Winter Called: It's Coming, #365StrongStories 17

The wise have long been counseling the headstrong heroes. Warriors have fallen with a final warning on their lips: Winter is coming.

Of course, Game of Thrones viewers have known something nasty was on its way. Over several seasons, we’ve watched the threat from the North take shape. All that stands between the innocent citizenry and zombie army is one last great wall.

Today, the leadership at our house got the call: Winter is coming this way too.

“I want a cell phone! Kids at school have them!”

(You can try to imagine that this was gently and logically delivered, but you’d be living in a fantasy world more mystical than Westeros.)

Everyone who watches plugged-in parents of small children have seen this coming. Technical forces whose power we don’t completely understand have us under siege. And they’re coming for our kids.

We’d been warned. We’d been talking about how we’d prepare. But there was always a more immediate dragon to slay and we assumed winter wouldn’t come to us ‘til she at least knew her multiplication tables.

It is not time for the great battle. Not yet. Queen Mama and King Dad still have a mighty arsenal excuses - all of which begin and end with “you’re six!” And our words still have more power than her demands.

We will join forces to maintain our girl’s childhood. Finally, we know it’s not just rumor and paranoia. It’s just the first concerted attack of our wall.

I’d love to say we were better prepared.

Football = Conflict, #365StrongStories 16

Football = Conflict, #365StrongStories by Marisa Goudy

When you're committed to writing a story a day but mothering and football occupy the day, you're in luck.

Conflict makes a story and football is nothing but conflict. (So is motherhood, but that story takes more nuance to tell).

So, the story of the day is simple: football.

And, the good news is, this conflict had a happy ending.

That's One Sick Story, #365StrongStories 15

The flu’s plot line is straight from the storytelling textbook. (Note: not all stories that fit the form are inherently interesting. That's your job.) The mundane world (health) is jeopardized. The hero must quest for the remedy (chicken soup, time, drugs). A mentor is consulted (mom, healer, doctor). Either order is restored or catastrophe strikes.

If you’re writing a comedy, be sure to describe the fever dreams, the crazy clerk at the pharmacy, and the sheet volume of tissues and Friends reruns.

If this is a tragedy, you must explore “I never thought this could happen to us,” and perhaps sum it all up with a meditation on the flu vaccine, the limits of modern medicine, and God’s will or the complete absence of the divine.

But, when you’re in the midst of it - or, in my case, holding a two-year-old whose new mantra is “No fun. Tummy hurts” - there’s no comedy yet and you wouldn’t even entertain a tearjerker ending.

One of the toughest truths of writing about real life events: you can’t tell a satisfying story until the major conflict is resolved or the hero realizes something new.

And it’s damn hard to write much of anything when you’ve got a thermometer sticking out of your mouth or you're trying to stick one into a squirming toddler.

A Modern Entrepreneurial Hero's Journey, #365StrongStories 14

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Last fall, I wrote my way to the edges of my own mastery when I realized I couldn’t confidently complete the sentence “a good story is…”

As a lover of both fiction and creative non-fiction, this was disconcerting. For a writing coach, this was terrifying.

For months, I turned inward.

I was writing more than ever, but I wasn’t producing many full sentences. There were lists and notes and lots of arrows slicing across the page.

This was the stuff of discovery, not publication. And yet, something magical was happening.

The hero's quest is realized when she brings home the healing elixir to serve the greater good. And so, it was my mission to understand and then teach what makes a strong story.

First, I had to understand why I cared so much. Only then would I know how to help anyone else understand why stories and storytelling matter.

Stories are how we understand the world.

Stories are how we transmit ideas.

Stories are the building blocks of consciousness.

In compelling stories of growth and transformation, the hero may be may start the story as an innocent, but she is not without skills. (Rey flew the Millennium Falcon, didn’t she?) Instead, the journey is an awakening of latent powers and wisdom.

That’s what this journey into “what makes a strong story?” was for me - a chance to realize that I’d been a storyteller all along.

Ultimately, what I gained, in addition to confidence, was the ability to be a guide. And so, as I did what all modern entrepreneurial heroes do: I created an ebook.

