The Inner Monologue

Let’s talk about that person. You know the one. The one who slides into your DMs or lingers after a reading to say, “I love everything you write… except that one thing. You know, the one that felt a little… too real.”

First of all, congratulations. You’ve just confirmed that I did my job. If my writing didn’t occasionally make someone shift uncomfortably in their seat, what’s the point? Art should rattle a few doors. Stories should trespass. If no one ever flinches, I’m not digging deep enough.

Here’s the thing—everything hits too close to home for someone. The most innocuous detail—a description of a kitchen, a throwaway line about a childhood memory, a joke about bad dates—will inevitably land like a grenade in someone’s emotional backyard. That’s how writing works. If it didn’t, we’d all be reading assembly manuals for IKEA furniture instead of novels. (No offense to IKEA. Their instructions are also emotionally devastating, but in a different way.)

So here’s my new policy: I don’t care about your line. Not because I’m cruel, but because it’s not my line. My only responsibility is to my own—the one that says, “This feels true, so I’m writing it.” If that truth scrapes against yours, fantastic. Now we have something to talk about. Now we’re getting somewhere.

The best writing exists in the friction between “Hell yes” and “Absolutely not.” If we all agreed on where the line should be, literature would be a barren wasteland of polite small talk and weather reports. (Actually, wait—even weather reports piss people off. “Oh, you had to mention the rain? My dog hates rain. This was insensitive.”)

So, to the person who loves everything except that one thing—thank you. You’ve just proven that I struck a nerve. And nerves are where the good stuff lives.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write something that will definitely cross someone’s line. Maybe even yours.

Stay uncomfortable.