Reader,

A story = when you discover that something from your past has prepared you for the moment you're facing right now.

We don't get to choose make our core memories. Our efforts to "make a memory" usually leave a mark for all the wrong reasons.

Remember that Christmas Mom made us all wear matching onesies and wouldn't let us open a single present until we'd take a gazillion photos? We laugh about it now, but Mom wasn't trying to be a punchline. She meant to do something special, something that would touch our hearts for years to come.

Of course, the moments that really touch our hearts — then, now, and beyond — seem frustratingly insignificant. So insignificant that everyone forgets them, except for us.

Your husband doesn't remember the moment you fell in love in him. He was immersed in some task, oblivious to the world, even to you (though he'd never admit it). And that's why love was able to strike. Temporarily freed from the self-consciousness that plagues would-be lovers, he was overcome by that "eye-on-the-object look," and because that object was NOT you, you finally got to see him for who he was.

And yet, that moment would have no meaning if it weren't for the successive moments that followed. It changed the course of your first fight. That thrill you felt when he finally proposed? It wasn't from his meticulous planning and breathtaking setup. All that was nice, but it was really window dressing. Because when you could finally speak, you said "yes" because you realized what that earlier moment was for.

That meaning isn't lost when his rapturous smiles are replaced by harsh words that alternate with cold silences, and you're not sure which is worse. That meaning certainly changes as you grieve and wonder what went wrong, if it had always been wrong, if there is any hope of it or anything being right again.

Again, in that moment, you have an opportunity to see how those past moments have prepared you for what you're facing right now.

As writers, we have the incredible privilege of noticing these moments and putting them down on paper. Sometimes, our noticings take the form of fiction. (That is true in the case of this email: any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.) But that doesn't make them untrue.

Indeed, it's why we listen to long-winded grandparents and watch emotional K-dramas and sit through epic musicals. We're learning how to discover the stories in our own lives, to pay attention to ourselves so we can seize the moments we've been prepared for unawares.

Every writer has a chance to practice this gift. It's not some ethereal magic only accessible to the great masters. It's as simple as asking this question: "What happened before and how has it prepared me / her / them for the present moment?"

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank.