Lost and Found is our theme this month, and I love it because it works on so many levels. From an early age, we’re taught not to lose anything: keep track of it, keep it in a specific place, and, if you do lose something, retrace your steps until you find it. But the poet Elizabeth Bishop has a different take in her poem “One Art.” She suggests that loss is something we can practice, even master, and that most of what goes missing was never really a disaster.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster

Through this poem, we’re reminded that possessions come and go, and the real art may be in the release. But even though the poem argues for loss, some things are really worth finding or recovering. Because when it comes to our experiences, nothing is truly lost. Maybe lost to memory, or buried deep to protect us, for whatever reason. Almost all of it is worth recovering.

Memories often persist as recurring images or dreams, and deep down we know these are stories waiting to be told. Even if you aren’t a writer or don’t write memoir, you can still benefit from mining your experiences and turning them into life lessons that resonate with others. So what happens when your most powerful memories are hazy at best?

In this post, I’ll walk you through my process: how I wrote a full memoir from journals and artifacts. Everyone has old greeting cards, letters, things you can’t throw away but don’t quite know why you’re keeping. Journals, diplomas, ticket stubs: all of these documents and remnants of our past can be valuable material when viewed with different eyes.

I started my memoir with a journal that had detailed entries from my first year living in Bahrain, in the Persian Gulf. Of course, I had vivid memories of the biggest events, but one entry, from Chennai airport on July 4, 2006, gave me back more than memory alone ever could. Without the journal, I vaguely remembered trouble entering India, some mix-up with my visa. But going back to that entry recovered the details, years later. Here’s what the page actually said, next to what it became once I sat with it.

BEFORE: THE JOURNAL ENTRY

On the page, I sound mostly annoyed, but trying desperately to be positive and solve the problem, eventually calling myself a “victim of bureaucracy.” But as I read more of my journal, I remembered that day differently: hazy details, but surging anger and frustration, and hunger.

What survived was the indignation and the irrational logic of it. What I added later was the crying itself and a line about a firecracker that wasn’t in the journal at all. The chronology stayed exactly as it happened.

AFTER: THE SCENE IN THE MANUSCRIPT

“By this time, I was crying, more angry tears than sad ones. I was simmering in the injustice of it all: wasn’t I there to help? Why was I being treated like a criminal? Even as I said it, or thought it, something felt off. Looking back, it’s as if India itself said, We don’t need your Western goodwill here. Get your paperwork in order like everyone else. I thought of my friends back in the US eating hot dogs and shooting fireworks, and berated myself with the questions I often asked: Why did I have to make my life so difficult? I would rather have a pack of Black Cat firecrackers blow up in my hand, maybe even lose a finger, than be dealing with this shit right now. This was my specialty: to make big, bold moves without thinking them through.”

That firecracker line added so much for me and maybe for the reader, too. Shooting off fireworks, particularly Black Cats, was the ultimate taste of freedom as a kid. We were constantly warned about blowing a finger off or worse, so lighting a whole pack of them was the ultimate risk and reward.

If I hadn’t gone back to the journal, I wouldn’t have this level of detail, or an excuse to sit with those memories of that time, and of my own childhood.

I challenge you to fill out that image, or snippet of the past flashing in your memory, with a dig through artifacts from that time period. Even an old email can give you so many details, or just put you back in that time frame, and motivate you to recover the story. And that story gives you back a little part of yourself you may have forgotten.

If you want more guidance, check out Story Gold: How to Turn Your Journals and Artifacts into Stories Worth Telling, a short workbook/guide I wrote for anyone sitting on old journals, letters, photos, or a box you keep meaning to go through.

Get the PDF for free when you upgrade to a paid tier.
Ten pages, the three solid moves with examples from my own artifacts, and a few try-this prompts to start mining your own material.

You can access the story space for free, but a paid subscription adds the memoir excerpts and behind-the-scenes material you won’t find on the free side. Membership now also includes a monthly webinar, and this month’s is built around Story Gold: an hour walking through the mining process together, live, with your own material. Plus your allotted Story Discovery sessions, 1:1 time to dig into what you find:

• Monthly subscribers: 1 Story Discovery session

• Yearly subscribers: 3 Story Discovery sessions

• Founding members: 6 Story Discovery sessions

And Story Brunch, our last-Sunday gathering, is now free and open to everyone.

Nothing was ever really lost. It was just waiting for you to look again.

All the Best,

Michelle

I had Marlana on as a guest host for the first time on my live today, and we ended up in two connected conversations. First was witnessing versus performance. There’s a real difference between someone sharing the low points to get to the high point, letting themselves be seen, and someone performing trauma because they know it gets attention. You can feel it on the page. Writers who are genuine read differently than writers who are chasing a reaction, even when the subject matter looks the same from the outside. I think witnessing is one of the most undervalued things about this whole space; it heals people faster than we give it credit for.

The second thing was followers versus writing community, which is basically the whole reason Story Space exists. I don’t want a pile of people who read a note here and there. I want the ten or so who actually show up, who comment, who challenge how I’m thinking about something. Followers don’t do much for you on Substack; a real community does. It’s slower to build and asks more of people, especially post-COVID, when everyone’s been trained toward distance rather than intimacy. But that’s the whole point. If you build the thing you actually need, the right people find their way in.

Also, both of us do readings and give some pretty solid tips for noobs in online writing.

