentary-style walking tour through Edinburgh. Whisper Walk is partly inspired by the Japanese Kaze no Denwa (“wind phone”) and explores how memories are deeply connected to a seemingly ordinary place. Each audience member, equipped with their smartphone and a pair of headphones, is guided through Edinburgh as voices gently whisper stories and personal memories tied to the locations they pass. As participants become trusted confidants, they are invited to contribute their own place-related memory – whispered into a phone placed at the end of the Whisper Walk – to be archived in the ever-growing Whisper Museum.

Writer Alexandra Silber said, “Whisper Walk is, I think, a really beautiful and unique storytelling theatrical experience, under the notion that places hold memories. It explores the notion that our memories are tied heavily to place, and sort of revels in the idea that a seemingly ordinary, singular, flat park bench, a tree, a series of steps, a street corner, a churchyard, a pub, a very specific cross-section of longitude and latitude, can contain a multitude of stacked memories belonging to countless people—really holding these stories and memories from every human who ever crosses that location. This is very much the way we receive podcasts nowadays, and certainly builds upon the radio drama tradition, but the individual audience member, as a result of this, will end up in a specific geographical place and will hear a story about the place in which they are standing, and thus serves as a confessional, a confidant, a stranger on the road to whom the speaker of the story can speak more candidly than to a regular person in their everyday lives.” 

And so, with that. Enjoy this sneak peak and see you in Edinburgh, this August, afoot! 

 *


Set: Cowgate under George IV Bridge, Edinburgh

I am Iain Angus Campbell— the first one, or at least, the one telling this story—and I am  standing under George IV Bridge with a large cardboard box labeled “FOR THE OTHER IAIN” and the vague feeling that I have slipped through a tear in the fabric of space-time.

Inside the box I am holding is:
    •    Three veterinary textbooks written in German (I do not read German)
    •    A framed photo of a ginger man on a yacht  (I have never been on a yacht, only vomited near one)
    •    And a very personal letter from someone named Dimitri, written entirely in Cyrillic, which I am almost certain is an erotic poem. (Because, yes, I have had it translated.)

 It’s hard to explain: every time one receives a piece of correspondence with their name on it, one naturally assumes the correspondence is for them. But every time I open mail to The Other Iain, I am, at first, shocked. Then horrified. Then oddly aroused by the illicit nature of opening other people’s mail. I consider myself a relatively ethical person, and I’m not proud to have rifled through Iain Angus Campbell’s private things, read his mail, and texted back his exes. But what am I to do? For you see: THEY ARE ALL ADDRESSED TO “ME.”  

It began with a misdirected email from a veterinary clinic in Dundee, followed by a call from HMRC regarding unpaid taxes on my “falconry side hustle,” and climaxed with an offer to speak at a conference in Amsterdam on “large animal anesthesia”—a subject I know exactly nothing about because I mostly treat cats.

That was two years ago. 


 Iain Angus Campbell— the other one— is real. Or at least I’m real, and the universe has committed to a bit that is now years long and disturbingly elaborate. He has the same name. Is the same age. He is also a veterinarian. Also left-handed (?!) and green-eyed, and redheaded. The algorithms are confused. The tax office is furious. The dating apps are saturated with accusations.
We are, by all accounts, statistically indistinguishable. 

And? We have never met.
Not in the flesh. Not once.
Until—apparently—today.

I got a text:

        “Iain. It’s Iain. Let’s exchange boxes. Cowgate. Under the bridge. Three.”

Which, yes, sounds murder-y. (Or like a compelling romance!) 

But anyway here I am. Under the bridge. With my box. Wearing my jacket. Holding my nerves together with the fragile glue of one too many espressos. And spiraling.
Because if this man is me—not just like me—then what am I, exactly? 
Some early prototype? 
The version of Iain who never had the courage to move to the Netherlands or take up falconry or respond to Dimitri’s love note? 
What if I meet him and I’m just the “Beta Iain?”
Or worse— oh, God: what if he doesn’t show up?

I check my phone. 

3:12.

 Iain is late.

Or maybe early. 

Or maybe me. 

I don’t fucking know.
And I think, not for the first time:
If this isn’t the matrix, then maybe it’s something worse.

Maybe it’s a love story.
But only one of us gets to tell it.

Ask Al: The Power of Saying "No" — Part 1

Let’s talk about the holy word every artist needs to learn to wield like a bedazzled machete: NO.

This post is for every tender, brilliant, creatively exhausted soul who has said yes to an unpaid reading again, agreed to do someone’s weird indie podcast at midnight for “exposure,” or joined a 12-person devised theatre project because "you felt bad." 

 

There’s a moment—just before you type “Sure!” or say “Happy to!”—when your stomach drops.
You know that feeling. That little whisper that says, I actually can’t. Or I don’t want to.
But you override it. Because you’re grateful. Or scared. Or simply trained.

 

You know who you are. And? You are not alone.  

Here’s what I want to tell you, with love and no apology:

You don’t have to take every gig.
You don’t have to say yes just because it’s “something.”
Saying no doesn’t make you difficult—it makes you sovereign.

 

Furthermore: 

You don’t owe your creativity to hustle. 

You don’t owe your art to pleasing others.
You owe yourself honesty. 

 

That might sound like:

“Thank you for thinking of me. I won’t be able to take this on right now.”

 

It’s tender. It’s brave. And it’s allowed.

Your “no” protects your art. Let it.

  

Let’s get into the full-body liberation that comes from saying “nah,” “no thank you,” “not for me,” and my personal favorite: “lol no.”

 

⸻

 

1. Saying "No" Sets Boundaries — and Boundaries = Clarity
“No” is a door.
A boundary. A border. A line in the sand that says:

“I matter, too.”

When you say “NO” with clarity, you give others the map to care for and respect you properly. Clarity is respectful. Without clarity, everyone is just guessing—and often guessing wrong.

Repeat after me: “Boundaries are not cruelty.” What boundaries are are a series containers that helps us care for each other better, communicate limitations, and actually (statistically!) breed more trust, not less. Think of it this way: when we know where the lines on the road are, all parties relax and drive within the lines. 

Boundaries are also how we love ourselves. They’re how we say, “I am a whole-ass person with limits and needs and a spine.” 

As the great Dr. Brené Brown says: 

“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” 

But Artists, especially those of us who’ve ever gone through a dry spell (achem), often feel like we have to say yes to every crumb of opportunity, attention, or praise. Yet when you say yes to everything, you’re saying no to something else — like your time, your focus, or the sweet blessed act of sitting on your couch in silence eating honey mustard pretzels. So step one is first about knowing where your boundaries ARE, then practicing exercising them without having a people-pleasing meltdown. 
 

