What does it take to write a good story?
After college, and a series of odd jobs, my degree proved useful when I landed a “career” at my hometown paper.
Nevermind that I was making less than the Sonic carhops down the street. I was finally legitimately employed, as a reporter/photographer/editor/web updater/social media specialist/coffee maker and receptionist all-in-one.
I could finally hang up my laminated “Substitute Teacher” badge once and for all, and in its place I donned a similarly laminated badge, only this one said "Staff Writer."
It seemed very official at the time, and it merited me free access to the state fair, so basically, life was good. Very good.
All my “hard” work had finally paid off. I had a cubicle, an old Mac computer, a closet-filled with notepads, and an infinite amount of material to write about.
From elementary school musicals to really old trees in the "forests" of North Texas, I was ready to write about it all.
One of my first weeks on the job a coworker commented on how joyful I seemed. (We were at Sonic giving a big chunk of our paychecks to those carhops I told you about earlier.)
Having never heard that before I was taken aback. “Really?” I asked her. (I'm usually the type to have "Worrier" written across her forehead, in extra-fine Sharpie, with pretty perfect penmanship.)
“I’m just really excited to have gotten the job,” I confided. And I was.
I was so nerdily excited I almost didn't mind the 3-hour-long council meetings, or sleeping at my desk nights before deadline.
I think part of my excitement stemmed from my absolute shock at getting the job.
Even filling out the application I never dreamed I’d get it. Not because the paper had such a large workforce to choose from, mind you, but because I felt that underqualified. I sort of botched the interview by telling a lame story about my car alarm going off at a Kohl's, I had a PR degree, not one in journalism.
But most importantly, I didn’t feel nearly brave enough for the job. (Even if the sharp-looking vest I wore for the interregation said otherwise.)
Talking to strangers, taking pictures at city events… I wasn’t the type of girl that did that. I was the type of girl that hid out at the back of those events... if she bothered to leave home at all.
But the editor thought I had promise (or that I was the only one stupid enough to work for that kind of pay) and next thing you knew I had the job.
Being the people pleaser I am – and wanting to do all I could to ensure I never again have to enter a junior high classroom as a sub – I drowned out my fear with an eagerness to learn. So learn I did, for about two years.
I learned to be objective enough to share both sides of every story, and to give just the facts, not my opinions on them.
This was a point I learned so well that picking lunch spots became a nightmare... "Where do you want to go?" "I don't know. Where do you want to go?" (My husband hates that this is still a common occurrence.)
I learned not to “bury my lead."
So instead of starting at the very beginning, “a very fine place to start,” instead I would write the body of the story then come back to formulate the beginning.
I often left long blank lines in my stories, so I'd know to come back and fill in those parts later. (Only occassionally the lines would print, and I'd spend a week hiding my head around town.)
This was a way to make sure the readers always knew the important stuff upfront. There was no point holding the good stuff for last, when we all knew most readers would jump to the Sports Page instead of finishing the story about the Four Car Collision on 4A.
I learned that white space is good, too much text is bad, and that pictures truly do speak a thousand words.
Plus I learned that our patrons often preferred “reading” those kinds of stories to 1,000 word essays about the latest city council meetings. Especially if the pictures were of cute kids Easter egg hunting, and the council was talking waste management.
I also learned that deadlines are not to be messed with, nor are publishers.
And that editing is imperative, as are coffee and chocolate.
(Spilling coffee is optional, but I did it pretty frequently.)
Basically, I learned about what constituted a good story, and how to write one.
And in good and bad ways, those story lessons really started to shape me.
They gave me a heightened sense of awareness, a newfound tenacity for asking questions and a desire to put my best foot forward. I began thinking in story form, editing as I went along, to the chagrin of my friends I’m quite sure. (Though lots of people do the same thing when they update their statuses, just with more creative spelling.)
The stories I wrote started to shape me too, especially the rare encouraging ones, the ones about everyday people doing extraordinary things.
One in particular, that really stayed with me, was about a teacher who organized a charity drive for earthquake victims. Her students were so ignited by her excitement, that with limited funds and a small platform they collected hundreds of items to send to the victims.
Everything from toiletry kits to teddy bears lined the halls of their elementary school the day I went to visit. And along with their collections were marketing posters they had colored for the drive. Something about the hand-drawn teddy bears and the misspelled "Huggs for Haiti" on the signs tugged at my hardening heart's strings.
Though it did my heart good to see people committed to making a positive difference in the world... though I was glad to see tangible evidence that every little bit counts... that drive, that teacher’s efforts, also stirred in me an increasingly nagging sense that I needed to move out of the shadows and start participating in life.
I needed to be doing good, instead of just reporting on it.
So, after two years of writing hundreds of good, bad and boring stories, about world-record holding horses and feuds over water costs, I decided to do something completely crazy, impractical and uncharacteristic.
Instead of spending my next twenty years learning to report better and better stories, I decided to set out to write my own.
I really can’t reiterate how un-brave I feel most days (and believe me, that's an important part of my story). I’m not the kind of girl that just up and quits her job.
Throughout my schooling I was the kid that did exactly what the teachers asked, then went up and asked for extra busywork.
But something about seeing so many people doing so many great things, compelled me to let go of what I knew – people pleasing and keeping a safe distance (behind a camera lens and a reporter’s pad) – in favor of slowly stepping into the story that had already begun.
Up until that point I had spent most of my life waiting for something incredible to propel me into my own story.
I kept waiting for the climax of my life to hit me upside the head, just so I’d wake up and start enjoying it.