(Do I see the irony that my heroes are Jedis and my great quest involves a subscription to LeadPages. Yes, but that’s a whole other story).

I wrote this guide for you, dear reader, and I would like you to read it. I want you to read it because I know you're a storyteller too (even if you haven't discovered your powers yet) and because I want you to tell your own Strong Stories too. 

Send Me My Free Guide

After the Fire and Fight, #365StrongStories 13

She still had the scars on her hands. The sensation in her fingertips would never be what it was. That was alright. She wanted to remember. She still burned with shame for what she’d done to set that fire. Even worse, she mourned that she’d fed the flames and brought the whole place down.

If only they’d understood what she was really trying to do. Yes, it was destructive and foolish and horrifically self-righteous. But she could see the future laid before them. Why was it that no one else was driven mad by the thought that they’d committed to living a life in the shadows?

Yes, she had burned downed the barn. Truly, she had done it because everyone needed a chance to see the moon.

But she’d given up all radical action. She was a mother now, not an arsonist. She had her own home now - but she’d never have a barn. And she had taught her children that it was perfectly alright to interrupt dinner and run to the window if someone spotted a waxing crescent in the wide evening sky.

Trading fire and fight for endurance and patience had been exactly what she needed to do. It was her penance and it was her obligation to the passage of time. And yet, her daughters would always wonder why the moon made their mother smile but she left any room that danced with candle flame.

How to #KissAGinger, #365StrongStories 12

A couch in a basement.

Two couples. (Well, “couples” feels like a particularly weighty word since all four were seventh graders).

And two pieces of licorice.

It was the gross shoelace kind of licorice that you only eat because there’s no chocolate around. It’s the kind of “food” wise people avoid.

I was not wise. I was twelve. And I would take any pathway available to get to my first kiss - even a long red strand of gummy sugar.

Enough with childhood. Enough with the wondering about what it would be like. Enough with the fear that no one would ever pick me.

Mission accomplished. And the next day I called the kid’s best friend to deliver the “can you tell him I don’t want to go out with him anymore?” news. (Because that is what you did when you were twelve in 1991).

Did I mention that the whole reason we found ourselves on this basement couch was because we both had red hair? Apparently, “making a cute couple” was more important than actually liking a person. Granted, being freed of the the terror that I would die without being kissed was even more important than our friends’ idea of “cute.”

It’s #KissAGinger day, so I salute the young man on the other end of that strand of licorice. I do hope that the next ginger you kissed gave you a better time.

As Jonathan Swift wrote in In Gulliver's Travels:

It is observed that the red-haired of both sexes are more libidinous and mischievous than the rest, whom yet they much exceed in strength and activity.

Indeed. But you have to get me tipsy before I’ll tell you the story of what it’s like when gingers meet over pints in Dublin, not candy on Cape Cod!

What My Grandmother Couldn't Teach Me in the Kitchen, #365StrongStories 11

One day, back when I was a college student, I entered the kitchen to find my grandmother looking at an uncooked turkey that sat on the counter.  She looked at me and asked, with that most beautiful twinkle in her eye, “Marisa, if you were to come home to this turkey, what would you do?” Without a trace of irony I replied, “I’d put it back in the fridge.”

Nanna’s laughter made it clear that this was not the sort of answer she was seeking.  She wanted to share a moment with her granddaughter, passing on culinary knowledge.

I was concerned that the family might get food poisoning if the bird stayed out too long.  It didn’t occur to me to be interested in cooking anything. Even spending time with Nanna was not enough to convince me that preparing a meal was more worthwhile than reading a book.

Thing have changed. Sorta.

Ok, so I’ve never actually been solely responsible for the cooking of a turkey, but I have roasted a few chickens in my time. And tonight we might have feasted on frozen pizza and mac n’ cheese, but they were served with a side of peas and mixed greens so no one is getting scurvy here.

I read precious few books before bedtime these days, so “I’m reading!” isn’t the excuse that keeps me out of the kitchen. Admittedly, however, it’s not unusual for me to hit the freezer when I’ve got a launch coming up.

The good news is I had a Nanna who’d love me anyway. And I have a husband and kids who do too.

What We Mean When We Say Motherhood Is "Incredible," #365StrongStories 10

“Moms, how come you never told us?” Back when I was high on whatever cocktail Mother Nature serves new mothers to enable us to survive the stress of being responsible for another human life, I wrote an open letter to the Baby Boomer moms.

Sweetly self righteous, I thanked them for teaching us to take on the world, but I took this generation of women to task for holding back an essential piece of information.

“How come?” I asked like some daft hen staggering about under the influence of yummy postpartum hormones.

“How come you never told us that motherhood was this incredible? You never mentioned the spell that was cast when you first looked into our infant eyes. You never described it as the greatest love story never told.”

The mommies who came before us didn’t get around to waxing poetic about every magic sparkle moment of motherhood because… motherhood.

Finally, I know that that word really means. Incredible is defined as “difficult or impossible to believe.”

All of the joy and rage and numbness and passion that get mixed into the mother-child bond… it really is incredible.

Yes, parenting is difficult and impossible to believe. I cannot fathom how I - and all the rest of the moms I know - can be a kind, smart, creative individual who practices any level of self control when forced to live with this kind of sleep deprivation and these draconian limits on personal and professional time.

And yes, to balance this all out and to show that I am mother that I purport to be on Facebook, the tremendous love I feel for these girls is incredible too. But tonight, the new mommy glow has long since worn off and just wish everyone would figure out to sleep through the night and wake up pleasantly in the morning.

The Lottery Myth, #365StrongStories 9

“Did you buy our tickets, my dear?” He kissed her temple as she leaned close to him. Just back from the marketplace, she had stopped to see her husband in his workshop. The crucible where he heated the sand to make his delicate glass bottles and globes burned hot, and she moved behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders while he worked. “I did. I chose all our lucky numbers.”

“I like it,” he said, still distracted by his work.

“Do you? I just want the whole thing to be over. No one can talk of anything else. The rich merchants are leaving the royal gatehouse with sacks full of chits. As if they needed anything more! And the poorest people, I hear, are not buying bread because they’re spending all their alms money on one single ticket.”

As he prepared the materials for a gold vase commissioned by one of those rich merchant’s wives, he murmured, “Ours is not to judge how people spend their money or do anything else. Haven’t you told me that before?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But I still don’t understand it. Why would the prince decide to share a portion of his fortune with just anyone? Is he looking for entertainment, watching the people stand in line and boasting about what their lives will be like when they live the life of a royal?”

“I do admit I prefer imagining a life of plenty to worrying over next month’s profits.”

“Me too, me too. I just keep wondering, do you get a portion of the man’s misfortunes as well when you go to collect your winnings?”

The Love Story that Came With the Frame, #365StrongStories 8

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“I have a surprise for you! See you at the pub at 9.”

My college roommate left me a voicemail before I arrived in New York City. It had been a few years since we’d seen each other. I’d been busy falling in love and had just gotten married. She’d been fully occupied with the wrong guy.

But when she walked in, I realized her whole story had changed.

A tall blond man - because that’s what he was, now - swept in and swirled me around. It had been ten years, but I knew my dear friend’s first love as soon as I heard his great, sweet laugh.

We caught up. We drank Guinness. I didn't know what it meant to see them together again, so I asked the question that I thought might reveal it all. “So, did you ever take the picture out of the frame?”

My youngest and I spending the afternoon with two little wheat-haired boys. During a brief moment of peace, I look at the collage with the wedding vows and the invitation for that 2009 ceremony. On the table beneath is a photograph taken in our freshman dorm.

I don’t have to take the picture out of the frame to know what’s written on the piece of paper tucked inside: “Remember, I will always love you.”

She had written the note in a moment of melancholy that 18 year-olds do so well. “Now, when he dumps me and starts going out with some other girl, he’ll feel totally guilty.”

Because there’s truth in the myth of true love and destiny, he never, ever took the picture out of the frame.

