dreaming about genre, point of view, and tense

author’s note: i typically don’t record my voice for an hour and then post that recording to the internet. be gentle.

initially, i couldn’t decide whether to discuss my findings from writing the first two chapters of my book in written or audio format. i chose to record, which was a lot of fun, and wow, it’s not that easy (which, thankfully, i wasn’t delusional enough to think in the first place). i had several ideas i wanted to share and for some reason the process of writing them down, editing the essay, and then publishing it felt like it would take too long, so here we are. 

topics include: introducing a little bit (really the tiniest bit) about myself and my project, the genre i was attracted to and why, how critical it is to nail down the point of view before getting started, choosing the tense of your book, and the importance of checking yourself when storytelling in the wild (just a weird way of saying be aware of how you talk about others to other people).

books mentioned: severance by ling ma, bliss montage by ling ma, good material by dolly alderton, the alternatives by caoilinn hughes, and the book of love by kelly link.

thanks for listening x

dreaming about being the beginner

Hi! It’s Katherine. Let’s skip over how strange it is to introduce yourself through writing (versus speaking) and dive right in.

Welcome back! I originally started this substack as a space to host my collection of personal essays. Personal essay writing has always been emphatically close to my heart; it was the first gateway through which I gained access to the depths of my own empathy to cultivate more nuanced understandings of myself and others. Recently, I noticed that the last essay I published was about a year ago. For someone who has always felt so connected to writing, I found it unusual that I hadn’t finished an essay within that time period. I wasn’t wholly surprised because I hadn’t felt inspired to write anything to completion in a while. During that time, I had half started a couple of essays, and my journal kept filling with illegible scribbles, so I was writing but not finishing anything. I couldn’t locate or further describe the disenchantment I was feeling over the past year.

As it turns out, the lack of enthusiasm wasn’t related to writing itself, as that has been a natural passion of mine for as long as I can remember, but how I was writing. I have always valued growth within myself, and I could feel myself coming to a standstill with my self-expression. The themes and structure coming through just felt recurrent and stale. Even my journal entries felt a bit repetitive. It all felt stagnant (unsurprisingly reflecting the stagnancy in other corners of my life). With time, I could feel the natural ending occurring and space for something fresh.

A couple of months ago, I was sitting with a friend, and she suggested that I explore writing fiction. My immediate thought was that I don’t have the mind for fiction (one of my roommates told me a while ago that he writes fiction for fun; I was openly jealous of his creative mind and wished mine worked that way). When I really sat with it, I realized I am one of the most ungrounded people I know. For real, my mind may as well always be somewhere else. I can be brought back down to reality occasionally for interpersonal conversations, but most of my time is spent in my own head, daydreaming. So I figured, why not put that to use? Not that being a space case makes you a great writer, but something about what she said felt right.

I used to write fiction when I was much younger, and while I’m pretty sure it was awful, I was probably onto something. (After all, typically, the ways we choose to spend our time as children are reflective of our most honest selves.) Storytelling, in general, is a critical and massive portal for compassion, empathy, and healing that we so desperately need right now. There are so many ways to open up this gateway; this is the one I seem to be eternally curious about.

Anytime I engaged in my own self-healing previously (and I ran through the gamut in terms of spiritual exploration, e.g., tarot cards, crystals, the chakra system, energy healing, essential oils, astrology (ask any of my friends— I still won’t shut up about it because it’s so real), numerology, auras, various oracle decks, spirit animals, more spirit guides, and so on) I was always led back to the same place: love. If you are using these systems intending to tap into your own unconditional kindness, they are all the same. Love, kindness, empathy, and connection are the most powerful healing forces. You don’t need anything else; the message is simple. Those aforementioned tools are really cool and fun, but really, our connection to nature, to ourselves, and the natural abundance of love within us is what is most important. I’m hesitant to say that “love solves everything” (because I know how that sounds like b.s., especially in a world filled with an unbearable amount of injustices and atrocities). Still, the poetic side of me, deep down, does believe that it can fix a lot. What could we accomplish in the world if we all really cared and looked out for one another?