💡 Try this:
    •    Prompt: “When I said 'yes' but wanted to say 'no,' what did it cost me?”
    •    Write: Write a list of your non-negotiables— times you’re unavailable, projects you don’t want to do, vibes you will not tolerate. (More on this exercise in the next post!) 
    •    Action: Practice saying no to tiny things. Decline an invitation. Admit a limitation. Say no to cake (“Do you want dessert?” “No.” [But like… later, hell yes...]). 

 

PSA: Weathering the experience of not taking responsibility for other people's disappointment or squirrely reactions to the word "No," not because you lack accountability, but because not every emotional reaction is our responsibility, and disappointing someone's expectations is very different from causing harm. 

 

 

2. Saying "No" Is Self-Care, Not Selfishness
The next time someone asks you to do something and your first instinct is to cancel your own needs to accommodate them, pause. You don’t have to justify rest. Saying “no” to a gig, a favor, or even a social invite doesn’t mean you’re lazy or ungrateful — it means you know your bandwidth.

Self-care isn’t about sheet masks and bubble baths. Care of Self looks like sending an email that says:

    “Thank you for thinking of me—but I won’t be able to commit.”

You are allowed to protect your time, your energy, and your body. In fact, big picture? By doing do you are protecting your ability to keep serving the wider world long term. If life is a marathon and not a sprint, than making sure you don’t burn out in mile 1 is essential. 

As Audre Lorde said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation.” And I bet she didn’t write that quote while doing someone’s 11th rewrite for free.

💡 Try this:
    •    Prompt: “What would my ideal week look like if I said no to things that drained me?”
    •    Write: Make a “Hell Yes or No” list — if it’s not a full-body YES, it’s a polite NO.

    •    Action: Map out your schedule for the week. See what’s making your chest tighten? Start there. 

 

 

 3. Over-commitment = Slow Death and Burnout
There’s a very specific panic that comes from opening your calendar and seeing back-to-back commitments that sounded “manageable” when you agreed to them six weeks ago. Saying no helps keep your time, energy, and life force intact — so you can actually make that thing you’ve been dreaming about instead of ghostwriting someone else’s mediocrity.

 

Let me be blunt: if you say yes to everything, your work suffers. Your health suffers. Your people suffer because you become the cranky goblin version of yourself. Nobody wins.

 

Saying “no” reduces burnout
Over-commitment is a fast train to resentment.
And resentment is creativity’s death rattle.

If every “yes” is a withdrawal, then “no” is how you re-balance the books. Let yourself be a finite resource, not an infinite machine. 

💡 Try this:

    •   Prompt: Ask yourself: "If I say 'yes' to this, what am I saying 'no' to?" Be honest. 
    •   List: Inventory your current “yes” pile. Color-code by “joy,” “neutral,” and “WTF did I do this.”
    •   Action: Rehearse a graceful no: “Thank you for thinking of me! I can’t take that on right now.” (more on exactly how to craft these this in Part 2!)

 

4. Saying "No" Builds Confidence (and a Personality)
Confidence doesn’t magically appear. It comes from tiny, repeated acts of self-respect. Every time you say “no” with clarity and grace, you reinforce the truth that you matter. That your needs are real. That your time is valuable. That your boundaries are worth enforcing.

And suddenly, you’re not some trembling leaf hoping people like you— you’re a whole tree with roots, babe. Watch yourself stand taller. 

 

That’s the real muscle memory we need to build—not just for our art, but for our life.

💡 Try this:
    •    Prompt: “When did I say 'no' and feel proud of it?” Write the whole story. Including the "fallout," "consequences" and freedoms. Really examine which parts are yours and which are not. 
    •    Action: Practice your "no" in increasing levels. Start with “I can’t,” then level up to “I don’t want to.” Own it.
    •   Track: Notice how much energy you save when you stop people-pleasing. Track that.

 

 

 5. Healthy "No’s" Create Better Relationships
Contrary to your inner panic gremlin’s opinion, saying no does not mean everyone will hate you. In fact, clear boundaries make you easier to trust. People don’t have to guess where you stand. 

 

Saying “no” improves your relationships. When you say “yes” while seething on the inside, no one wins.
But when you say “no” with grace and clarity, you allow your relationships to be based on truth, not performance. Real love honors limits. 

 

And if someone does get mad at your no? That tells you something important about them. Spoiler alert: It ain’t good.

💡 Try this:
    •   Action: Practice saying no to someone safe (like a friend who gets it)
    •   Action: If someone guilt-trips you, pause and breathe. That’s about them, not you.
    •   Prompt: “How do I feel when others say 'no' to me? Can I offer myself the same grace?”

 

 

6. Saying "No" Enriches Your Life
Every “no” is a secret “yes” to something else.

Yes to your rest.
Yes to your writing.
Yes to not doing it all.
Yes to integrity.

Your life deserves to be built on choices that align with you.

 

When you’re not constantly performing favors, chasing approval, or duct-taping yourself into projects that don’t align with your spirit, you can finally hear your own voice again. THAT is where the good stuff lives. 

  

That’s where the best art is born. Not in the 14th “quick turnaround” you took out of guilt.

💡 Try this:
    •    Write: Write a mission statement for your artist life. Use it to guide your decisions (it'll help you when you get wobbly!)
    •    Action: Each week, say “no” to one thing that doesn’t serve you. See what happens.
    •    Prompt: “What do I want to make room for?”

7. Saying "No" Supports Mental Health 

Chronic yes-ing is a trauma response. It’s rooted in fear of rejection, scarcity, and shame. 

 

Your brain is not a bottomless buffet of resilience. Every “yes” chips away at your capacity. Saying no lets you preserve what matters. But healing begins when we realize: we don’t need to overgive to be loved. You are allowed to say no without explanation—and still be good, kind, and worthy.
 

It is an act of trust— in yourself, your future, and your worth. It is the artist’s version of spiritual exfoliation: clear away the gunk so you can SHINE.

💡 Try this:
    •    Observe: Notice the difference between “obligation yes” and “aligned yes.”
    •    Action: De-clutter your to-do list with the Marie Kondo method in reverse: does it spark dread? Toss it.
    •    Prompt: “What would it feel like to protect my peace like it was my [INSERT high-stakes answer here: i.e child/ identity/paycheck]?”

Conclusion (Or: A Love Note Wrapped in a “No”)


 

Saying no is not selfish. It’s not rude. It’s not a luxury reserved for the confident, the famous, or the “already successful.” It is a muscle. And the more you use it, the stronger it gets. So here’s your permission slip to say no— loudly, softly, awkwardly, eloquently, whatever works.

Say it while shaking. Say it with snacks nearby. Say it and then log off.
 Say it for the you that knows what you’re capable of.

 

Your “no” is a gift. 
To your creativity.
To your nervous system.
To your future self.
 

Let your no’s be clean. Let your yeses be whole.