Ladybugs Give the Best Parenting Advice

“Roots down. Down into the belly of mother earth.” Brows drawn low. Mouth folded into a perfect prune of indignation. I long to push aside her tangled hair and smooth those deep grooves in her her forehead, but I don’t dare. Those lines etch my own face. It’s agony to see them taking shape on a six year-old.

“Again,” I say, stunned by the calm in my voice. “Again. We do roots down. And we reach into the belly of the earth where all the quiet energy is.”

It seems to take several lifetimes to get her to rise and plant her feet into bathroom tiles.

(This is why I do all this healing training. This is what all that damn meditation is for. This time, I swear to myself, I will not lose my shit.)

“Now, branches up.” At this point, little sister has joined the fun. At least someone is reaching their arms to the sky with me! “Come on, big girl. Reach up to the stars and ask the angels to help you.”

We get there. It happens. She reaches up her arms and she’s almost ready to smile.

It’s time to find all the love in her acorn heart when…

I’m not even sure what happened next. This was only yesterday, and I all remember was a second flash flood of tears washed away our carefully planted tree. It doesn’t matter. The Moira tree was back on the floor and I was wondering if it was ethical to give her a blanket and let her cry herself to sleep curled up next to the bathtub.

But then I remembered what all this spiritual practice is really for. It’s for helping you spot miracles when you’re ready to spit nails.

A ladybug. A ladybug on the sole of my slipper.

Through her tears, Moira noticed it. She smiled at the sweet summer spirit that was taking refuge with us through the long winter.

Legend has it that ladybugs were sent by Mother Mary to save the fields from plagues of aphids. At our house, ladybugs are sent by my mother who passed in 2010.

For at least a few moments every day, I mourn that I don't have a mom to help me figure out how to mother. The grace comes in the moments when I see how wrong I am. Helping my daughter navigate all those big feelings... it's not all up to me. There is literally support coming out of the woodwork.

It's an Epiphany, Baby, #365StrongStories 6

The story has it that on this Twelfth Night of Christmas a trio of wisemen reached the end of their starlit path and offered gifts to a baby with a great big destiny.

Of course, back then, the only one who was counting Christ’s days was the young woman who marvelled that it had been twelve days since she looked into her little boy’s eyes for the very first time.

This is the Feast of the Epiphany. For those of us who will not celebrate with a mass or observe any of the Christian customs wrapped up in this visit from the Magi, it can simply be a day of revelation.

What have the first six days of the year revealed? What’s become clear now that the gifts have been given, the calories consumed, the credit card statements received?

I’m looking back to the myth for inspiration and counting to twelve with Mary. I am recovering the wonder of holding a twelve day old baby when every sigh was a message from the divine. I’m reclaiming the stillness you experience when you witness a new life unfolding.

And, because it's a day to receive gifts, I'm politely asking the universe to remind me of all the bliss of cradling a newborn without any of the sleeplessness or the spit up!

Stories Come Before the Sunrise, #365StrongStories 5

Before my eyes were open and before the sun made it over the horizon, it was time to discuss when my six-year-old’s doll had been born. “I think that Margaret’s birthday is in May.”

Clearly, this had us thinking about the calendar.

“Mama, why do we celebrate the fourth of July?”

Brief description of Revolutionary War. Disambiguation: no, the Pilgrims didn’t fight.

“Did they wear armor in that war?”

Discussion of wigs as seen in most recent Magic Tree House book.

Interspersed throughout the Q & A period in which I mumbled and Moira mused, Mairead began her own interrogation.

“Mama! Hello!”

Hi.

“Milkies?”

No.

“All gone?”

Yes.

She accepts this and knocks me in the face with her water bottle. Really, she is being quite reasonable for a 23-month-old. I’m able to yank my shirt down and tickle her ‘til she giggles. It beats the screaming.

Everything beats the screaming.

But Mairead is persistent. “Hungry?”

We are on the precipice of the hysterical screaming danger zone.

“Eggies?”

I assume you hear the plaintive desperation in the toddler’s voice.