No matter what avenue I went down I always arrived at that same message. This was a little frustrating at first because, in my mind, I would constantly think, “There are only so many ways in which you can tell everyone that they need to be more kind, more compassionate, more empathetic, etc. because you never know what someone is experiencing within themselves.” (This is not meant to be perfected; it’s a constant and consistent practice that, while I am committed to it, I certainly haven’t perfected anything.) Really though, how many times and ways can that be said before people really integrate and embody it? With fiction, an infinite amount. When I really thought about it, I felt renewed. In fiction, even if the message is dressed up in genetically-cybernetically-modified-raccoons fighting alongside alien assassins and other interdimensional creatures in intense action scenes against a space backdrop set to a semi-retro-funky-disco film score to save the universe (yes, I just rewatched Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 last night), it is still the same: love and connection is the vital fabric that connects all living beings, and it is very difficult to live a full life without it. It’s the same archetypal message that is the foundation of many other movies, television shows, books… all forms of art. What I find so fascinating about this is that the core themes are all the same, but because we are so wildly different as humans, it takes different modes for these themes to touch our hearts and reverberate throughout our spirits.

I have always been curious about fiction. If I remember correctly, I’ve had the intention to complete a work of fiction since about college (the worst time for someone who was masking as a computer science engineer— seriously, who has all the time to do what you love when you’re spending all of it doing things you don’t?). I toyed with the idea for years until my friend (what a talented mirror and healer) brought it up again, and I figured now was the time. I love writing and being “in process,” so the idea of having a long-term project to pour myself into sounded fun. Fiction isn’t something I’ve been practicing, so writing a novel makes me a beginner.

Hence, this substack. I am far from an expert in fiction writing or writing at all (for now, anyway— who knows…), but I adore learning and following my curiosities. I recently began reading fiction again to bring myself into that headspace (I highly recommend Severance by Ling Ma, Bliss Montage also by Ling Ma, and Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin— I know I’m late to the party) and realized not only how much I actually love being absorbed into alternate worlds but that I want to know how to create the same detailed, well-constructed experience. Anytime I am reading or watching a television show, I am always in awe of the spectacular and emotionally moving character development, how the characters accentuate different aspects of one another, how the plot underneath connects everything like a puzzle, etc. Writing nonfiction comes naturally to me, and fiction is the new frontier, a challenge. It feels exciting, and I wanted to share the process of being "the beginner” here.

Welcome to “Dream Girl,” a project that blends the exploration of storytelling and the feminine. These two words are particularly special to me, separately and together. “Dream” to honor my friend who first saw the “dreamer” in me and encouraged me to embody my true multidimensional nature (I love and thank you for seeing me so clearly); “Girl” for my eternal curiosity re: creating conversation surrounding the feminine and feminism as a return to nature and empathy; and “Dream Girl” for the notion that the object of our affection, admiration, and adoration, The Lover, is within The Self (it’s almost as cliché as it reads). These themes have been heavily prevalent throughout my life and will always be woven into any story I tell. They need our attention. Even if you’re not on the journey of rediscovering your creative voice (although who isn’t?) I am confident that this is a conversation for everyone. More to come on that.

As someone who struggles daily with perfectionism (I’m rolling my eyes with you), I can already tell how frustrating and expansive this will be. I have noted that my favorite content creators of the moment all have the same thing in common: they are simply “in process” with life. They don’t claim to be experts with respect to anything; they’re just exploring. They have a raw playfulness and experimental nature that I admire. Growth is everything. Often, we are deeply attracted to those who have a lot of curiosity and playfulness. I also believe we are the most attracted to ourselves when we embody these qualities, so it’s important to have practices in place to give them the fresh air they need to be expressed.

What does it mean to develop meaningful, diverse, and inclusive stories? What about certain stories inspire us to listen and immerse ourselves in someone else’s experience, whether that is a memoir or fantasy novel? How do we leverage storytelling to create more thoughtful conversations surrounding elevated empathy and connection?

looking forward to exploring more of these questions and potential answers with you :)

talk soon x katherine

my best friend's brother's mom

John’s sister (1) was originally my best friend’s childhood friend. We attended the same high school but didn’t get to know one another until the height of COVID. John’s sister was sweet, funny, and easily likable. Everyone would always say, “Everyone loves *insert her name here*.” She wasn’t the most self-assured person I knew but seemed kind. When we started hanging out, she was going through a tough time. She and her girlfriend had just broken up. Not everyone in our town is small-minded, but not everyone is accepting. She felt comfortable talking to me about it, and I was happy to be there for her.

We quickly grew close. We would hang out every Friday night, and I always stayed over. We spent so much time eating, watching TV, walking, and talking. (Was there anything else to do during COVID?) I understood what it was like to suddenly lose someone you cared about deeply. It wasn’t a breakup, but I lost my best friend. My best friend at the time and I would spend every waking moment together. We were video chatting or messaging one another when we weren’t together. We even watched TV together over the phone. One day we weren’t friends anymore. That was the first painful loss I experienced, and I didn’t forget it. Even though I am past it now, it took time, and I knew how hard that could be, so I wanted to support John’s sister in any way I could. I sat there while she cried and listened to her reexamine the relationship repeatedly. I listened to her question whether she did something wrong to cause the relationship to end. I listened to her, wondering if she would ever find someone again. I listened to her asking if she was innately unlovable. I sat and listened.

I sat and listened for months. It seemed to get better at some points, but it was primarily the same narrative over and over and over again. I didn’t mind the repetitiveness at first; I was sympathetic. I would have wanted someone to be there for me while going through something similar. So I sat and listened.

I would tell her that she didn’t do anything wrong. I would say to her that she was going to find someone again. I would say there were so many things to love about her. She may have been listening, but it didn’t matter unless she knew those things for herself. I knew that all too well.

I began to notice a pattern. I was right when I suspected I could tell her hundreds of times that she didn’t do anything wrong, she would find someone else, and she was lovable, but she didn’t believe it. Not only did she not believe it, but I wasn’t sure she wanted to. 

Thank you for revealing to me the true nature of relationships. All relationships are perfect mirrors, reflecting where we have room to grow.

The more time I spent at John’s house with his sister, the more I noticed John. He was cute, and I suspected he might also have a crush on me. John had shoulder-length brown hair and soft hazel eyes. He only had one dimple that appeared every time our eyes met. John drove a Mustang Shelby GT-500, which I convinced him to teach me how to drive. Our relationship developed slowly and quickly (COVID created a strange time vortex). Neither of us had a job then, so we would spend several hours together every other day talking, watching TV, tossing the baseball around, going to the beach, getting coffee, eating, and enjoying one another’s company.

John was closed off at first. The infidelity from his previous relationship left him guarded. His barrier softened over time, and so did mine. John and I were similar and yet complete opposites. He was fiery, passionate, loving, and fiercely protective. He was also assertive, impulsive, hotheaded, and sensitive. I embraced his softer side, which led me to appreciate my vulnerability. Through my relationship with John, I discovered how playful and silly I was. This surprised me because, historically, I took everything so seriously. I fell in love with my playfulness and other unearthed dimensions of myself. I honestly never loved anyone the way that I loved John. He truly saw the seen and unseen aspects of me.

I have only been in a couple of relationships. I don’t have many dealbreakers other than the obvious ones, i.e., no abusers of any kind, dishonesty, or harmful people, whether conscious or unconscious… don’t be an asshole, and I am sure things will work themselves out. (Maybe those aren’t obvious, but those are my preferences.) My main dealbreaker is children. I have always wanted to be a mom. If I learned early on that someone didn’t want to have kids, I would be out the door no matter how great they were. About a week in, I told John that I wanted kids by around the time I was thirty. He was twenty at the time and said that was more than okay. I was delightfully surprised. I didn’t notice our four-year age gap much during our relationship, but I knew this was important to state before things got serious.

John and I began our relationship when I was still figuring out what I wanted to do career-wise. I received a serendipitous offer to interview at my current firm. It had taken me years to get to this point, and I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I didn’t necessarily know much about private equity, but I wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity I was fortunate enough to receive in the first place. John was stuck in a similar way I had been for years. I was empathic and remained as patient as possible. 