 

"Take My Hand and Let's Go Roaming..." — A New Adaptation of Brigadoon

Friends, I humbly share with you all: I made a thing. 

Well. I RE-made a thing. 

And what an honor it is. 

 

Inspired by the giants of Alan J Lerner and Frederick Loewe, and with the support and encouragement of their families and estates, a new Brigadoon is coming in to the world, and it is making its world premiere in my birthplace, Los Angeles, at the Tony-Award winning Pasadena Playhouse helmed by the man who was there for my first American job Artistic Director Danny Feldman.

I love Scotland. I love the theatre. I love music. And I love telling deep human stories.

Many of you who have been readers since the beginning know that when I was 18, a few months after my father died, in a swirl of grief and of an unnameable sense of hope, I picked up my entire life and moved to Scotland. 

I stayed for years (held and nurtured by the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland) and slowly, a part of me healed and grew to be ready to hope again, love again, and join the the world again.

Scotland and its people held me, uplifted me, with its music, language, and poetry; its stark beauty, its searingly unsentimental insistence upon human resilience. The country and its culture continue to be an active part of my life to this day.

How fortunate am I that the art form I love more than anything in the world can provide a vessel for a story I couldn't keep to myself a moment longer. This is both an old Brigadoon— one you'll remember, recall and joyfully celebrate legacy; as well as utterly new— a deepening and enrichment made just for a new generation of theater-goers to appreciate anew.

I've never been prouder of any creative offering I've participated in, in all my life. I've also never been more honored to bow deeply at the altar of Lerner and Loewe-giants of our art form and say:

— "take my hand and let's go roaming..."

See you next season at Pasadena Playhouse. 

 

Mistakes to Avoid When Writing: Part 1

Aspiring writer, we need to talk.

Not The Talk. Not the birds and bees—the one where I lovingly talk in all caps into your face about the ways you are silently (and spectacularly) tanking your project before it’s even crawling out of the draft stage. 

 

Writing is a rigorous journey full of pitfalls, rewarding learning experiences, and everything in between. (Literally: despair, joy, weeping, staying awake for three days and nights, failing to shower, triumph, inspiration, voices in your head, you name it). 

 

Writers have a lot of liberty when writing fiction (it is made up after all), and rules are often bent, beat up, blasphemed, and broken. And no one minds because it’s fiction (unless it’s not, but that’s a different essay).

 

All to say: you’re talented, you’ve got the vibes, that's great; but “following The Muse” doesn’t mean you should abandon grammar, good writing and compelling storytelling altogether. Don't do that. I thank you in advance. You'll be saving my life. Because if I read one more story where the main character “lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding” while “the sun slants like gold syrup over the city,” I am going to walk directly into the sea with my laptop.

 

But don't feel timid or embarrassed or all shame-y. I have made every single writing mistake there is (and some that aren’t even on this list because they’re too humiliating to put in writing—you’re welcome), and I am here, like the Ghost of Drafts Past, to stop you from making them too. This isn’t about shaming! The opposite! It’s about belief in you! Belief in the form of taking you by the shoulders, shaking you gently (but firmly) and saying: CUT THAT OUT. 

So. Here’s your anti-disaster checklist: the most common mistakes to avoid when writing your novel. (Or Screenplay. Or short story. Or one-act. Or whatever. But I’ll be using “novel” as a catch all.)
Use it. Love it. Tattoo it on your forehead.

 

*

1. Writing Unrealistic Characters
 

There are many mistakes to avoid when writing a novel, but creating weak and unbelievable characters is the most detrimental. A story is nothing without its characters. All characters, both big, small, main, and secondary must be believable and REAL. Perfect characters are boring. Real people are contradictory, flawed, and dynamic—so your characters should be too. Embodied. Full-realized. Truthful. Many writers become lazy with their characters and don’t flesh them out enough.

 

Characters shouldn’t just exist to move the story along like chess pieces. They should want things, make mistakes, act out of fear or love or ego. They should have weird urges and panic attacks and make bad decisions. Not every single character that shows up in the story needs a full history and comprehensive backstory, but the main ones certainly do. And if you ask me (and if you’re reading this, you literally are)— “more is more” when it comes to fleshing out a character’s reality. If a character is not well thought out, or deep enough; if your character is doing something “because it needs to happen” for the plot, then Houston: we have a problem. Those are characters who read like cardboard in a wig and serve plot, not truth.

 

The best books, regardless of genre, are the ones that draw tears, laughter, empathy, derision, loathing, desire, pathos and everything that real human beings evoke, from the readers. People are awkward and insecure and say the wrong thing constantly. They cry in CVS. They ghost their friends. They overthink text messages for three hours. You want your readers so invested in your characters that they feel real emotions when things (true things, messy things, unattractive and humiliating things) happen to them. Nobody wants to read about perfect people doing nothing wrong. Give me mess. Give me someone who texts their ex after two drinks, or panics at the self-checkout.

 

As a writer who is also an actor, and has acting training, I find the creation of characters comes more naturally than some of the other aspects of story-writing because the toolkits overlap perfectly. If I am interpreting a character someone else wrote, I ask questions like:

• Who is this person?
• Where are they from?
• What do they want?
• What is their greatest obstacle?
• What do the do to get what they want?
• Why are they the way they are?
• What happened to make them this way?
• How will they change by the end of the story?
• If they do not change, why not? 
• What are they longing for?
• Do they have big dreams?
• What are they afraid of?
• Who do they hate the most? 

Or anything else you don’t already know about them, big or small. Do this for your protagonist and antagonist. Then, start on the secondary characters. It won’t be long before you feel a renewed desire to tell their story.

Start there. Hopefully each answer will propel you forward to ask hundreds more, and before long you are in a dialogue with a chattier that feels like a new, very intimate friend. All the answers your character reveals lead the action and thus, the plot. 

 

Let your characters lead sometimes — they often know better than you do.  Let them fight you. Let them screw up. That’s what makes them compelling.

 

2. No Conflict = No Story (sorry, I don’t make The Rules)

 
This is one of the most important mistakes beginners make in writing. Stories need tension. A story is not a story without conflict. Conflict isn’t just physical fights; it’s tough decisions, emotional stakes, internal battles. Without it, readers drift. A central conflict is what drives the entire plot and moves the story forward. Something needs to disrupt the life of your protagonist. It can be a physical circumstance or an internal redirection, but it must be something life-changing. 

Haven't you screamed at protagonists as they hacked blithely in to their husband's email, waltzed off to Mordor, The Room of Requirement or drunk Facetimed their ex despite all evidence that not doing precisely that would be much more pragmatic? Exactly. Conflict gives the story purpose. 

So don’t be afraid to give me characters in a pickle or three that’s where the story lives. Otherwise, it’s just vibes and no plot, and we already have Instagram for that. Something has to go wrong. Someone has to want something and not be able to get it. If your book doesn’t have a little chaos, betrayal, or at least one ill-advised decision, what are we even doing here?

3. Creating a Confusing Point of View
 

While the point of view is flexible, head-hopping (jumping between multiple characters' thoughts in one scene) is jarring and often confusing unless handled masterfully. 

Aspiring authors often gloss over this detail and write wherever their brain takes them. This is okay for a first draft but you must rectify it in the editing process. If I have to read three paragraphs to figure out whose head I’m in, I’m calling the police.

Being consistent in your POV means that the narrator and POV must remaining consistently inside the POV of one character, or at the very least, one character at a time. (i.e. no head-hopping mid-paragraph). One simple rule? Only one point of view per chapter.

Additionally, a crucial way to remain consistently in the head of your character— is to remember to stay within the consciousness/time period/age/intelligence of your character as well. 

That means that the character (and the narrator describing them) should avoid using language unfamiliar or inaccessible to the character at the time of the chapter being read. (As an example: if the character is going to make a huge discovery in the next chapter, they cannot betray or scribe knowledge of the discovery before the event occurs. 

Another way this manifests is if the character is from the 1800s, it is incongruous and inconsistent with their reality to use metaphors and/or descriptions from the digital era (such as “she didn’t have the bandwidth” or “she was channeling; surfing in her mind.”) 

Not every novel will have this problem as some revolve around one point of view in totality. (This could be a form of the third person or the first person from the same character’s perspective throughout.) But many novels change perspective at times, and this can easily become confusing and give your reader POV whiplash. You can switch later, but not mid-paragraph like some kind of literary magician with no audience. 

 

Know who’s telling the story, what they know, and what they don’t. Your reader will thank you with their attention span.
 

 

Final Remarks
There are many mistakes to avoid when writing a novel, and all deserve your attention. So now that I’ve pointed out a few your literary potholes in the prose version of ALL CAPS, I want you to go hydrate, stretch your neck, and go back to that messy draft like the brave, chaotic genius you are.
Will you still make mistakes? Absolutely. And it’s okay to make them – that’s what editing is for! But now you’ll proceed with awareness, and that’s basically halfway to a Pulitzer. 

Go forth. Write recklessly. And for the love of all that is holy, stop naming your love interest “Blaze.” 

We’re done here.
For now. 

Until Part 2.
    ...and okay, Part 3.

 

Books-by-the-Month: June

June is the month when books begin to breathe again. After the frantic ambitions of spring and before the scorched lethargy of high summer, June offers a kind of golden intermission— one where reading feels less like an activity and more like a conversation with the season itself. The air is forgiving; the days are long enough to lose track of time entirely; and there is a distinct pleasure in letting a novel sprawl open beside you on a picnic blanket or the cool tile of a shaded porch. This is not the season of required reading, but of elective affinities— books chosen not out of duty, but desire. 

In the spirit of such gentle indulgence, I offer a reading list for June: three books that feel particularly at home in this lush, lingering month.

1. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

We’re all mad here. And June, after all, is a month that is more than a little mad. The bees are drunk on nectar, the birds wear ridiculous plumage, and the earth’s geometry has gone squishy. And these tales all take place in “the golden afternoon,” of course; that glorious golden afternoon of Lewis Carroll’s seemingly infinite imagination: all elasticity, upheaval, surprise, and possibility.

‘Lewis Carroll’ was the pseudonym of Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, a lecturer in mathematics at Christ Church, Oxford, who lived from 1832 to 1898. Carroll’s physical deformities, partial deafness, and irrepressible stutter made him an unlikely candidate for producing one of the most enduring children’s fantasies in the English language. 

Carroll felt a debilitating shyness around adults but became animated and fully himself around children. His crippling stammer melted away in the company of children as he told them his elaborately nonsensical stories. Over the course of his lifetime he made many child friends whom he wrote to frequently, mentioned in his diaries, and (as a gifted amateur photographer) took numerous portraits of throughout his life. 

 

[And! PSA! Just to be clear before imaginations run rampant: while Carroll’s friendships with children might have been unusual, there is ZERO evidence to suggest that Carroll’s friendships with, or photographs of, children were in any way inappropriate or nefarious. All evidence suggests he simply felt most at ease in their presence considering his many limitations in the adult world.]

 

In 1856, classics scholar Henry George Liddell accepted an appointment as Dean of Christ Church (one of the colleges that comprise Oxford University), and brought his three daughters to live with him at Oxford.

 Carroll quickly became close with Lorina, Alice, and Edith Liddell, and during their frequent afternoon boat trips on the river, Carroll told the Liddells fanciful tales. Alice quickly became Carroll’s favorite of the three girls, and he made her the subject of the stories that would later became Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. Almost ten years after first meeting the Liddells, Carroll compiled the stories and submitted the completed manuscript for publication.

But, as is the bittersweet truth of life, time marched on. By the time the books were published, Alice and her sisters had grown into young women, and their parents were more interested in their daughters pursing suitable marriages than in playing childish games and spending “golden afternoons” on the Thames with Carroll. Carroll was heartbroken, and just as Through the Looking-Glass was published, he completed an acrostic poem titled “A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky” comprised of Alice’s full name that was an ode to her, her sisters, and the golden time in which their lives all intersected.
 
To read Alice is to follow a talking rabbit into a rabbit hole. It is to remember that childhood—like spring— is not only growth, but change, expansion, and wildness.  The tulips, like the Queen of Hearts, are imperious. The mushrooms might alter your size. And the language! Carroll’s linguistic play is like a garden in itself: fertile, looping, delightfully ungovernable. Alice is always teetering on the edge of what makes sense, and she meets each absurdity with the kind of dry resolve that is, in its way, heroic. Wonderland does not reward logic—but it does reward nerve.

 

2. The Overstory by Richard Powers

In June, trees are full, heaving with life, and everything feels lush and vital. Reading this novel while immersed in the sights and sounds of summer turns your surroundings into part of the experience.  The Overstory is a sweeping, powerful, sprawling, and deeply resonant novel about the secret life of forests will deepen your wonder (and guilt) every time you pass a tree. As June offers longer days that give us the opportunity to slow down and think deeply, this book beckons for your deepest attention.

 

Without being preachy, the book quietly (and sometimes loudly) shifts the reader's perspective toward the environment. It deals with eco-activism, ethical protest, and the desperation that arises when nature’s majesty is treated as disposable. By the end, many readers find themselves changed in how they see nature — and humanity’s place in it.

 

At its heart, The Overstory is a love letter to trees — their intelligence, longevity, memory, and the way they communicate underground through roots and fungal networks (what scientists call the "wood wide web"). Powers takes something we see every day and reframes it as ancient, majestic, and nearly sentient. The novel isn’t told through a single protagonist, but rather through nine interwoven characters, each with their own unique path that eventually intersects with the others—much like the highway of tree roots beneath the soil. It feels like watching a forest grow: each branch (or character arc) matters, but it’s the total ecosystem that stuns you.