I appreciate the viewers and supporters! Check out my upcoming live session with on July 8th, 2 pm Pacific time.

Thank you for reading and supporting me! Check out The Story Space if you want more support and ideas, or just to be part of a community of storytellers, or read my previous post on how I amped up the opening scene of my memoir.

Story Brunch is Saturday, July 25th, our last gathering of the month. And if you want one-on-one guidance, ask about a Story Discovery session, a perk for paid subscribers.

If you would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee or upgrade to a paid plan.

All the best,

michelle

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The muse and all her romanticism are nice ideas, but most of my breakthroughs come from work, not inspiration. That’s part of why I’m sharing this process, using my own memoir as the example. By making it transparent, I’m hoping you’ll find the pattern, the moment, the breakthrough, in your own material.

This continues from Bashing Through Boundaries, where I explore an excerpt from my memoir, the narrator’s first real pushback, a cultural conflict encountered in a Bahraini souk.

The first draft focused on a veiled woman walking behind her husband, and the narrator’s visceral reaction, which carried the conflict. But an interior layer of something more personal lurked beneath, something I knew was there and couldn’t yet name.

So I went back to my journal, to the pictures, and tried to remember, to reclaim what was bubbling beneath the scene.

In this post, I’ll walk through that process, one anyone can use to mine their memories to inject more tension and create a deeper, more complex version of the moment.

The Excerpt

Chapter two actually starts on a bus, on the way to the souk.

A small minivan arrived at my building to collect my new colleagues and me. About ten of us packed into the van, the awkwardness as thick as the heat. Even with the AC blasting, it felt like we were in an oven. The blond woman beside me introduced herself as Cheryl and asked where I was from.

“I’m from the US but most recently lived in Quito, Ecuador. What about you? Are you Australian?” I thought I probably nailed her accent. (She gets the accent wrong, awkward moment ensues…)

I turned my attention to the window, where the soft afterglow of sunset exposed my new life, and it was shockingly different. Instead of the lush landscapes of Quito, I viewed scrub-like desert, not even the pretty shifting sands I had imagined, and nondescript buildings, blending in different shades of brown.

Sweat beaded on my upper lip; panic and regret arrested my breath. What had I done? I scanned the landscape, just a splash of color would feel hopeful. Then, as we turned a corner, the sea came into full view, calm blue blending into the soft hues of the fading twilight. The Arabian Sea, which cradled this tiny island, was never too far from view. I cast my gaze out like a fishing line and anchored it on the horizon for the rest of the ride to the souk.

At the start of the chapter, I wanted to reinforce the narrator’s fear and isolation through the awkward introduction to her coworkers, how she mistook the accent, and the gut punch of the scrubby desert that was now her home. Once she arrives at the souk and sees the veiled woman, the external conflict intensifies her fear and confusion.

But I still needed a way to link it back to where she actually was internally, to show the stakes and how high they were at this moment in her journey.

I didn’t find this layer until I went back to my journal and found that version of myself, one who was sitting alone in a coffee shop, shisha smoke drifting around her, trying to work something out I wouldn’t fully understand for another twenty years.

Behind the paywall:

• The recovered coffee shop scene, the flashback to Ecuador, Gaby, and the panic attacks that shaped how she saw the souk

• The three moves I used to find and structure this layer

• A short list of memoirs and craft books if you want to go deeper

If you want more craft insights, check out my previous post on how I amped up the opening scene of my memoir.

Read more

I’m excited to share excerpts from the final draft of my memoir as part of my month-long series exploring conflict and pushback. Today, we explore boundaries: how they can both protect and limit us. As you read, I invite you to consider the boundaries in your life, how you respond to them, or how they have changed over the years.

This chapter covers what may be the most memorable moment of my first weeks in Bahrain: the first time I visited a souk and came face to face with the conservative culture I had just moved into.

Even now, more than twenty years later, I can still see the bright colors of the textiles and smell the grilled meats wafting through the air. But the heart of the chapter goes deeper than a market, or even the anxiety of making sure my shoulders were covered.

I was coming to a realization: I had moved to a country with boundaries I couldn’t bash through. Part of me thought, great, I’ll finally have to rein in the crazy. The other part thought, just let them try and stop me. But that day I witnessed all the lines drawn around me, especially as a woman. 

I watched a woman navigate the souk in a full burqa, trailing a few steps behind her husband. I had so many questions. Was the veil her choice? What did it protect her from? And then, almost against my will, I flipped it: what might she wonder about me? Why is she exposing herself like that? Doesn’t she want to be free of the stares?

She was trading her freedom for security and cultural acceptance, or at least that’s what I imagined. I also suspect she looked at me and thought: she is trading her honor for freedom.

I separated from my group and ended up in a segregated coffee shop; men near the entrance, women with their families toward the back. I remember thinking, even as I resisted it: I can see how walls like this work. How people rely on them to buffer their lives or stay in their proper lanes. I could keep to my lane, stay in the lines, right?

Twenty-some years later, I’m writing this chapter into a memoir and sitting with the version of myself who was already scoping the alleys for bars before she’d even finished her coffee.

I don't judge her. But I look back at that version of myself and wonder why she had to make her life so hard. And then I turn it around and wonder what staying inside the lines has done for me. Am I better off now, married, a kid, living comfortably in the suburbs?

