This wasn’t meant as a rant originally, but a girl that I mentor (I kinda hate that word) said she found it really helpful, and these stories do me no good sitting in my head so here. (And I get a lot of other people asking me how to write an interesting story, so this was my answer to her (which is long, so it’ll be a two parter, I guess, maybe).

Let’s talk about: How Not to Be Boring

When people ask you about your day, they don’t actually want an answer. They don’t care. It’s just polite to say “How was your day”, and it’s nice to simply answer “Fine.”

But when you write a story, people care. They want to know how your day was. They want to know what you did. They want to know how you felt and what you thought. They care.

If I were going to write about the other weekend, I wouldn’t just say “it was the worst I’ve felt in a really long time. I just really wanted to see my best friend, so I went for a drive. Then I decided I didn’t want him to hate me for being so weak, so I turned around and came home and cried when he called me to tell me he’s proud of how strong I’ve been.”

No one would want to read that. That is a boring story. There’s no imagery. There’s no figurative language. There’s no emotion. None of their senses would be evoked.

They wouldn’t feel anything for me. They wouldn’t understand.

They want the real story with every detail stitched together in a quilt of imagery and art. They want to read what actually happened:

Everything reminded me of how much I missed him. The way his chair smelled like a strange mixture of sweat and smoke. The way I could feel the slopes and arches of the mattress where he was supposed to be laying. The way the clock ticked. And ticked. And ticked.

I had to get out. Tick. Tick. Tick. I had to see him.

At first, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t remember grabbing the keys and my bag and slamming the stupid front door on the lonesomeness of the house. I just remember the way the metal felt cold in my hands and the way it made me smile, because finally I was feeling something besides lost.

One moment it was eleven at night and I was sitting in the shower, wishing he was waiting for me on the couch, and the next it was midnight and I was sitting behind the wheel knowing he was waiting for me in his apartment, eight hours away.

That was the first time in weeks that I felt good. I felt free.

I remember driving faster and faster, sailing down the highway, trying to catch a good wind in the passing lane. Streetlights faded into stars. Headlights found their homes in subdivisions and I found mine on the interstate.

In my head, I started writing a speech to deliver at his doorstep. I’d be casual and cool, like I wasn’t falling apart. Like I was in complete control. I’d lie and I’d say “I missed you and I couldn’t sleep. So here I am.”

He didn’t need to know the truth. There was no reason to tell him that I was pathetic and that I couldn’t live on my own. I was okay with being alone, but I couldn’t handle being lonely.

And then it hit me there on the interstate at two in the morning: I was weak. I couldn’t be one of those independent people that suffered in silence. I couldn’t just look at my knee injury as a simple hiccup. I couldn’t look at my impending hospitalization as a challenge to get better.

No. Only he could do that. He had to do that for me. I couldn’t take care of myself.

And I certainly couldn’t handle another blow to my esteem, so I stopped thinking about how worthless I was being and started fantasizing about his reaction when he would open the door and see me, no bag, no plan, no nothing, standing outside his apartment in the city.

I wanted him to throw his arms around my neck and choke me with a hug that smelled like whiskey and tasted like salt. I could imagine the way his eyes would glimmer in the dying florescent light as he would say “I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve wanted you here so badly.”

Then I imagined him taking me to the coffee shop across from his building and we’d sit at the window and watch people and talk about how much we missed each other, with the bitter scent in the air and a sweet taste of sugar on our heavy tongues.

But then the devil’s hour hit and again I realized how dumb my assumptions were. He’d throw the door back and look surprised, alright, but not like that. It would play out more like everything had been in the past few weeks: disappointing.

He’d force a grin, the one that made the skin wrinkle under his silver eyes and the tiny scar in his eyebrow tuck down into his lashes. Then he’d say “It’s good to see you here. Everything okay?”

I’d give him my speech and he’d fake a laugh and and say “Come in. You gotta be tired. It’s a long drive.”