 

3. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

 

Ah, June. Our gal. 

 

For my money The Handmaid’s Tale is evergreen, resonating cataclysmically int he modern era, making it an essential read 365 days of the year. Atwood’s dystopian novel imagines a future in which women’s rights have been stripped away, and fertile women are forced into the role of child-bearers in a theocratic society. 

 

Atwood’s writing is chilling in its precision—her prose spare, her world-building rich with haunting detail. But a sneaky literary truth is that our protagonist’s name (now erased in Gilead, as she goes by the name of her master Offred, meaning Of-Fred) very well might once have been June, making the book make the June list this month. Of course.

 

The “fact” of her name emerges in a chilling passage in Chapter 1 of the book. The passage describes the “Rachel and Leah Center” (a pro-natal birthing center where fertile women are kept for breeding) where the narrator of the story known simply as “Offred” has been sent for reeducation, along with other potential child-bearing women. The chapter ends with:       

 “We learned to whisper almost without sound. In the semi-darkness we could stretch out our arms, when the Aunts weren't looking, and touch each other's hands across space. We learned to lip-read, our heads flat on the beds, turned sideways, watching each other's mouths. In this way we exchanged names, from bed to bed:

        Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira. June.”

All the other women named in this passage, all of them except June, appear later in the story. If those were the only five women present, then by process of elimination, “June” must be the rightful name of our narrator, now known as Offred.

There are no other unidentified women's names in the rest of the book, so "June" is the only possibility for the narrator's first name for which there is any evidence. (The television series took this and ran with it, creating a vibrant backstory for Offred, developed into June Osborne.)

 

Read it. I also heartily recommend the audiobook narrated gorgeously by Clare Danes— who is a singular talent at audio narration. The novel’s exploration of power, gender, and control feels MORE urgent today than when it was first published in 1985.

 

A provocative, unforgettable exploration of what happens when women lose control over their bodies, minds and autonomy, The Handmaid’s Tale remains a crucial read for understanding the fragility of rights and the strength of resistance.

 

Writing Tips, Part 3: Crafting a Clear Narrative

Been on the train for 

Writing Tips Part 1 

and Part 2? 

 

Well, next stop: TECHNIQUE TOWN! Population: 1 writer desperately trying not to sound like a thesaurus exploded into a confusing fever dream. Next Station Stop!

 

We’ve all written a paragraph where we switched from past to present tense three times and suddenly the character is both dead and ordering pancakes.

I know, I know SNORE. Technique! Blergh! While it might seem trivial, basic writing mistakes impact the clarity and cohesion of your narrative. I’m not talking about rigid, stuffy, “perfect” grammatical linguistics being superior to other forms of perfectly decent communication, nor am I promoting that style has nothing to do with compelling writing! Quite the contrary, this blogger-since-2007-who-is-currently-playing-games-with-hyphens feels rules are more than merely meant to be broken, she encourages you to explode the rules altogether. Don’t think outside the box! Blow up the box altogether. Kablamo.

But you can’t explode rules you don’t even acknowledge are there, ready for you to come at ‘em with a jackhammer. And good narratives don’t just happen—they’re built. Carefully, lovingly, with a deep respect for the reader’s time, brain-space, and experience. Having a firm grasp on “the rules” gives you a strong foundation to mindfully make artistic choices within the bounds of English language mores, and also give you more agency over when you break them. That’s technique enhancing natural talent.  

Crafting a clear narrative isn’t about sounding smart — it’s about not confusing the hell out of your reader (by making them feel like they’re trapped in a confusing improv scene with a rogue thesaurus and a drunk time traveler) 

 

So buckle in, grab a red pen, and let’s clean up that storytelling like it’s a murder scene on Dateline.

*

1. Consistent Tense Usage ( aka: Stay in One Time Zone)

Look. You can write in the past. You can write in the present. But if you’re out here switching between “She walks into the room” and “She had screamed in terror” like you’re building a literary time machine? Your reader is going to throw your book across the room and whisper, “I just wanted peace.” A novel unfolds over chapters and settings, making it crucial to maintain consistent tense usage for a seamless reading experience. If your narrative shifts between past and present tense without a clear purpose, readers will find it disorienting and get literary whiplash.  Pick a lane, babe.  Consistency keeps your reader anchored in reality. Consistency creates rhythm. And rhythm creates trust. Strive for cohesion by choosing and sticking to a tense that aligns with your narrative vision.

Try this:

• Do a “tense pass” after your draft is done — highlight all verbs and check for traitors. Are they all dancing to the same beat?
• When you do shift tenses, do it with intention—like a scene change on a stage— not like you blacked out mid-sentence.
• Practice rewriting a paragraph in both past and present tense. Which feels more alive to your story?

2. Be Faithful with Your Pronouns (aka: Keep References Clear and avoid “Pronoun Chaos”)

“They didn’t know if she meant him or her when she said that to them.”

Baby. WHAT?!
 
Who is “they”? WHO IS “HER”?! Pronoun consistency is vital if you don’t want your reader to feel like they’re deciphering ancient scrolls.
If you start a story talking about Valentina, then suddenly start saying “she” without reminding us who she is, readers start mentally flipping back like, “Wait—who’s ‘SHE’?” Clarity is kindness. Make sure your pronouns are pointing in the right direction and staying loyal to their person. You are the GPS of your story. Please don’t reroute us into a ditch.

Try this:

• Every few paragraphs, double-check: does “he” still mean the same “he”?When in doubt, use the character’s name again. Especially if “she” could mean three different people. Clarity > style. 
• If you're writing multiple POVs, color code them in your notes like a messy little genius.
• Read your piece aloud and circle every “he,” “she,” “they,” or “it.” Could a stranger follow who’s being referred to? 
• In scenes with multiple characters, reintroduce names now and then to keep us grounded.

3. Balancing Active and Passive Voice (aka: Let the Verbs Lead and STOP SAYING “WAS”)

If you keep writing “She was being chased,” and “The door was opened by him,” I’m going to gently tip over a chair. 

Active voice gives your sentences backbone. It says: “I did this.”
Passive voice says: “This was done… by someone… maybe?”
 

While passive voice has its place for specific effects, an overabundance dilutes the impact of your narrative, and if you lean too hard on the passive, your prose gets foggy.
Let your characters do things!
Let the actions leap off the page!

What is Passive Voice?
Passive voice is a grammatical construction that places the object of the sentence before the verb. A sentence written in passive voice shifts the focus from the subject doing the action to the recipient of the action. Sentences in passive voice can be less clear, direct, and concise.
 