That’s an impossible question to answer. Because I’m two different people. What I needed then isn’t what I need now.

Twenty years and a memoir later, I’m not sure I have the answers now either. Somewhere along the way, I learned that questions are just part of paying attention, not a problem to solve.

Enjoy the reading! I will include a longer excerpt next week, along with deeper insights into the craft, and specific ways to amp up the conflict in your stories. Find the links to previous chapters and related content below.

Chapter 2: Various Levels of Coverage (excerpt)

I turned my attention to the window, where the soft afterglow of sunset exposed my new life—it was shockingly different. Instead of the lush landscapes of Quito, I viewed scrub-like desert, not even the pretty shifting sands I had imagined, and nondescript buildings, which blended in different shades of brown.

Sweat beaded on my upper lip; panic and regret arrested my breath. What had I done? I scanned the landscape—just a splash of color would feel hopeful. Then, as we turned a corner, the sea came into full view, calm blue blending into the soft hues of the fading twilight. The Arabian Sea, which cradled this tiny island, was never too far from view. I cast my gaze out like a fishing line and anchored it on the horizon for the rest of the ride to the souk…

It was completely dark now, but the fluorescent lights bounced off brightly colored scarves and seemed to spotlight the vendors offering Arabic coffee, inviting us to sit and chat on their plush Persian rugs. The locals were easy to pick out in their pressed robes and head coverings, gesturing and calling out to passersby, luring us into their shops…

I noted the variety of women around me and their levels of coverage. As foreigners, we dressed modestly, covering our shoulders and knees as advised, even in this oven. Some women wore long skirts and blouses with full-body coverage; many had headscarves that matched their outfits, making the hijab feel more like an accessory.

Others dressed in black abayas, the long, robe-like garments worn over clothing, with hijabs tucked neatly in place. And then there were the women like the one trailing a few steps behind her husband, wrapped entirely in a black burka. Even with her veiled face, she navigated the sidewalk but stayed within his shadow.

I had so many questions. Was the veil her choice? What did it conceal, and what did it protect her from? What was she spared by wearing it? But just as I wondered about her, she might have wondered about me. Why is she exposing herself to the world? Does she feel the men’s stares? Wouldn’t she want to be free of them?

I examined the coffee shop, noting the men and women partitioned away from one another. The boundaries here were stricter than anything I had ever experienced, but I could see how they functioned, how people relied on them to buffer interactions. In theory, boundaries could work for me, too. If I could stop myself from bashing right through them.

But even as the thought formed, another voice intruded: You won’t. You never do.

Thank you for reading and being a part of my writing life. I appreciate your support and would love to support you in your writing and storytelling journey. Please join the Story Space for encouragement, community, and the craft behind the stories.

It took me six years to write this memoir, mostly because I was doing it alone. That's why I created the Story Space, and why most of it is free. But if this writing has meant something to you, upgrading to a paid subscription is a way to say so, and a way to get more in return.

Comments, likes, and shares are also as good as gold!

Tell me about your boundaries? Or your thoughts on this chapter? Or just say hello! I read, respond to, and deeply appreciate all comments.

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Read the prologue and the last few posts about the first test passed, and the chapter that took the most tries.

All the best,

Michelle

Happy Saturday! In this post, I walk through how conflict and tension can grab a reader in the first few pages. I’ll use examples from Chapter One of my memoir to show three specific ways I was able to amp up the conflict.

1. Why in media res isn’t always enough

2. How to add layers with your artifacts/journals

3. Why you need friction and how to create it

I draw on my own process and demonstrate with examples from my work, with references to Jeanette Walls and Amy Tan. By the end, you’ll have a specific structure you can use to guide any opening sequence, whether you’re starting a memoir, an essay, or a fiction piece.

Revision is the real writing

When I finished the first draft of my memoir, I was giddy. “I had a book!” Five years of on-and-off writing; scene after scene across the decade I lived in the Middle East. But I quickly realized 80,000 words didn't equal a book. I needed an actual story; one with conflict and tension at its center.

Over the next year, I actually wrote the memoir. A developmental edit from a trusted friend and fellow author helped me find the story arc. From there, I revised hard; I cut 20,000 words and added another 10,000, building the arc around a tighter story with clearer internal and external conflict at its center.

For this post, I focus on the opening chapter and how I wrote draft after draft until I finally got it right.

If you haven’t read Chapter One yet, start there, or you can find the opening in this free post, First Test Passed. But I’ll include quotes so you can follow along either way.

Chapter One Blues

The original opening of my memoir started exactly where the story started: me telling my mom I was moving to the Middle East in 2003, when the second Gulf War was beginning. I thought this bit of tense dialogue was engaging and universal. Every reader has had to break hard news to their family. Relatable, right?

The rest of the chapter showed scenes in Kansas City, me telling more people I was leaving, their reactions, a plane, and finally landing in Bahrain. In my mind, I was giving background by showing rather than telling. The problem was that it just wasn’t enough. Not enough action or pull.

So I cut the whole scene and started fresh, arriving in Bahrain late at night. I immediately knew it was better. The perfect in media res opening. But as feedback came in and I sat with it, I realized it still wasn’t enough tension.

The arrival was vivid and immediate, but it was one-dimensional: I had written a character arriving without the hints and nuance that suggest doubt, fear regret.

That’s the difference between a scene and a story conflict.

This is a paid post. Upgrade for access to all craft posts, memoir chapters, and a one-on-one Story Discovery session.

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Most of you know I’m a recovering high school English teacher, but I actually went back to work recently as a substitute. In some ways, it was lovely to be back with students; even the way they sized me up felt like more real communication than I get most days. Yesterday I taught 6th-grade math in a special education classroom. The students told me I was “chill.”

I also wrapped up my second-to-last MFA semester and prepared submissions for our July residency. My memoir is in production, and I should see the interior layout and completed wraparound cover in the next week or so.

I’ve been busy on Substack as well. I did four live sessions with and ; honored guests who shared their own living, noticing, and why it all matters. In the story space, we explored lyric writing: the style, structure, why, and how. And we had our first Story Brunch on Sunday, May 31st, a gathering to write, share, and celebrate our work.

In June, we’re exploring conflict and push-back; why both are essential to our stories. I’m starting with an excerpt from my memoir, posted below, with the option to read the full chapter as a paid subscriber. My next post will share the many evolutions of chapter one: how and why I ended up with this opening.

This is the opening page from Lesson (Un)Planned: A Decade of Teaching, Travel, and Transformation; the moment I stepped off the plane in Bahrain, when the thick desert air and unfamiliar sounds made clear I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I’ve also included the heading for Part One, the “unit,” my nod to the teaching thread running through the book. I think it adds another layer of tension and conflict. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

You can read the prologue here if you want to start from the beginning.

Chapter 1: Reinvention

The smell of jet fuel and sound of whirring engines woke me from my stupor as I looked into the darkness at my new home: a few lights flickered in the distance like fireflies on soft summer nights in Kansas. I watched bleary-eyed as stairs rolled to the exits, and we stumbled off the plane, buoyed up by the humidity thick in the air. This is the farthest I have ever been from home, and I now live here. This is my new home. I let that sink in as I fished out my passport and headed to customs. It was two in the morning.

In line, I studied the most recent entry, a work visa for Bahrain. I had been obsessively turning to this page throughout the trip, but now I slowly browsed my passport pages, a story for each stamp hastily applied. Here was Nicaragua, missing a corner, and Peru was barely visible, some so smudged I had to squint and think, is that Guatemala or Bolivia? However, my work visa for Bahrain was precise, complete with a raised sticker bearing signatures. All very official, at least I hoped so. I pulled on my sweater as the line moved closer to the customs window; it was freezing in here.

The official smiled as I stepped up; he greeted me with the customary “a salam alakum.” I had practiced the proper response, but the only thing that came out was a high-pitched “Salam” and a weird wave. He chuckled. “So you are moving here?”

“Yes, I’m a teacher.”

He flipped through my documents. His smile faded. He furrowed his brow, scrutinizing the pages. “Who is your sponsor?”

I blanked. I had spent months on paperwork. Notarized transcripts, apostilles, embassy stamps, fees I could barely afford. I remembered being so impressed by the apostille itself, its intricate seals and raised lettering, which made my degrees more official. But I wasn’t even sure who technically sponsored me. The school? The director? Some bureaucrat in the Ministry of Education? I fumbled through my folder, papers slipping, until I found the letter with the official name.

He glanced at it, nodded, and his face relaxed. He stamped my passport and handed it back. “Mabrook.”

“Shakrun,” I managed. Mabrook must mean congrats. But at least I remembered how to say thank you.

First test passed. How many more were coming?

The full chapter is available to paid subscribers → [link]

I would love to hear from you about a big change in your life that you probably weren’t prepared for.

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All the Best,

Michelle

Here is the full calendar for this month! Look out for details for the write-in and live sessions.

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Writing as Emotional Release

• Writing gives form to emotions that feel too chaotic to express any other way. Chris described reaching for journaling at 3am in the hospital because it was the one thing that helped him vocalize what he couldn’t otherwise say.

• Revisiting difficult experiences through writing helps you understand them more fully, often revealing things you didn’t know you were carrying. Chris discovered the depth of his PTSD only after writing about it.

Living Life Twice

• The Anaïs Nin quote that opened the session frames the whole conversation: writers return to experience through the page and find meaning they couldn’t access in the moment.

• Circling the same experience across different forms, poems, then prose, then again, is not repetition but deepening.

Poetry vs. Prose

• Poetry compresses; prose expands. Chris found that writing in longer form allowed him to be more descriptive and to trace the full arc of Brayden’s story in a way his poems couldn’t.

• The two forms feed each other. The poems were the raw material; the memoir piece was the synthesis.

Authenticity Over Audience

• Write for an audience of one first. Metrics and readership are secondary to honesty on the page.

• Discomfort is a signal, not a stop sign. If it makes you uncomfortable to share, that is usually where the real material is.

Permission to Feel

• Caregivers and writers often mistake perfectionism for strength. Giving yourself permission to break down is not a weakness. It is what allows you to come back.

• “Don’t mistake our strength for obligation.” Stepping in isn’t the same as wanting to.

Craft Tips

• Read your work aloud once right after writing, then again a few days later. If it still hits, you have got something.

• You don’t have to publish everything you write. The emotional release has value in itself.

• Dig until you hit bone. You’ll know when you’re there.

The Underrepresented Caregiver Voice

• Caregiving is largely absent from literary writing, in part because caregivers are too overwhelmed to write. That is exactly why those who can should.

• The sandwich generation, people caring for both children and aging parents, is a vast and underserved readership hungry to feel seen.

On Community and Publication

• Writing needs a reader to complete its purpose. Live sessions and Substack help close that loop.

• Collaboration across forms, poems turned to songs, prose turned to community conversation, extends the reach and life of the work.

Resources

People and Publications

• Jeannie Ewing — I Grow Strong Again on Substack

• Becca Roth — singer-songwriter on Substack who turned Chris’s poem “604 Daydreams” into an original song

• Hi-Fi Amateur — Substacker who set Chris’s poem “Alpenglow” to music

• Zoe (I Grow) — creates art poems where the words are shaped visually

• The Alchemist’s Cabin — Substack publication accepting Chris’s three-poem pack for publication at the end of July/early August

Events

• Write Doe Bay — writing retreat that Michelle and Joe attended together

Chris’s Work

• There is Grace in the Breaking — guest essay published on I Grow Strong Again

• Last Rites — poem read during the session

• Above Water — poem read during the session, accepted for publication

Find Chris and Michelle

• Chris’s Substack: Chris B. Writes

• States of Matter — Michelle’s Substack

• Michelle’s memoir Lessons Unplanned — releasing September 2026

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Thank you for listening, reading, and being with us!

All the best,

Michelle and Chris

Dear Readers and Storytellers,

May has been full.

We worked through images and moments, structure, and the vision behind our stories. We’ve had beautiful conversations with poet Lupita Eyde Tucker and memoirist Lynn J. Broderick about writing in fragments to match your shredded life, and how poetry can distill a moment to its essential truth. If you missed the lives, the recording and resources are in the story space.

This is the final week of our month-long focus on lyric writing, so we’re tying it all together and having a celebration.

Wednesday — a new craft post for paid subscribers: Who Cares About the Tamale? The final stage of the month’s work: how a personal story reaches someone who wasn’t there, and why your weird, specific detail is the most relatable.

Thursday — I’m going live with Chris B. Writes. More details soon.

Sunday — the first Story Brunch. A new monthly gathering for paid subscribers: a short generative sprint, readings, and a recap of the month. This month, we have special readings from our live guests: Lynn J. Broderick, Lupita Eyde Tucker, and Chris B. Writes. Last Sunday of every month. Come hungry.

A few years into teaching, a student named George started sneaking into my classroom on his lunch break to write. He was working on a first-hand account of his friend’s death due to gun violence, and he told me he could only write about it in my classroom. My contribution was to teach, yes, but more than anything, I created a safe space for him to be with his thoughts and write them down.

He finished seventeen pages.

I want to provide what George had: space to think, write, and be supported. Read his story here →

Now I want to know yours.

What’s the story you keep meaning to write? The image that flashes when you close your eyes, or the memory that is waiting to spill onto the page.

Tell me in the comments. One sentence is enough.

I’m asking because next month we’re going to work with real material from this community as our curriculum.

Not a paid subscriber yet? This is a good week. A craft post, a live, and a Sunday gathering — all in the next six days.

This week only, the first five new paid subscribers get a complimentary Story Discovery session — one-on-one, just you and your material. Valued at $50. Come find your gold.

Become a paid subscriber

If you’re new here, check out this welcome post, or browse craft essays, memoir, and the story space. My memoir is forthcoming in September 2026.

Thank you to subscribers, new and old. I’m so grateful for your support and, of course, your stories.

Mimosas optional. Maybe I’ll see you at the Story Brunch.

Best Wishes,

Michelle Ray

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Show Notes: A Conversation with Poet Lupe Eide Tucker

In this live session, I sat down with my longtime friend and award-winning poet Lupe Eide Tucker to talk about poetry: how it begins, why it matters, and why it’s more accessible than most of us think.

Lupe is a poet, educator, and translator based in Florida. She holds an MFA, has been published in journals including Third Coast, and was mentored by Maggie Smith through the AWP Mentorship Program. She also translated Venezuelan poet Oriette D’Angelo’s collection A Homeland of Swarms.

All the resources below are such a treasure!

Resources Mentioned

Programs & Communities

• AWP Mentor-Mentee Program — A matchmaking program pairing emerging writers with established mentors for a structured three-month experience. Open to writers at any stage. (awpwriter.org)

• Diverse (diversepoets.com) — An online poetry community that posts prompts twice a week. A great low-stakes place to start writing and sharing.

• O-Miami — A Miami-based poetry festival and creative writing community.

• The Binders — A Facebook community for writers that normalizes rejection by celebrating 100 rejections a year as a goal.

Podcasts & Shows

• The Slowdown — A daily poetry podcast started by former U.S. Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith. Past hosts include Maggie Smith. Each episode features a curated poem with a brief reflection.

• Poetry in America — A PBS series now in its fifth season. Each 30-minute episode offers a close reading of one poem, featuring a range of guests and cultural figures. Also has a Substack called Along These Lines.

• On Being with Krista Tippett — Lupe credits a 2013 episode featuring poet Marie Howe as the moment that brought her back to writing after fifteen years away.

Websites

• American Academy of Poets (poets.org) — Offers a Poem-a-Day feature publishing contemporary poetry from living poets. Also, a great place to explore prose poems and hybrid forms.

• Poetry Foundation (poetryfoundation.org) — Another excellent resource for discovering prose poems and learning about poetic forms.

Books & Authors to Read

• Ross Gay — Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. Lupe’s top recommendation for accessible, gorgeous, everyday poetry.

• Dorianne Laux — Imagistic, lyrical poetry. Recently nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

• Marie Howe — The Good Thief. Lupe calls her a must-read.

• Maggie Smith — Poet and memoirist. (You Could Make This Place Beautiful — Michelle is currently reading her memoir.)

• Gregory Pardlo — Poet and memoirist. Lupe quotes his definition of voice: “Voice is choice”—the accumulation of decisions a writer makes about diction, imagery, and line.

• Adolfo Bécquer — The Spanish Romantic poet whose lines Lupe transcribed as a student in Ecuador, sparking her love of poetic musicality.

• Mario Benedetti — Uruguayan poet, also read during Lupe’s schooling in Ecuador.

• Jean Toomer — Harlem Renaissance writer whose prose poems Lupe especially loves.

• Eleni Vakalo — Greek poet whose line “it’s your breath that freezes around the moon” became the seed of Lupe’s poem Ode to the Sugar Ants.

• Oriette D’Angelo — Venezuelan poet whose collection A Homeland of Swarms was translated by Lupe. Rich in prose poetry.

• Kevin Young (ed.) — An anthology of African-American poetry spanning the 1800s to the present, featuring poets including Rita Dove, Langston Hughes, and Jean Toomer.

Poetic Forms Discussed

• American Sentences — A 17-syllable single-line form, a contemporary riff on the haiku. A great bridge from prose to poetry.

• Ekphrastic poetry — Poetry written in response to a work of art (visual, musical, dramatic, or literary). Example: Rilke’s Archaic Torso of Apollo.

• Prose poetry — Poetry written without line breaks, in paragraph form. Lupe recommends exploring this form, especially for prose writers curious about poetry.

• Triptych — A poem or piece structured in three movements, as in Lupe’s Triptych of Dayphilia Disowned, also published in Third Coast.

Books on Craft & Creativity

• Julia Cameron — The Artist’s Way. Introduced Lupe to morning pages and the practice of identifying and releasing internal censors.

• Rick Rubin — The Creative Act. On writing for yourself as the first audience and lowering the stakes.

• Elizabeth Gilbert — Big Magic. On creative channeling and remaining open to ideas before they move on.

• Maggie Smith — You Could Make This Place Beautiful (memoir).

Where to Find Lupe

• Website: notenoughpoetry.com

• Published in: Third Coast (Western Michigan University)

• Also on Substack (focused on her work as an educator supporting homeschooling families)

• Search: Lupe Eide Tucker

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“Someone kicked my ass. Can I talk about that?”

Yes, yes, we can, Lynn.

On Friday, I sat down with Lynn Broderick of Writing Unfiltered, but I didn’t want to interview her. Because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about curation, and how writers (okay, mostly me) plan, edit, and revise like a carpenter with sandpaper, too eager to smooth out the edges. I didn’t want to sand down the conversation. Partly, I wanted to honor Lynn’s Substack vibe, Writing Unfiltered, and partly because of our writing focus this month: the lyric essay.

Over the past few weeks in the Story Space community, we’ve been talking about personal writing in a fragmented form, a structure that mimics memory rather than the familiar three-part structure. We’ve focused on how we can tell our stories, but in this conversation, we stumbled into some pretty solid reasons why to write your story.

Maybe the format helped; instead of prepping questions, I came up with six topics: identity, self-help, kicking ass, falling apart, body time, and write-or-bust. Then I rolled a die and let the number decide what we talked about, no chance of a predetermined arc.

I rolled, and we landed on sugar addiction, yoga, grief, getting beaten up because of a cornfield indiscretion, and how showering is optional on deadline days. I rolled a four three times in a row, but the conversation still found its own rhythm and coherence. We kept coming back to what mattered most: writing, family, and the cost of both.

The Why

And we eventually landed on the why.

Why do we excavate these memories in the first place? Why do we dig through the hard stuff–the grief, the body we’ve misunderstood–or revisit the past selves we would rather forget? And what does turning it into a story do for us?

Lynn didn’t set out to write about her mother’s death in fragments. She had been keeping notes all year, searching her app for the word “mom,” and when the time came to write about her mother’s final days, she just stitched them together. The form of the post was created in pieces across moments of her mother’s decline, and it matched the shape of Lynn’s life when her mother was gone.

“I didn’t really say to myself, hey, why am I doing this versus my normal way,” she told me. “It was just a different technique.”

That’s the thing about writing that comes from real life. The structure isn’t always a craft decision. Sometimes it’s just the shape the experience left you in.

The Keeper of Stories

But Lynn’s motivation wasn’t primarily about readers or subscribers. It was about her son.

“I want my son to have these stories,” she said. “I don’t think you realize when you’re young that your parents have stories. And later on it gets to be too late, and they’re gone, and you’re like, shoot, I should have asked more questions.”

Lynn called her mother the keeper of all stories, who remembered every embarrassing detail, every childhood moment, every name and date. But toward the end, when Lynn tried to ask her about the past, her mother said only, “I don’t remember.” That was a long time ago.

So Lynn writes for the keeper of stories, so her son can know his grandmother and his mother, and because she is the keeper now.

I suspect some of us are answering this higher calling to write, so our stories don’t slip into the void because stories are lineage, a thread that links families, people across generations.

What It Costs

We rolled a six, the writing-or-bust number, and shared what writing costs, namely time, presence, and the ability to shower on deadline day. That last one made me laugh because I know it. On the days I was deep in my memoir, I got up at four in the morning, and my husband would find me in the same chair three hours later.

Writing my memoir required me to return to a decade I had already lived through once (and barely survived). The deeper I got, the more it pulled me under. There were days it felt like a hole I kept falling into, no visible bottom, just perpetual descent. It cost me time with my family. It cost me personal security. It cost me the version of myself that felt steady and present.

There had to be a bottom. Eventually, I hit it.

And Lynn said something that describes it perfectly: “Any nonfiction writer that’s really digging into their own story — it costs you security. It costs you pain. A lot of things are going to bubble up.”

But when you come out the other side, you’ve processed something. You’ve made meaning out of what happened, not for you but for whoever reads the words. In my memoir, I wanted women to know they have more choices than they think, and that even when they screw up, it’s still worth taking a risk.

We write because the stories will disappear if we don’t; because the people we love are getting older, and we are too. We write because our bodies taught us something the hard way, and we’re still trying to understand it. We write because something broke us open, and we need to know what was inside.

The form follows meaning, and the why comes first.

Watch the live. Roll the dice and tell me about your why.

Lynn Broderick writes at Writing Unfiltered on Substack. Go find her there.

The why is our focus this week. What’s your why? I’d love to hear it in the comments.

Leave a comment

Also, hank you , , and many others for tuning into my live video with !

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This week, we crossed 600 subscribers! A humbling milestone that makes me want to write more and work harder to build something worthy of your time here.

Some of you are here to read, and one of my recently published essays is linked below: Green Sky, a piece that means a lot to me, not just because it found a home in print, but because it brings together two powerful forces from my childhood: storms and punishment. I hope it stays with you.

Some of you are here for The Story Place, our new writing community within States of Matter, A shared practice of showing up, paying attention, and shaping your experiences into a story. The month of May is dedicated to telling stories as they emerge, sometimes in fragments or images, and to learning to capture those images to create compelling moments.

If you’re new here or haven’t yet explored the Start Here index, I invite you to look around.

I’ve been a teacher for most of my life. One thing I miss when I’m not in a classroom is that palpable energy, the particular excitement of learning something together, in real time, with other people. That’s what I’m trying to recreate here.

I would love to see you at a live session, a write-in, or even just in an email. However you want to show up, I’m glad you’re here.

What’s coming up this week

Two ways to show up and write this week, both through The Story Place:

Write-in — Wednesday, 6–7pm PDT — free & open to all. An open hour with prompts and company. Show up, write, be accountable. No pressure, just space to get something down alongside others. Want to join? Send me a DM or reply to this post, and I’ll send you the link directly. Space is intentionally small.

The Story Place Live — with Lynn J. Broderick (TBA) Lynn writes Writing {unfiltered} — memoir-driven stories and unfiltered reflections from a former ad exec with a lot to say. She’ll be joining me to talk about how she uses fragments in her posts to create emotional resonance. Date and time TBA — follow Lynn on Substack (substack.com/@lynnjbroderick) and watch this space for the time.

Worth revisiting

Last week, we held our first Story Place live session featuring 60-second image sprints, a little Lidia Yuknavitch, and a lot of dogs almost barking in the background. If you missed it, here’s what we covered and what still applies:

The image sprint 60 seconds. One image, such as a smell, a sound, or something you saw out the window. Don’t think about where it’s going. Just get it down. You can do this right now, in your notes app, before you finish reading this post.

What lyric writing actually is, not concerned with narrative. No beginning, middle, or end required. It starts wherever the memory starts, in the middle, in a flash, in a single sensory detail. As Lidia Yuknavitch puts it, life is “a series of fragments and repetitions and pattern formations.” Good writing can mirror that.

Writers worth reading in this style: Lidia Yuknavitch, The Chronology of Water. Ross Gay, The Book of Delights. Maggie Nelson, Bluets. Each one demonstrates accumulation, proximity, and trusting the reader.

When the fragmented style really works

This week, we go deeper.

Fragmented, lyric writing isn’t just a style; it’s a structure, or maybe a structured suggestion. It says: this meaning cannot fit inside a tidy sequence. A few of the best cases:

When memory doesn’t arrive in order, trauma, grief, and deep childhood memory rarely show up as a story with a beginning and end. The fragment mirrors the way the mind actually holds those moments, in flashes, in sensation, in repetition.

When an image carries more than an explanation ever could, some things lose their power the moment you explain them. A chore chart on a kitchen wall. The sky is going green. Let the image do the work, and trust your reader to arrive at meaning on their own.

When two things can’t be named together, but must be felt together, proximity is its own argument. Place a storm beside a childhood and let the reader feel the connection before they can explain it. The fragment withholds the “because,” and that withholding is the whole point. Trust that the reader can find their way through your image to the other side, just knowing and feeling, rather than being told.

My Sample Writing: Green Sky

Published in Beyond Words Magazine, Issue 63, May 2026,

Notice what it does, and what it doesn’t do.

The sky goes green. Light drains from the fields, leaving the wheat in a hush, each blade leaning in the same direction as if listening. The clouds settle into heavy shelves, dark on dark, and the wind slips along the house like a hand feeling for a pulse. One low rumble moves across the horizon. Slow. Certain.