And he’d never say what he really felt. He wouldn’t say “You look awful, Addy babe. How much weight have you lost?” He wouldn’t say “You’re not going to be running a marathon before you graduate college, girl. That knee brace says it’ll be a while.” He wouldn’t say “I can’t believe we thought you could live without me. I can’t believe we thought you could make it on your own.”

But he’d be thinking it. It would be written in the straight lines of his set jaw and rigid veins on the back of his balled up hands.

He would be disappointed in me.

So at four o’clock in the morning I took an exit and parked in the parking lot of a dead, glowing fast food restaurant. Inside, the nightshift mopped the floor and watched me carefully, wondering if I was going to go through the drive-thru or just sit in my car, twisting hair around my fingers and bashing my knuckles into the steering wheel.

More than anything, I wanted to see him. I wanted him to tell me that everything was going to be alright. I wanted him to say that he was there and things were going to start getting better.

But if I let him say that, I’d hate myself forever.

If I let him say that, he would subsequently be saying that his dream was over. It was time to stop chasing the future he’d wanted since we were kids. It was time to go home and take care of me.

Just because I couldn’t get my life together. Didn’t mean he had to throw his away.

So I turned around. I got back on the interstate and headed for home on the longest four hour drive of my life.

For a moment I worried about breaking down. Only the lonely were out at this time and the lonely are dangerous people. People that can’t be trusted.

Then I realized that it was a pointless worry. I had already broken down. My car quitting would be nothing new in my life. Everything was falling apart.

When I got home at eight in the morning I could barely drag myself through the front door. My bones were heavy and hollow, like they were going to rip free of my muscles and skin and shatter on the cold, lonesome floor.

I remember not being able to feel anything. I tried to be angry that I was such a coward and couldn’t go get what I wanted. I tried to be proud of myself for putting his wants and his needs in front of mine. But I didn’t feel anything.

I was perfectly numb.

And it was with the same numbness I brushed my teeth, fixed my makeup, put on my clothes, and went to work. It was the same numbness that pulled me through my twelve hour shift with a fake smile painted on my face and a hidden desperation buried in my mind.

That numbness drove me home, across the orange gravel of the road and pulled me through the front door. The numbness answered the phone when my best friend called that night.

Then, he asked me the question that no one wants answered and suddenly I spoke and I wasn't numb.

“How was your day?”

Terrible. Awful. The worst I’ve had in a really, really long time. “Long.”

“Really? What did you do?”

Missed you. Drove four hours to see you only to turn around halfway. Hated myself for every decision I made on that ride. “Just went to work.”

“Oh. Well I talked to coach and he told me about your knee. I meant to call last night, but it was pretty late when I got in and I didn’t know if you were sleeping.”

You should have called. You should have been there. “Oh yeah.”

“Sounded pretty bad, the way he talked.”

“Yeah. It kinda hurts.” I laughed once. “A lot.”

“I bet. Well, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”

For what? Being so weak I had to leave and go see you? Then being such a coward that I turned around? That I’ve bitched about my knee injury every day? That I’ve been cheating on my diet? That I can’t do anything right? That I can’t do anything without you? “Don’t, okay? I know I’m the most accident prone person ever.”

“No, I mean it. Coach said you were gonna keep training through it. I’m proud of you for not just giving up.”

But I did. I did give up. “Thanks.” I could feel my throat starting to close.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath. “Just tired.”

“Well I’ll let you go, then. Just calling to check in.”

We hung up. And suddenly I felt everything.

I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. I felt like everything was falling apart all over again.

There was no one to talk to. People don't really want to know about your day. They don't really care.

So I sat on the kitchen floor and cried for hours.

I didn’t deserve to have him be proud of me. I didn’t deserve someone who believed in me.

I didn’t deserve him.

Because I was a coward. And I always found a way to give up.

And that’s the story.

That’s how I felt. That’s what I thought. That’s how everything happened.

It wasn’t generic. It was the honest truth.

And I guess that’s how you tell a story. Because when people ask you about your life they just want the generic. But when they ask to read it, they want the truth painted in a beautiful picture. They want flowing language and carefully crafted imagery. They want you to use every literary device in the book to express yourself and the story.

They want your heart. Your blood. Your soul.