The biggest problem with passive voice is that it removes agency and responsibility from the individual carrying out the action. This distinction is particularly important when discussing power dynamics.

How to Spot Passive Voice
Not every use of a “to be” verb is passive voice. A passive voice sentence generally goes like this:

[object of the action] + [to be verb] + [past tense main verb].

TIP: If you can add “by zombies” to the end of your sentence and it still makes sense, it is likely in passive voice. For instance, “The pizza was eaten” still works when you add “The pizza was eaten by zombies.” So, this sentence is written in passive voice. You’re welcome.

How to Change Passive Voice
Identify the subject of the sentence and put it first:

[subject] + [main verb] + [object].

That changes the previous sentence to: “Zombies ate the pizza.”

Passive voice isn’t evil — but if your whole novel sounds like it’s being narrated by a terrified butler, we’ve got a problem. Active voice brings the juice. The guts. The oomph.

Try this:

• Take a page of your writing and rewrite every passive sentence into the active voice. See what happens.Keep passive voice for when the receiver of the action matters more than the doer (e.g., “The cake was eaten”—because the cake is the tragedy here). Use passive voice when you want to obscure responsibility (useful for mystery!). Sparingly.
• When editing, ask: “Who’s doing the action here?” If it’s unclear, bring them to the front of the sentence.
• Highlight every “was” in your draft and ask yourself if you’re being lazy or brilliant.

 

4. Punctuation Precision (aka: This Comma Could Save a Life)

Grammar is like deodorant: you don’t have to use it, but things get real uncomfortable real fast when you don’t. Think of punctuation like the conductor of your sentence symphony. A well-placed comma can create breath. A period can drop the mic. Overusing em-dashes or ellipses? That’s like waving your hands in the air. Readers get tired. Know the rules so you can bend them with style—not confusion.

“Let’s eat Grandma” vs. “Let’s eat, Grandma.” 

Respect the comma.
Respect Grandma.

Try this:

• Read your writing aloud, and pause at every punctuation mark. Does the rhythm feel natural, or like a hiccup?
• Beware of overusing “!” or “…”—they can dilute your power. Trust the words themselves.
• Learn the difference between an em-dash (—) and a hyphen (-). They're not the same. 
• Use commas to separate ideas, not glue them all together into one endless sentence. If your sentences read like breathless text messages from a manic ghost, your reader will quit on you.
• Use periods. Stop writing 97-word sentences, I beg.

5. Know how to Properly Plan. (aka: Don’t Wing It)

Writers love to romanticize chaos—but a clear story needs some kind of map, even if it's scribbled on a napkin. So plan your story (yes, even you, chaotic Pantser!) 

Relatable content

 

“But I don’t want to outline! I like discovering the story as I go!” 

Wahhh. That’s cute. But guess what? You don’t need to outline every beat on a spreadsheet, but you do need to know the emotional arc. Where are we going? Who’s changing? What’s at stake?
Your story needs bones before you start putting skin on it.

Try this: 

• Write a one-paragraph summary of your book. If you can’t? You don’t know what it’s about yet.
• Before you begin, jot down three sentences: where it starts, what shifts, “Oh Sh*t, Everything's Falling Apart” part, how people change, and how it ends.
• Use index cards or sticky notes to lay out scenes. Move them around like a deranged detective. At some point, something will click.

And the big, big. big one:

6.  "Show, Don't Tell" (aka: Let the Reader Feel It)

When you tell readers something, you make a statement they have not choice but to accept as true. When you show them something, you describe and dramatize it, allowing readers to see what's happening and draw their own conclusions. Readers love to “people watch” as much as ordinary humans do—we all draw conclusions based on the snippets of information we collect as we go, and make meaning of those snippets. This is why people watching is fascinating! Telling, (when used sparingly!) IS an excellent way of conveying a lot of information or exposition quickly, but it doesn't allow readers use their imaginations; it doesn't engage or arouse them.

So. Don’t tell me the character is angry—show me how her hands tremble as she tries to unlock the door. Readers want to feel the story, not be briefed on it. Use action, dialogue, body language, and setting to convey emotion and conflict. You’re not just telling a story—you’re building an experience.
Consider these examples of showing and telling:



 

Telling:

Third-person version:  “She was sad.”
First-person version:  “I’m sad.”




This description doesn't actually provide a clear picture of Sadsack Susan.

In what WAY is she sad?
What KIND of sadness is she experiencing?
In what WAY is she demonstrating her sadness?
What kind of activities is she doing to mitigate her sadness?

Also, this passage doesn't reveal anything about Susan. You don't know what age she is or what kind of life she leads, and you don't really care.



 

Showing:

Third person version:  “Susan picked at her dinner, 10 pounds lighter than last week, her sunken eyes fixed on the blinking cursor of her unanswered email.”
First person version:  “I am eating cold fries in the bathtub while Googling ‘how to be a person’ but otherwise fine.”

Here, you can see Sadsack Susan in action, observe her directly and make your own judgements, instead of having the author telling you what to think. 

The telling version gives us information; the other gives us an experience. Your job isn’t just to relay events—it’s to invite the reader inside the emotional weather of the world. In reality, you do need to tell your readers some details to move the narrative from one dramatic passage to another. But mostly you need to build up a vivid picture, which the reader can visualize like a film passing before their eyes.

So once more for the people in the back:

Don’t tell me she’s sad. Show me the woman standing in line at CVS crying into a melted bag of peanut M&Ms! Readers want scenes, not summaries. Telling skips the good stuff. Showing pulls us in like the nosy little drama goblins we are.

Try this: 

• Take a telling sentence and rewrite it with sensory detail. What does it look like? Smell like? Feel like?
• Cut out 5 “feeling words” in your draft and replace them with physical actions or dialogue.
• Pay attention to body language—it’s often more honest than dialogue. (So swap “She was furious” and transform it to “She crushed the paper cup in her hand and whispered, ‘Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.’”)
• Read your favorite novel’s dialogue or description. Where does it show instead of explain?
• Ask yourself: “Could this be a GIF instead of a sentence?” If yes, show it.

Finally:

Crafting a clear narrative doesn’t mean stripping away magic—it means building a vessel strong enough to carry it. Think of these techniques as lanterns along the path, helping your reader move through the woods of your story with wonder, ease, and light.
 

You can do this. And when you get stuck, just say “Gerald the grammar gremlin is acting up again,” eat a snack, and go fix that passive voice.  And remember: you’re not just writing for them. You’re writing for you, too. So be precise, yes—but also be kind.

Let your story breathe.
Let it shine.

Where the Rivers Meet

In January, I was convinced—for the twenty-sixth time in two years—that I was absolutely, for real, not-a-joke-this-time, quitting show business. All to say: jokes on me, I didn’t plan an extended stay in Red Bank, New Jersey to act in a play, which I believe the very definition of being in show business, at Two River Theater.