I saw a future with John; I wanted him to be the father of our children. (As I write this now and our breakup is fresh, I still wish everything could have worked out that way.) The more John struggled with finding a job, the more I saw my vision of our future family and us slipping. I tried to remain supportive and patient. I tried to come up with suggestions and solutions. I ran out of ideas because I had gotten so lucky with finding my job; I didn’t have a formula for him. I didn’t want to tell him what to do. I didn’t know what to say to him, and I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell him anything. Nothing changed. 

There was a fine line between being a supportive girlfriend and becoming someone’s mom. Historically, I have always taken care of other people. I had always taken it a tad too far and cared for them so much that they didn’t know how to take care of me when the time came. A friend once explained this tendency via a metaphor: when hawks create a nest, the male hawk ventures out to gather the materials, and the female hawk puts everything in its place. (Don’t quote me on this; I am far from an ornithologist, let alone a hawk expert.) I am the kind of person to get the materials for the nest and build the nest on my own. This pattern is my responsibility and something I am still working out. It was hard to try not to do everything I could for John. Even though I was out of ideas, I knew we would be in a codependent relationship if I crossed that boundary. I waited. Nothing changed.

While I waited, I experienced an unexpected empathy for my mother. Only while I was waiting did I understand what it must have been like for someone she loved so much to struggle, and there was nothing she could do. All I wanted to do was make things better for him, but I couldn’t. I came to appreciate this about my mom. My mom cared about everyone, from her children to random servers we would never see again. She was endearing and had a soft spot for young black women like my grandmother. My mom strived to make things nicer for everyone around her. Sometimes she would put so much energy into people, and it was either a) not reciprocated or b) she didn’t take enough care of herself. I have the same shadow. I will take care of everyone else before myself when the person that needs that care most is me.

John lived at home, which was okay at first. Who was I to judge? I was living at home when we first met, too. I began noticing how living at home affected him and his mental health. John, his sister, and their parents were all under one roof. When I was at home, my mom reminded me every day that it wasn’t a permanent solution and I needed to figure out my life. My parents never moved back home after they were eighteen. Things are different now; it’s far more acceptable for college kids to move back home to save money. Still, they thought my situation was abnormal, as did I. Additionally, neither of my parents wanted to see my potential wasted. Hence, they encouraged me to be independent by any means necessary. John’s mom was different; if she had it her way at the time, not only would John live there for as long as possible, but also, when we got married, we would move in and have our family there (I’m exaggerating?). (John’s cousins (his mom’s sister’s children) live next door with John’s aunt and uncle. They are both in their late thirties. My Italian friends lived at home with their parents until they got engaged. There is nothing wrong with that because that is the norm in Italian culture and others. It’s just not for me.) I looked around and realized that while I assumed everyone would have to become self-sufficient and move out eventually, that was evidently not the case.

John’s family is full of traditional Italians, and he is also traditional in some ways. I didn’t mind that. What I did mind was that it seemed to stunt his and his sister’s growth. (John’s sister eventually moved out only when she had a long-term boyfriend.) John’s mom is an enigma. The more I think I understand her, the more I realize I don’t. I used to believe that John’s mother’s goal was to keep him there forever. That may have been true, and she only realized that that wouldn’t happen as long as we were in a relationship, so she seemed to get used to the idea. That may have also not been the case; I can’t know for sure. There was a lot of chaos in that house, which I will keep private because while I am open to telling my story, I didn’t ask permission to air their dirty laundry online (which everyone has). I will say that she spoke to the people around her, including her children, in ways I found unsettling. I could have been sensitive because of how my mother talked to me. The way she spoke to John upset him. To make things worse, they seemed to have a codependent relationship that was keeping him there. (I am not a therapist and do not use the word codependent flippantly.) He said it was hard to concentrate on his future while he was in the house. I suggested he move out. He said he needed more money. It was a catch-22.

