When I announced my first writing workshop, I designed it to be a space where writers could sharpen their craft.

We’d dissect plots, mend sagging middles, and stitch up limp dialogue. I imagined myself as the doctor who’d waltz in, brandishing a scalpel of storytelling wisdom—ready to go snip-snip and, in 3.24 seconds flat, fix all that was lacking in the story. Just like that. All in a day’s work.

But life had other ideas, as always.

It turns out, no story problem is ever that obedient. And neither is the act of teaching. Every workshop I’ve conducted since has shown me that while I may walk in with a syllabus, it’s the unexpected questions, hesitations, and discoveries that become the real heart of the session.

It’s never as straightforward as you imagine it to be.

And thank goodness for that.

Life has her ways of delivering a rich, layered experience you never saw coming—the kind that humbles you, fills you with gratitude, and leaves you marveling at how much you didn’t know you still had to learn.

Every time I conduct a workshop, I come away with something new.
Something about myself as a coach.

Something about myself as a writer.

And often, something about the delicate, infuriating, exhilarating craft of fiction writing too.

My inputs, no matter how carefully prepared, evolve mid-session. The simplest of words spoken aloud—an offhand comment about subtext, or the rhythm of a conversation—sometimes evoke something far bigger than I’d intended.

I’ve watched participants have lightbulb moments from throwaway remarks I barely remember making. And it fascinates me to see how a small, unplanned example can ignite an idea, shift a perspective, or unblock a stubborn scene.

And then there are the questions.

Ah, those questions.

When a passionate, dedicated writer asks,

  • “But what if my character’s weakness is actually their strength?”
  • “Can a sagging middle be saved without cutting a subplot I love?”
  • “How do you write silence into a scene?”

… you can feel the energy in the room change.

Even in a virtual meeting.

Those are moments of stardust. Not because I always have the perfect answer, but because those questions remind me how endlessly rich and challenging this craft is. They nudge me to revisit old learnings, question my assumptions, and sometimes admit, “I don’t know—let’s figure it out together.”

And that’s the magic.

In those moments, I’m not just a coach. I’m a writer again. Wrestling with elegant problems I’ve wrestled with before, or sometimes ones I’ve never met.

Their enthusiasm, their courage in sharing half-baked drafts and messy ideas, reminds me how brave it is to be seen mid-process. And their sheer joy when a scene finally clicks—when a character sheds their polite, paper-thin voice and starts speaking in their true, complicated, impossible-to-ignore tone—makes me want to work harder, explain clearer, and bring my absolute best to every session.

Whether it’s One Story All In, Unknot: Write to Heal, Story Clinic, or my one-on-one coaching sessions, I don’t go in just to teach. I go in to be taught.

The more I teach, the more convinced I am of this: writing is a conversation, not a lecture. And the best kind of coaching is a collaboration where both coach and writer walk away sharper than they arrived.

Isn’t that the best kind of work? I am deeper in love with my profession than I was when I began. The before and after of a manuscript/story is the stuff magic is made of.

The kind that keeps you reaching higher because the people you’re meant to lead are right beside you, teaching you how to do it better.

Some of the most important things I’ve learned about narrative pacing, character contradictions, or how a single line of dialogue can change the emotional weather of a scene—I’ve learned in real time, while guiding someone else through their draft.

To everyone who’s been part of my coaching sessions so far—thank you.

You’re not just making your stories stronger. You’re quietly making mine, too.

And you’re reminding me, every single time, why I chose this work in the first place.

Here’s to the next question that stops the room.

And the next half-baked idea that turns into something beautiful.

I can’t wait.

Mother of three adult humans. An idealistic, outspoken woman of scrupulous integrity, in love with words. A storyteller who enjoys crocheting tales. And a passionate bibliophile, of course.