 

Let me be clear: I did not go to Red Bank, New Jersey, on any kind of overly earnest, self-healing pilgrimage. I went because I was having a Category 5 Identity Crisis™ and accidentally drove past the exit to my therapist’s office, then kept going because I didn’t feel like crying in front of someone with a quartz paperweight and aggressively kind eyes.

 

So, there I was in Red Bank. It sounded fake. (Doesn't it sound fake?) Like a town from a children’s book where woodland creatures run a gift shop. But there it was. A real place with real rivers. Two, in fact. The Navesink and the Shrewsbury. I know this because I Googled it while eating a panic hot dog in the car on the way there, twenty hours after completing jury duty. 

 

Before I could take a Tums I found myself in the cutest little one bedroom you ever did see, situated along said rivers (a pro), nuzzled up to the industrial-sized garbage dump of the (quite fancy) retirement home next door (a significant con), and a hop-skip-and-a-jump from a tavern called The Molly Pitcher Inn (a hoot). 

 

Tatiana in tow, I took the job, we moved in, and the first night I cried. 

 

I've never been great at transitions, at change. A Cancerian through-and-through, I love my home, my nest, my comforts, and the first 72 hours in any new digs are always agony. I now know to just allow it to happen—the ploppy tears. I bring a few comforting things with me (and possibly get that 72 hours down to a respectable 48). It helps to ease me in to unfamiliar bed-sheets, cutlery, strange lighting and weird noises. A blanket from home. A heating pad. "Professor Owlinski" the stuffed owl I won in a poker game hosted by Tyne Daly sometime in the mid 20-teens. Come to think of it, I brought these same three comforts to each of my surgeries in the hospital back in 2020-21. We've been through stuff. 

 

Human beings can adjust to a lot, but when time is of the essence, when you have to go to rehearsal and appear to be a functional person and work must get done? There is just something about one's things. Let's just say after nearly 20 years in said-showbiz-I-have-yet-to-quit, I've learned how to "be on the road." 

 

But this time? I was coming out of a time I can only describe as a personal landslide—though even that sounds too dramatic for what it was: a slow, silent erosion of meaning, purpose and the former pert-ness of my cheekbones. I was hollowed out. Still churning out one-liners like a pro! But hollow. This must be why stand-ups have drinking problems. I considered starting one, or nurturing another vice, or getting a 'shoulder crow,' but I was honestly too tired to really commit to becoming an "Interesting Town Character." 

 

 

You ever completely fall apart in such a boring, scenic place that your misery feels almost rude? That was me. Sitting by the water, feeling like an exposed nerve while a couple nearby named Gary and Lisa discussed crab cakes and laughed like no one had ever ghosted them on Instagram. I wanted to scream, HOW ARE YOU LAUGHING? THE WORLD IS MELTING! But I didn't. And Gary and Lisa wouldn't have reacted if I had anyway. This was New Jersey, after all. These people have seen some shit.

After the show finished in the evenings I would walk over from the theatre, snuggle up with Tati and watch true crime shows—heists, mostly. It felt as though I was achieving something: I was solving crimes. Good job, me. 

To be clear, I enjoy true crime in the following very specific order: 

1. heists + scams
2. missing people
3. celebrities "losing it" (but not Reality TV, a separate genre, and not for me)
4. and then and only then do I enjoy murder mysteries.

I read recently that people who watch true crime "to relax" have something deeply wrong with them and? Can confirm. 10/10 I am likely very unwell. At least I have been for the last year or so. 

Emotionally more mature, better regulation skills, perspective and capacity to navigate the world? Definitely. 

Size of the emotions? The same.  

 

Dammit.  

 

 

So fine: I had come undone, in a slow, creaky implosion! But bahahahahahahahaha my career was booming! I had worked 43 out of 52 weeks making art! Even some of it was great art! I had health insurance! A pay check! A literal financial plan! A cute haircut! Subscriptions to things! 

 

But my sense of purpose was... missing, presumed dead and starring at me sadly from the back of a 1980s milk carton. I had reached that particularly dramatic point in a downward spiral where you start listening to Lana Del Rey on purpose. I kept whispering, "What is the point of anything?" like I was a sad Victorian boy with scarlet fever. And in one particularly preposterous moment I stared at my fingernails about to paint them before I quietly muttered "....why?" (Alec can attest to this, he bore witness. We laughed. But for a few seconds it was bleak). 

And then Red Bank just—let me be. No one in this town tried to fix me. The ducks ignored me. The barista slid me a free kitchen sink bar muffin without asking if I was okay. Even the rivers weren’t trying to teach me a lesson. They were just doing their thing, converging in the background like, “Hey, we’ve been here for 10,000 years and we didn’t figure our lives out either.”

 

One afternoon, I watched a seagull eat half a bagel off a park bench with such pride I almost cried. I thought: Maybe I could do that. Not eat bagels off benches, necessarily, ya know: snatch at life. Survive. Find something small and beautiful and eat it like it was a feast. And also? rude that this is a seagull which is very theatre-coded and I get the message Universe, I am tryyyyying to get a grip over here. 

 

But I didn’t. I just sat there in my sweatpants that I definitely should have retired three emotional breakdowns ago, and I watched the seagull do its thing, water swirl in that calm, competent way only water can. Not trying to be inspiring, just being very busy and wet. 

In the end?

Red Bank didn't fix me. There was no lightning bolt of revelation, no cathartic sob on a riverside bench. 

 

But something shifted. My thoughts softened. My hands unclenched. I stopped needing to name every pain, stopped auditing my life like a failing business. I didn’t throw my phone into the river (or the other river), or sell all my belongings and open a paint-your-own-pottery studio (a foolish idea anyway because there already is one and it's adorable).  I just... felt a little better. Like maybe I didn’t need to know what comes next to just exist.

 

Eventually I left, of course. You can’t hide in New Jersey forever. (Or maybe you can, I don't know your life.) But something stayed with me. A sense that even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, it’s still okay to eat fried clams, talk out loud to ducks, and let two unbothered rivers remind you that the world keeps flowing, whether you’re thriving or just trying really hard not to cry in public. 

 

I didn’t get all the answers. But I did get a seder plate I painted myself at 'A Time to Kiln,' and to my great relief: a couple of weeks of peace. 

 

I’ll take it.

Writing Tips, Part 2: Finding Material to Work With

Continued from Writing Tips: Part One. 

 

7. Be Open to What’s Around You
Look around you. Behold both the natural and man-made world. Observe how people dress, move and behave. Listen to conversations and note people's vocabulary, phrasing, accents and subject matter. Consider their motivations, hopes and fears. Observe colors, feel textures, be aware of smells and sounds. Create images to capture and convey these details to others. 

Everything is material. 

Your neighbor’s screaming baby? Material. 