Finally, I  clamor through the tangle of sheets and dolls and little girl limbs to reach for the phone. Must be sure it’s dawn and not my neighbor’s ever-present flood lights casting a cold glow to the curtains.

“Clock. Time. Eighteen. Ladybug?”

This is Mairead’s first of 187 attempts to steal my phone and find the app about bugs.

I stumble out of bed as the whining begins. I am going to the bathroom before I answer another damn question or scare up a single morsel of food. They resent my selfishness.

But there’s magic in this morning. There is hope in the air. A sliver of silver hangs in the steel blue sky.

“Lady moon! Quick, everyone out of bed!”

And they listen. They’re as excited as they’d be if they spotted Santa’s sleigh.

Clearly I’m doing something right in spite of it all. 

There are stories being made before the sun is up and before your eyes are open. Can you see them?

The Plenty of the Marketplace, #365StrongStories 4

The sound of chimes and the hum of several languages fill the perfumed air. She breathes deeply and her senses dance with the warmth of vanilla and the tang of lemon balm. With a sure hand, she strokes the luxurious fabrics the weaver has set before her - fine wool, brocade shot with silver, and silk like angel wings. It’s a fine morning to browse the marketplace, greeting the merchants and sampling the delicacies in the food stalls. She is planning a gathering. Their friends will enjoy her rich hospitality, but they’re really there for the company and the after-dinner entertainment. As the finest storyteller in the city, her guests will forget the sweet wine and the perfectly spiced dishes when they lose themselves in the tale of the ill-fated lovers who may - or may not - escape the jealous duke and his sorceress companion.

These days, she has a satisfying purse of gold nestled in the folds of her skirts. The vendors in this marketplace have done well and so they have supported her husband, the master glassblower who makes vials for their potions and windows for their homes. And it’s not just his money she’s spending. Now that she is a celebrated teller of tales, she’s being paid handsomely to amuse and enchant at the wealthiest households in the region.

Everyone in the square seems to glow with the contentment of enough and even the glow of plenty. There is news of strife and famine abroad, and she knows she’d see hollow faces if she entered the shadowy alleyways. She’ll leave an offering with the priestesses at the temple - she trusts them to put the coins in the hands of those who need it. Next week she will stay a while and offer the needy her stories. For surely, a person needs a good story as much as he or she needs bread.

But today, There is enough in this little world of theirs to sustain every creative source and to leave some extra besides for those who haven’t yet found their way into the collective bounty of the marketplace.

Sunday Morning Supposed To's, #365StrongStories 3

Someone is sitting on my journal, so I'm writing this in my head. The babysitters are doing everything they can to amuse my daughter with their sweetly inappropriate ironies, but she's not having it. It's a great honor to be someone's safest place, but when I'm supposed to be someplace else, it's like being conscripted into impersonating a piece of furniture.

My lap, my journal, and I long to be alone together on the lumpy floral couch halfway between the nursery and the Sunday School classroom.

But wait... I've left that solitary existence behind.

I'm a wife and a mother, of course, so it's hard to even be solitary in the shower. But now we're thinking of joining a congregation - something I never thought I'd do - it's absurd to think I'd find time to myself in the midst of a Sunday morning community.

I'd left the church that claimed me from birth and wandered happily in the land of the faithfully unaffiliated. Moving now with this Unitarian Universalist Fellowship isn't the path to the gods I was supposed to take either.

The Ache of Forbidden Stories, #365StrongStories 2

The girl stands at the top of the stairs. She hears gunshots. She hears screams. There’s a lot of talking and then she hears gasps and groans and nice, gentle music. It’s getting cold (she told Dada she didn’t want to wear her footie pajamas that night), but still she crouches there. Listening.

Intrigued. Confused. More than a little frightened.

Eventually, the blare of the television cuts off and Mama mutters, “Did you hear something…?” In a louder voice, “Moira?”

It amazes me that this scene doesn’t repeat every night that my husband and I ignore our grownup responsibilities and lose ourselves in the binge-worthy show of the moment. Clearly we prioritize a damn good story over much-needed sleep. How can we expect a six-year-old resist what we cannot?

This holiday break, my daughter has been pushing at the limits of story.

She was intrigued by the intricate packaging and lush images in the Outlander boxset that waited for me under the tree. She can’t understand why she can listen to our vintage 70s record of The Hobbit but can’t stay up with Dada to see the movie. And she’ll be in mourning about the absolute “no” she’s getting about seeing Star Wars in the theater.

We tell her that we set these limits because we love her. We tell her how wonderful these stories will be when she’s ready. (Yes, husband and I are already having lots of debates about when she’s ready to read Outlander!) We go to her overflowing shelves and pick dozens of stories that are perfect for who she is right now.

Boundaries are blessings, but I feel every bit of her longing and her frustration.

Certainly, when it comes to stories, we have no self control. Humans are the storytelling animal. None of us can stop ourselves.

Writing page one of 2016's blank book, #365StrongStories 1

I’m staring at the empty book that is 2016 and I’m paralyzed by the promise of this new project, #365StrongStories. How can I tell 366 stories (it’s leap year, remember) when I can’t even tell one? The Christmas tree droops, crumbs and toys crunch under foot, and yet another “big game” dominates the family room. Unless your idea of drama is a toddler’s quest to steal your iPhone, I haven’t got a single story to enchant you.

But I’m forgetting everything I know about story because I’m frightened by the blank page.

The strength of a story doesn’t depend on high stakes and shocking plot twists. A story is made strong by the writer’s passion for the scene and the her desire to connect with the reader.

Motherhood is a story - a sprawling epic crowded with characters who transform from sentence to sentence. The narrative structure is messy and some chapters are agonizingly kind while others are painfully short. Much of the writing in the motherhood story is riddled with typos, but that's because the author hasn't had a good night's sleep since 2009.

There are stories to tell here. There are stories I must tell and stories I think you must hear.

#365strongstories, day 1

Would a #365project give you what you need in 2016?

Why I kept one #365project promise, broke another, and will make a new one in 2016

When you sign yourself up to make something every day for an entire year, you’re making a fabulous commitment to your creativity.

And when you decide to post about it every day on social media, you’re stepping up and saying “I’m ready to be seen” in a big way.

As both a #365project success story and a #365project drop out, I know plenty about what it takes to make it work and why it might not.

And I know what makes a project fulfilling and worthwhile… all year long.

First, ask yourself what kind of content you would want to share every day

Brené Brown makes it easy to decide what subjects to post about and talk about:

“I share what is vulnerable, not what is intimate.”

And how does our Daring Greatly/ Rising Strong sage recommend you make the distinction between the two?

Brené makes sure that she has fully explored everything before she brings it to the public arena. Her ability to heal and remain “wholehearted” does not depend on how her audience reacts to what she shares.

When I heard her describe this during a recent interview, it hit home because I’d learned this distinction myself - the hard way.  

I’m deeply grateful for one successful #365project and one abandoned attempt the following year. They taught me what it really means to share my story, create media, and be seen. And they taught me how to distinguish between intimate and vulnerable.

A #365project helps you find meaning in your own story

In 2014, I participated in the #365feministselfie project.

I cataloged the last month of pregnancy, the wonder of new motherhood, and lots of mundane moments throughout that year. Some of the Instagram shots were raw, some were posed pics to help bolster a bleary-eyed mama’s self esteem. All of them were me.

This daily practice helped me cope with the  isolation of being a work-at-home mom with an infant in the midst of the Polar Vortex winter. It was my chance to discover my own narrative thread when it was all too easy to lose myself.

I didn’t have the free hands to write, but I could snap a pic and use my thumbs to draft a quick caption that gave the moment some context in my bigger story.

A #365project that didn’t work

Giddy with the triumph of devoting a year to someone else’s project, I was excited to start my own project in 2015.

Boldly, I called it #365SovereignReality. The goal was to publicly explore my evolving “concept” that made so much sense inside my own head, but hadn’t made it into easy-to-tell story form.