Maybe it’d be romance, maybe it’d be cancer,; I only knew it would have to be something big to shake me from the stable-ish track I was on. Whatever it took, only then would I know it was time to get started writing, and really, living.
But being at the paper, getting my first grey hairs while writing other people’s stories, stories of heroism and tragedy, love and loss (the engagements and the obituaries ran on the same page, by the way), I realized that I couldn’t wait any longer for life to happen to me.
I was going have to dive in, or wade in at least, if I was ever going have any kind of story worth telling myself.
Ready or not, headline prepped or not, I just had to get started. So, I did.
It took lots of prayer, and prodding, and I still druggggg my feet, but eventually I did "quit" my job.
And instead of discovering that my life was over, 'cause I'd reach the end of my designated journey, I realized that some of the best stories are totally unscripted and unpredictable.
I think it’s really easy to assume that great stories have to do with great adventures, big life changes, bold moves, extreme bravery… but I think most stories begin, end and center around seemingly small choices.
Choices we make everyday. Choices to be faithful. Choices to trust. Choices to be grateful. And brave.
Choices to initiate a toy drive. Choices to show grace even when we really don’t want to. Choices to share… our stories, our hearts, our testimonies, our love of coffee!
Climbing uphill.
A few weeks after putting in notice at the paper, against my “better judgment,” and with miraculous provisions from family and friends, one of my very best buds and I embarked on a two-week, half-country winter roadtrip.
As coffee lovers (and Texans oblivious to the perils of driving up snow-covered mountains) we picked the East* West Coast, Oregon specifically, as our destination. But we picked Portland by way of Oklahoma and Colorado and Utah and… all in a tiny two-door sedan.
We were enamored with the idea of drinking lattes in Donald Miller-land, maybe even running into him at a dog park or something. Plus neither of us had been to Portland, and we liked the idea of rainy streets and Christmas lights. So we headed out, with only a starting point, a GPS, a list of must-stop-at-diners we'd seen featured on Food Network, and a vague idea of what we were getting ourselves into.
It really was magical being there, walking through a Farmer’s Market along the river, sipping lattes at Stumptown, failing miserably at dodging puddles in ballet flats that did not survive the trip… it was so exciting to be in unfamiliar territory, and to stay in a hotel room for three nights instead of just one.
But looking back, I believe we could have picked most any destination for that trek, because (cheesy as it sounds) what impacted me most during that journey wasn’t the destination at all. It was all the wonderful stops – and memories – we made along the way.
We had incredible burgers at a tiny “joint” in Oklahoma City, and got funny looks from a gas station attendant when we showed up in a town with three feet of snow and a population of two.
We slept on top of the covers in a sketchy hotel (or two) and listened to Christmas carols sung by a world-famous choir.
We got low on gas, low on patience, and seriously low on money.
But eventually we got to Portland. (And later LA. And then Las Vegas. And… finally home again.) And what a worthwhile journey it was.
Not surprisingly, it rained (at least a little) every day we were in Portland. But God knows it was glorious, cloudy skies and all.
And one day, while my friend waited for a curtain call, I decided to go exploring, in spite of the rain.
There I was, in my light coat and flats without socks, jumping around puddles as I hurried along Portland’s downtown streets. I was so woefully unprepared. I was practically a foreigner in a wet and sophisticated land, far from the small town to which I was accustomed.
I was nursing a heartbreak. Jobless. And running dangerously low on souvenir money. But none of that mattered… ‘cause I was alive. I was present, for once. And I was finally choosing to enjoy my life, moment by moment, instead of waiting for something remarkable to happen to me.
Instead of waiting for some flashing neon sign telling me to “Dive In,” I was choosing to do the next best thing.
I was taking babysteps, by getting my feet wet (literally) on the cold streets of Portland (and at every pitstop along the way).
What does it mean to live a good story?
I think it has something to do with getting started, instead of waiting around.
‘Cause unlike with writing, if you wait for the end to get started, you’re gonna miss a lot of really good stuff.
I also think it’s about making choices, and making the most of them, even if we realize some of them were wrong. Because you don’t get to go back and edit your life. (Even though sometimes I really wish I could.)
For me, the first baby step to living a better story meant letting go of what I had been taught about life and daring to learn some things firsthand.
It also meant walking into uncertainty, timidly at first, but then slowly learning to embrace the journey.
Packing up and hitting the open road helped me with that. Watching the sunset over different states, listening to Bebo, and having long talks with a wonderful friend helped put things in perspective for me.
Driving up a mountain in a snowstorm so thick I could only see brake lights in front of me, and getting my feet wet in Portland helped me see the beauty in living more bravely. Living more fully. Living more freely.
But I don’t think you have to go away, looking for some grand adventure, or experience some great tragedy or achieve something monumental to live a fuller life or to tell a better story.
I think you just have to step outside your comfort zone, even just a little.
'Cause tackling things that scare us, that’s what good stories are all about, right?
They’re about rising above. And taking risks. And daring to roam a bit, from time to time.
And I think they're largely about being grateful for it all.
The surprises. The scares. The seemingly impossible hurdles we must get over.
To me, living a great story means looking at a blank page and not letting fear stop you from starting.
I think it means looking at another day, and choosing to do something with it.
But what do I kow, I'm a 28-year-old "retired" reporter, that just can't seem to retire my pen.
P.S. Thanks hubby for being better at geography, having common sense and cooking than me.
Oregon = West Coast. You're absolutely right! I knew I should have paid better attention in those classes taught by coaches.
Also, this must have been what God had in mind when he talked about iron sharpening iron. ;)