The awkward interaction you had with the barista where you accidentally said “I love you”? Definitely material. 

You don’t need to travel the world or sit in a cabin in the woods because life is handing you material on a dirty little platter every single day.

Regard these things like a philosopher.
An actor.
A monk.
A teacher.
An animal.
A child. 

 



Be a collector. Collect objects, photos and props to help you in your writing. Put them in a notebook (it doesn’t have to be fancy— mine is very plain because fancy notebooks make me nervous that I have to put brilliant things in them!). Study maps and guidebooks to find tucked-away corners in cities or the countryside. Develop a nose for unusual settings and locations.


Inspiration rarely arrives with fanfare. Sometimes it’s in a half-heard conversation, a peculiar dream, a word you’ve never heard before, a new story that sends you down a research rabbit hole. Nothing is ever too trivial or unimportant to observe and build upon in your writing.


 

8. Read Like a Writer
Read widely and with curiosity. Reread passages you love and ask why they work. What’s the rhythm? The word choice? Use of metaphor? The structure? The linguistic play? Let great writing thrill and please and teach you. 


Becoming a good writer is impossible without reading, re-reading and thinking about what you read. Don't be afraid to be influenced by really good writers; they will have done the same.

Read widely, in all genres.  When something moves you, stop and ask why. 


 

You can learn an enormous amount about plotting a narrative from a potboiler thriller, 
and about imagery from a great poem. 


Newspaper headlines and advertising slogans can demonstrate clarity and conciseness. 


Narrative non-fiction can show you how to make hard facts interesting and personal.


Carry a book with you wherever you go. Actually read the poems on the subways. Read in libraries and bookshops, on the bus, in bed and in the bath. Just read!


Don't be afraid to experiment in your reading. Go to a bookshop and ignore the piles of three-for-two offers and titles that you've already heard of. Read the blurbs on the back of books and consider which ones appeal to you and why. Browse the shelves and pick something obscure that for some reason appeals to you.

 

 

When you read, do so slowly and really think about how the author achieves the effects you enjoy or find interesting.

 Copy out or photocopy passages that you really like and put them in a scrapbook to consult when you hit a problem in your own writing. If you're wondering how to make a piece of dialogue sound natural or convey a personality in a few phrases, you can take a look at how the experts have done it and learn from them.

 

 




9. Learn from Others
You don’t need to reinvent storytelling. Read stuff. Good stuff, weird stuff, stuff you hate.

 

You don't only learn from reading and observing the world around you. You can actively research events, places and people you can't otherwise describe or write about. Listen to authors talk about their process.
 

If you're writing a scene in your novel involving a doctor, for example, talk to one. Read medical books. Interview people who've experienced the kind of illness or accident you're writing about to gain their perspective.



 

You can learn from other beginner writers, too. Listen to their work and take note of mistakes that you've also made. Consider what does and doesn't communicate well. Mentor someone! Loads of scientific research proves that mentoring someone juuuust behind you in any kind of process has enormous benefits for solidifying our own grasp on subjects, particular abstract ones (this data is particularly strong for algebra and calculus, philosophy, and the arts). Start a writing group and meet regularly to share your work in a supportive and constructive way. Discover how to shape your work, delete the parts that don't ring true, cut scenes or verses that go on for too long or provide the crucial information that's missing.



 

Also learn from published authors. Go to their readings, watch videos, and read  essays about how writers work. Listen to interviews with authors on television or radio or live at literary festivals.

Here are a few of my favorites: 

• Toni Morrison – The Art of Fiction No. 134 (The Paris Review)
• Jhumpa Lahiri – At Work
• Stephen King – The Art of Fiction No. 189 (The Paris Review)
• Margaret Atwood – A Living Legend on Creative Process  Zadie Smith – In Conversation with Brick Literary Journal
• Sahlman Rushdie in Conversation with Charlie Rose 
• Alan Moore – Philosophy on Writing

Writing is often solitary, but learning doesn’t have to be! Get some pals to come over and watch trashy TV and notice what keeps you all watching. Stalk your favorite writers and steal all their good habits (and only the legal ones). You can absolutely learn while also laughing at Real Housewives.


10. “Write what you CARE TO UNDERSTAND”
"Write what you know" has always struck me as the kind of advice that sounds wise until you actually try to follow it. Taken literally, it suggests that writers should only draw from personal experience, which can be both limiting and creatively stifling. While grounding your work in emotional truth or familiar settings can bring authenticity, the idea that writers MUST stay within the boundaries of their own lives discourages imaginative risk and experimentation—two things that are essential to great storytelling. 

What if all you know is your grocery store job, your awkward adolescence, and the insides of your own head? That’s a narrow garden to plant stories in. And besides, isn’t part of the thrill of writing the chance to utilize the vast expanse of imaginative possibility? To step outside yourself, to sneak into other lives?
 

What I counter this age-old advice with is these: “Write what you WANT to know.” Or “Write what you are willing to thoroughly explore.” Or my favorite: “Write what you CARE TO UNDERSTAND”
Powerful fiction comes from curiosity, empathy, and the ability to ask “What if?” Writing should be a process of discovery, not just reflection. It’s not about what you already know—it’s about what you’re hungry to understand and make meaning of. When we write beyond the boundaries of our own experience with curiosity and care (this includes utmost respect for people, cultures, realities and existences far beyond our own), we don’t just create richer stories; we also expand our own worldview. Isn’t that what the best writing does—change both the writer and the reader?

If writers only stuck to what they literally knew firsthand, we wouldn’t have Beloved (Toni Morrison was never an enslaved woman), or Life of Pi (Yann Martel did not, to anyone’s knowledge, survive a shipwreck with a Bengal tiger). Mary Shelley was 18 when she dreamed up Frankenstein, and she wasn’t exactly surrounded by galvanic experiments—she was surrounded by poets and stormy weather and big questions about science and ethics. That was more enough.

Here’s the thing: writing isn’t a diary entry. It’s an act of empathy and imagination. You don’t need to have been a surgeon or a spy to write about one, but you do need to be curious and thorough. You need to ask good questions and care about research so you get the answers right. That might mean reading memoirs, interviewing people, going down research rabbit holes, or just sitting very quietly and asking yourself what it might feel like to live inside someone else’s skin. If you can do that—if you can make another person’s experience feel vivid, true, and specific—you’re doing something much richer than “writing what you know.” You’re writing what you care to understand.

So if you want to break out of your own story, start small. Give a character a job you’ve never had. Set a scene in a place you’ve never been. Let someone make a choice you never would. Follow your questions instead of your memories. Writing adventurously doesn’t mean accuracy over imagination; it means combining the two. It means being courageous enough to leave the trodden paths of what’s familiar, and trusting that your curiosity will steer you somewhere fascinating… somewhere you might never have believed… and the world has never conceived of before.