I believe a story grows like a tree.
It begins as a seed—a word, a phrase, a question, an idea—planted on a blank page with no promise of what it will become.
I water it with words until a sapling emerges with tiny limbs and leaves, looking fragile and weak. Sometimes, I’m tempted to pull it up and start all over. But I have patience.
It grows as I nurture it, and new branches appear. Some flourish, and others wither as the story reveals its shape.
When it’s grown, I carefully prune it, cutting away weak branches of sentences and words so its strongest limbs can reach the light. Every cut feels like a loss, yet most reveal a stronger story. Sometimes I prune too much, and must wait for the tree to forgive me.
Finally, I’m done, and I step back to admire the tree. Some stories become majestic oaks. Others, flowering dogwoods, twisted pines clinging to cliffs, or carefully tended bonsai junipers.
What kind of story do you see?