This was a cycle that recurred for two years. John would want to move out so we could begin our lives together. The dream was alive and well. He rediscovered his love for computer science and taught himself while looking for a job. We knew that that would take time, so we remained patient; there was no rush. I wanted him to be on a path he was passionate about. One day his mom would say something unsettling to him, and he would spiral downward. He would decide he needed to do everything he could to move out. The urgency began. Sometimes John found a temporary job that was a quick fix, didn’t like it, and quit. Sometimes he couldn’t find anything, which was equally, if not more, frustrating for both of us. He found his relationship with his mother distracting; he said that was holding him back. He still had trouble finding a way to move out. He wanted to leave but couldn’t. John and his mom would reconcile. There was less urgency to move out because things were good again. Things would stay calm for a while. Appreciating the peace, we would dream again. John and his mom would get into a fight. Here we go again and again.

I loved John so much. None of this changed how much I adored John or how much he loved me. I believed in our love so much; I would have done anything to keep it. Every time he said he would do everything he could to create the career of his dreams so we could move out and have children somewhere down the line, I was hopeful. The cycle happened one too many times. How much I loved him didn’t seem enough to break him out of the cycle if he was unwilling to find a way out. Slowly it sunk in that he wouldn’t be holding me back from the one thing that mattered the most to me; I was if I allowed it to continue.

I am sorry we didn’t work out as we hoped this time. No matter what happens, please know that I am eternally thankful for how you led me back to the most authentic parts of myself. I found what I cherish so much about myself through you. I wish you all the love and success I know you will have.

I got to know John’s family very well. Seeing his mother, sister, father, and him all interact was one thing. Meeting his cousins and extended family put everything into much greater perspective. There was this pivotal moment when I was having dinner at their house: John and I were sitting at the dinner table directly across from John’s sister’s boyfriend and John’s sister, respectively, with John’s mother at the head of the table. The puzzle fell into place. 

I had never met a mirror like John’s sister. She is the only person I had encountered where when I looked at her, I thought, we are the same. I first suspected we had something in common when she commented on her body in a less-than-positive way. I didn’t think much of it because, sadly, it’s common for women to do that. John’s sister constantly questioned her lovability and, thus, her value. I have continuously questioned and negotiated my value for my entire young adult life. I noticed we had even more profound similarities when I saw how she interacted with the world around her.

Victim consciousness is utterly insidious. When I say someone has “victim consciousness,” I refer to people who refuse to take responsibility for their own lives. I can understand and honor how controversial this is because I am not the first person to address this concept. How much of our lives is within our control v.s. How much is predetermined is a debate that has existed for centuries. You could look at this from a philosophical or religious perspective, questioning nature vs. nurture or predeterminism vs. fate. There is also a more grounded aspect, e.g., how much power do people in marginalized groups have to determine their futures when pervasive systems of oppression constantly work against them? What about children? (People love to bring up babies and children.) Do they choose the unspeakable things that happen to them? I do not have the answers to these questions. I do not have the answers to these questions. While I am here, let me also acknowledge that while I am black, I grew up with a lot of privilege that affords this perspective. Nevertheless, when I see people with so much potential, their only roadblock is themselves, and they refuse to do anything about it, I say they are stuck in victim consciousness.

John, his sister, and I are privileged in many respects. There are no excuses. I didn’t understand what it meant to “hold yourself back.” Why would anyone want to do that? To remain precisely where they are. Years ago, I was listening to a talented, grounded, seasoned, and multidimensionally aware shaman’s podcast. During the episode, he said that if people are stuck, they need to speak to the part of themselves that wants to remain stuck. I remember when I was living with my mom, and she called me out for not getting a job so I could stay at home. Not wanting a job so I could stay at home? What?! Did she have a screw loose? Why would I ever want to stay here with her constantly yelling at me to get a life? I wasn’t insane, after all. On some level, she was right. I was comfortable at home. That was her favorite word, comfortable. I was uncomfortable, too, especially knowing that I was disappointing everyone around me, including myself. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. I may not have thought that consciously, but my actions spoke otherwise. Nothing changed until I was willing to risk my comfortable situation for something that would push me to grow. One night, I cried to my mom about the interactions between John and his mom. I was babbling on about how we needed to help and get him out of there. I stopped mid-breath and realized that, on some level, he wanted to be there.Otherwise, he would have left a long time ago. He liked his space. He liked living in a house. He liked the things his mom did for him (mostly). He liked having someone take care of the unknowns, so he didn’t have to think about it. He wanted to be there. Oh, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I found myself in John and his sister in different ways. John’s sister would constantly complain about certain things in her life and make no effort to change them. That ended our friendship. It was unhealthy and codependent. I am the kind of person that wants to help everyone. Helping people that don’t want to help themselves never works; it’s exhausting and distracting from what needs attention in your own life. I don’t know how she is now, but I only wish her all the success because I know she is more than capable. When I looked at her across the kitchen table as her mom passed around the spaghetti (2), I realized I needed to do everything I could to get my life on track. Otherwise, I condemned myself to the same blame-victim loop as the people surrounding me. I was no different.

