Imagine this situation. A writer (let’s call her Jane) has a story idea–something that resonates, will not recede into the background, and something that, as if having a life of its own, continues to progress and grow and mature. Jane is fired up, enthusiastic, and prepared to put in the long hours to craft a novel.
But she hesitates. Despite wanting–needing–to write it, she pauses and thinks about it. Her mind is all too ready to issue doubts and protestations, reasons to chuck the project and go back to reading others’ work instead of creating her own.
“Your idea’s too small,” her inner critic says. “It’s so common, so run of the mill. It’s just day-to-day family stuff, domestic life. Who cares?”
Jane shoots back that she cares, and, as the author of the piece, doesn’t that count? Doesn’t that matter?
But her inner critic is unrelenting. “You have to come up with something bigger. Bolder. More exciting and universal. Don’t waste your time on what you have now.”
Angered by the thoughts swirling in her own head, Jane feels an urge to punch . . . what? Her own thoughts? Her own doubts and fears? But how can she do that? And besides, maybe her inner doubts are right. There is little violence in her story. No international politics or major business deals. No espionage. The movers and shakers of the world do not appear. It’s insular, isolated, just a mother, a daughter, a beloved cat. A few friends. Small-town settings, and small-town goings-on. She’s writing about her memories. Her loves and passions. But they are small. Who will care? Who will be engaged with any of it?
She sleeps on it, tossing and turning through the night.
Early the next morning, Jane takes a walk through the woods that surround her home. It is fall, there is a bite to the air, but it is invigorating, wakening, a tonic to her senses. Fallen leaves crunch under feet. Squirrels chatter nearby, scolding her for the intrusion. Chipmunks dart to and fro, preparing for the winter ahead. Songbirds twitter, mostly unseen, from the trees. A particularly brazen red squirrel darts in front of her, on some mission that, evidently, cannot wait.
And that’s when she realizes.
To that rushing squirrel, at that moment, in this remote, out-of-the-way corner of the globe–no human voices to be heard, no car engines roaring in the distance, no city noises or excitement for miles around–this is the universe, the be-all and end-all. It is everything. Perhaps no one but Jane will ever know of this squirrel. Perhaps her eyes are the only human eyes who will ever see it. But that doesn’t matter. This squirrel’s mission, this squirrel’s task, is the most important thing in the world, here and now, in this place.
And, she realizes, isn’t that the same for us? For the lonely widow with no one to talk to you? For the homeless person, down on his luck, trying to figure out a better way? For the high-end executive, alone, at night, stressing over the details of the latest progress report? For the little boy or girl, with two days before summer vacation, looking forward to two months without homework? For the neighbor down the street who everyone disregards as “boring” and “dull” and doesn’t really talk to?
We all have stories. Our lives are comprised of moments, thoughts, hopes, dreams, triumphs, sadness, and countless “mundane” things that make up the bulk of day-to-day living. To us, as individuals, our “little problems” are the universe. They are our stories. And they are worth sharing.
Because what you are feeling today, countless others are, too. What I am struggling with in my day-to-day, many others are, too. Are there differences? Of course. We are each our own person, with our own unique set of experiences and thoughts and feelings. But there is a thread, invisible perhaps, but as real as the air we breathe, that links us. We are both unique and universal, individuals and a part of the whole.
There is no such thing as a story “too small,” a subject too “mundane.” If someone is living it, feeling it, if someone is moved by it, then it can reach others, too. It can serve as both a window and a mirror, a reminder that we are all different, but all inextricably connected.
So, if you have an idea about a “small” thing, a particular “mundane” situation, write it. Share it. Give it to the world.
We will all be better for it. And, if we are looking, really looking, we will see the macro in the micro, and recognize ourselves in the story. And maybe, even learn something new about ourselves (and those we know) along the way.
Thanks so much for reading!
–Mike
Eye-Dancers 