It didn’t last for lots of reasons. The pressure to make an important discovery about my life’s work every day and post it online was too daunting. It took almost no creative energy to snap and post a selfie. My ill-defined sovereignty project demanded more creative energy than I had to give.

Intimate moments need to stay that way

My own pet project failed for another key reason - my kids.

Now that I had permission to take the camera off myself, it seemed logical to turn it on my constant companions. My little muses had been in plenty of the selfies with me, so it didn’t seem like a problem.

Truthfully, I’d always ignored the little voice that said “don’t start creating your kids’ digital footprint without their consent.” But somehow, when I was always in the frame with them, I could give it a pass. I told myself that my protective maternal gaze warded off predators and voyeurs.

But now that I was casting them in leading roles in my #365SovereignReality, it didn’t seem right. Without their mama in the frame to keep them safe, it didn’t seem authentic - it seemed like I was exposing them to stranger danger.

A new #365project that hits all the right notes

So, what are the ingredients of a sustainable #365project?

• It has a set form. You don’t have to expend extra creative energy figuring out the focus.
• It’s related to your professional or creative work.
• It’s about visibility, not ego.
• It’s a practice that helps you grow - not just another “should” or obligation.

Introducing #365StrongStories

Every day in 2016 I am going to write a story.

It will be less than 200 words. Sometimes, it may not look like much more than a metaphor. There will be days when I’m sharing someone else’s story and using a quote. Each story will be accompanied by a picture, so you'll find it on Instagram and Facebook and all the usual social spots.

It feels a little crazy to sign myself up for something so ambitious. After all, taking a picture is easy compared to promising to write an actual story every day. But I’m dedicating my professional life to helping people tell stories that matter… and I need to walk the talk about how it really can be easy.

My 2016 #365project why…

• I am a storyteller, but I want to get better
• I want to be a more concise, efficient writer
• I’ve been in retreat for a while and it’s time to be seen online again
• #365StrongStories is aligned with my work. In a week or two, I am launching an offer called 5 Strong Stories that helps emerging thought leaders write content that connects.

Would a #365project give you what you need in 2016?

Saundra Goldman, who created a brilliant community around her #continuouspractice project posted her reflections on 2015 and her plans for 2016. Check out her post for ideas for creating your own project and why it's totally valid to make a much shorter commitment than 365 days.

And I'm grateful to Saundra for another idea - who will you dedicate your practice to?

I am dedicating #365StrongStories to you, my dear reader. I am going to tell the stories that I must tell, but only because I think they are the stories that you must hear.

How to balance “I must publish” and “I need to find a story that matters“

Sovereign Standard, Issue 40

The greatest epiphanies are just clichés - until they’re true

“You’ve had it in you all along” is one of those mundane epiphanies tossed about by countless gurus and charlatans, true healers and glitzy motivational speakers. And yet, the day you truly come to know this as your truth, it’s like the sunset, moonrise, and northern lights all fill the sky at once.

For years, I’ve been living out loud on the internet. Perhaps you’ve been like me - trying (and generally failing) to be an easy, breezy online writer. I refused to dumb down my message, but I also avoided a avoiding the hardest questions and denied the most personal answers.

Basically, I was so intent on saying something that I would rarely let myself slow down, look within, learn more, and ensure I was saying something that really mattered to me.

You’ve heard the old marketing adage “you aim to appeal to everyone and you appeal to no one”?

When you don’t feel free to tell the stories that are really important to you as a writer, you’re never going to tell stories that are important to the reader.

What it means to put the inner story first

At last , I’m committing to prioritizing my interior process over the public conversation.

That means I'm committing to diving deeper, thinking longer, allowing ideas to germinate before I push myself to publish.

This isn’t a prescription for permanent radio silence. Heck, I'm blogging about my decision to putting the inner work before the public exploration of what I’ve learned!

The goal is not to become an all-analog hermit. Instead, it means I’m placing my creative emphasis on knowing a story at its intimate core before I bring it to an audience.

It means I ask myself questions that matter to me before I try to tell you why any of it might matter to you.

I’m exhausted by the pace of a digital world that puts action over contemplation. It feels good to play with phrases like:

Perspective before performance.

Introspection before exhibition.

Dive deep before ”share this!”

Finding the balance between finding the inner story and publishing it

As a writer who depends on building online community to build my business, deep dives into “what stories must I tell?” will cool my self-imposed “gotta publish at all costs!” madness.

But I know that the “explore the inner story” and “publish something now” is balancing act that puts other people on the opposite side of the teeter totter.  (Thanks to my brave compatriots in the Quest 2016 community - see below.)

You might be a writer who loves to let a good idea simmer. It would be wonderful if my frantic "must create content!" experience makes you feel more secure in your slower-to-publish approach.  

Many frantic writers wish they had your sense of trust and composure. Hopefully, you see that your ability to contemplate and craft your thoughts is a rare gift in this “get it out there” environment.

But, maybe you’re more of the “perfection = paralysis” kind of writer. You tend to over-think your work and start cleaning the bathtub with a toothbrush to avoid committing to a regular blogging schedule. I’d love my push to publish energy to rub off on you a bit.

It's good enough. Get it out there.

I know my 2015 commitment to the very-nearly-weekly Sovereign Standard is going to have a perpetual payoff, both personally and professionally. Even if I put the "real" story on the back burner while I tried to put out simpler messages intended to please the crowd.

Find the balance between the inner exploration and the greater conversation

Ultimately, if you're someone who wants to build a business through "content marketing" (telling stories and sharing your wisdom to entice new clients and delight your current community) or if you're a creative who must put ideas on the page, it's about striking a balance.

You need the inner exploration and you'll thrive when part a greater conversation.

If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to the stories still welling up inside me. But I promise I'll come back with ideas that will help you tell yours. Subscribe to my weekly Sovereign Standard newsletter - please?

*****

This post was initially inspired by Prompt #1 in Tracking Wonder's Quest 2016. The mastermind of this project, Jeffrey Davis, has called together 12 visionaries to help you create your best 12 months. It was a powerful way to begin my 2015 and I'm eager for this year's experience.

In particular, I was responding to Susan Piver who asked us to consider "What I most need to tell myself about 2016 is…"

Find more about Susan, the Quest, the business artist pledge, and how to join (it's totally free).

A story from the cave beneath the mountain of marketing and spin

Sovereign Standard, Issue 39 Right now, every fiber of my being (except for the fibers that are occupied with holding a toddler on my hip as I help my first-grader make turkeys out of candy corns and Oreos) is occupied with story.

What does it take to translate the thoughts and emotions and in-process “stuff” into a story that engages, reveals collective insights, and exposes truths?

I don’t have the whole answer yet, but I’m getting closer.

The best writing begins in private

To allow myself the true freedom to wonder and wander, I’m dialing back my public writing. I've been pulling deep inside to where the really stories live. It's the place deep below the marketing and the spin - in the caves where the truth rubs elbows with fear and dreams struggle against despair.

[tweetthis]Story is born in caves where the truth rubs elbows with fear & dreams struggle against despair.[/tweetthis]

In a world where storytelling is celebrated as an art and foisted upon us as a marketing tactic, it’s easy to get burned out on story - particularly when you feel like you weren’t blessed with the Scheherazade gene.

I do believe that “everybody has a story” because it was reality long before it was a cliche (or the theme of a zillion ad campaigns). But there’s a lot more to unlocking natural storytelling abilities than shoving a mic or a blog password into someone's hand and commanding “have the courage to tell your story.”

The alchemy of turning "your stuff" into "Your Sovereign Story"

As 2015 dims to allow the new year to shine bright, I’ll have a great deal to say - and to offer - about this alchemical process of turning “your stuff” into “Your Sovereign Story.”

In the meantime, please give yourself permission to slow down and watch out for the unforgettable characters and plot twists (especially those who show up around your Thanksgiving table).

Begin to consciously collect the experiences that will give your stories life... I'll be back soon to help you figure out what to do with the material!