I don’t know how much is predetermined and how much is free will. My guess is this: I believe that we have a soul/spirit with specific qualities and questions we come to Earth to explore. I also think all those qualities have a light and a shadow. John’s sister and mom are both powerful women. Just like everything else in nature, they have light and shadow. We may choose the core qualities and visions we want to embody as souls, which may be predetermined before we land earthside. However, light and shadow give us options regarding how we want to express our energy. We choose whether we want to express our light or shadow. Let me emphasize that there is no “right,” “wrong,” “better,” or “worse” choice. It is simply a choice. I have been in my shadow for so much and have learned so much from it. I have learned an innumerable amount of lessons from John’s sister’s, John’s mom’s, John’s, my father’s, and my mother’s shadow. The Shadow is just how I learn. I am sure people have learned from my shadow. This isn’t an excuse to be awful to other people. I wouldn’t appreciate someone saying, “I’m sorry about that. I was just like totally in my shadow at the time.” No. Our shadows exist as vital opposites so that light can exist and vice versa. They don’t need to go away; I don’t think that is possible. We must be aware of and responsible for how our shadows impact others and ourselves.

I love you.

---

(1) Disclaimer: Anything I write about anyone in my essays results from my subjective, human, and imperfect perspective. None of my essays aim to portray anyone negatively; that would be unfair, as this is my side of the story. I do not claim 100% accuracy of anything but my perspective, mainly because I have not had contact with some mentioned people in several years. We all grow and change.

(2) There is another layer to this story (because there are always more layers). While driving with my mom back from Canada, we discussed my cousin’s relationship. My cousin has been in a relationship with a Portuguese man for ten years. I don’t know many Portuguese people, but their family is highly patriarchal, even more so than in Jamaica. My cousin’s boyfriend lives with his parents (as he has his entire life), his brother, his brother’s wife, and their respective children. They are all under one roof. My cousin has tried to get her boyfriend to move out, and he refuses to move anywhere outside a five-mile radius of his mother’s house (I am not kidding). His mom does everything for him and expects his future wife to take care of him like she does now, i.e., take on the role of the mother for her son. My cousin and her boyfriend’s mom get along, but that isn’t who she is.

As I said earlier, there is nothing objectively wrong with this. Every culture has its norms and customs. My mom made it clear that she believes it is far from okay for a man in his late forties to be living with his parents and continuously refuse to move out with his long-term girlfriend. She thinks he is comfortable and has no reason (in his mind) to disrupt his life. This conversation showed me how much freedom and independence, especially for young women, are essential to my mom. My mom and grandmother have done so much to escape the patriarchal systems prevalent in Jamaica. I am not saying America is perfect; however, compared to many countries, we have made so much progress regarding opportunities for women. My mom was worried I was in a similar situation to my cousin. Moreover, she was especially sensitive to this idea because of everything she has been through to ensure her daughters didn’t find themselves in a similar pattern. She worried that I would end up with someone who couldn’t care for themselves and that I would take care of them. When I watched everyone pass the spaghetti around, I realized I was worried about that too. Sitting at the dinner table with John’s family highlighted how much self-sustainability, self-sovereignty, and self-empowerment mean to me. I didn’t know it before because I wasn’t even close to any of those things. I have grown a lot and come into myself more since then. I am not perfect by any means, but I changed a lot from when I first met John. What was okay at one point wasn’t anymore. This is not to say I couldn’t wind up with someone from a historically patriarchal culture, but I do not see myself conforming to its gender norms and expectations.