You felt that shift when you were young, before you understood that the weather was dangerous. In your family, a chore chart grows from the kitchen wall. Clean, rake, mow, sit still. Maybe that day you didn’t obey. You don’t remember why exactly. The offense didn’t matter; the fear arrived before it did.

What to consider: The storm and the violence are never named as related. So what connects them? Do you think it works? Where is the moment the essay turns?

Writing prompts

Give yourself 5 to 10 minutes. The goal is to practice the pivot, the moment when the physical world and the interior world meet without explanation.

Prompt 1 — Weather and the body. Describe a specific kind of weather in physical, sensory detail: the light, the smell, the sound, the texture. Then, without explanation or transition, move to a memory that lives in the same part of your body. Let one hinge line carry you across.

Prompt 2 — The object on the wall. Pick a single object from a childhood home. Something ordinary that held a rule or a routine. Describe it in close physical detail. Then write a few lines about what that object meant in the body, not what it meant in your mind, but how it felt to be near it.

Prompt 3 — Fear that arrived early. Write about a time the fear came before the event. Start in the physical: what did your body notice first? Sound, light, temperature, and the quality of the air? Build the atmosphere slowly. Then shift, with one sentence, into the human world.

You don’t have to explain everything. You just have to put two true things side by side and trust the space between them.

See you on Wednesday.

— Michelle

Optional homework: close reading

The piece opens simply: “Today, as I was walking down Foothill Boulevard to do laundry.” That’s it. That’s the whole setup. Find “Hummingbirds” in Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights and read what follows. It’s short; read it a few times.

Then ask yourself:

Where are the images? Which words surprise you, and which feel exactly right? How do you feel at the end, not what you think, how you feel, and which specific words or images got you there?

Bring your notes to the write-in, or drop them in the comments.

The write-in is free and always will be. But if you're ready to go further, paid subscribers get monthly Zoom sessions for real feedback and sharing, plus 1-on-1 Story Discovery calls. Read more about what that looks like here, and check out a live Story Discover call here.

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A personal story is more than just a memoir or an anecdote; it’s a way for you to draw out universal meaning from your life and connect to your readers or listeners or just more deeply with yourself.

I realized this as a teacher when my students would try to trick me into telling stories; instead of whatever the lesson of the day was, they wanted their teacher, not just a learning target. A story always trumps a fact or lesson.

But, I also understand, as a memoirist, that stories can be difficult to excavate because we don’t think they have value, or they remind us of something we would rather forget. By bringing that story to light, you not only help yourself process and change the narrative but also help others identify. We are all humans with universal stories, after all.

So, I’m expanding my Substack, the states of matter, to include a writing/storytelling community I’m calling the story space. Every Monday, I will go live with a story, an idea, a technique, or just a conversation that will help you discover your story—and how to use it to connect with the world.

Anyone can access these live sessions. Free subscribers have access to posts that go deeper into the month's subject, paid subscribers have access to 1-on-1 sessions and Zoom feedback.

Subscribe on Substack, or upgrade for the full experience. Find out more here, or drop me a DM.

Check out these resources from the live session:

Ross Gay, excerpts from The Book of Delights

Lydia Yuknavitch, an Interview about writing The Chronology of Water

Maggie Nelson (Bluets), Interview

with gratitude,

Michelle Ray

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As we begin May, I want to make this simple.

States of Matter is growing, but it’s still about one thing:

Claiming your story and using it to build deeper connections.

This month, we’re exploring a form that gives you a little more freedom to begin.

Not everything we’ve lived fits into a clean, linear story.

Most memories don’t surface that way.

They come in flashes, fragments that aren’t fully formed, and call on you to fill in those spaces.

So, we’re writing in a way that allows for that.

There’s a name for it—the lyric essay.

But you don’t need to know anything about it to start.

Here’s how the month in The Story Space will move:

Mondays — Teaching & Exploration
A short post (sometimes written, sometimes video) to help you enter the work.

Wednesdays — Live Write-Ins (Free & Open)
We gather, set a timer, and write together.

No pressure, it’s just a place to begin.

End of Month — Live Gathering (Paid Tier)
A space to read, reflect, recognize, and celebrate what you’ve created.

I also want to share why I’ve chosen to expand States of Matter in this way.

It took me six years to complete my memoir.

In that time, I took classes, worked with coaches, and I’m currently finishing my MFA in Creative Nonfiction (December 2026). All of that sharpened my understanding of craft.

But what I really needed—and what finally made the difference—was time, commitment, and community.

A place to keep showing up.
A way to stay with the work.
And people who could meet me there.

That’s what I’m creating here.

Most of you are here because States of Matter has sparked something in you—
a desire to know more about your own history,
or an inkling to trace the transitions and moments that have shaped your life.

On Monday, I’ll share the first exploration: a simple way into this kind of writing, and a way to begin without needing to “figure it out” first.

If you’ve ever felt stuck trying to get something right, or silenced before you even begin.
I think it will spark an opening.

If you find yourself wanting more structure or a space to share and shape what you’re writing, that’s what the paid tier is there for, including the option to work together one-on-one.

I recently shared a live Story Discovery session, if you’re curious what that process looks like.

If you want to write, come to the write-ins.

If you want help shaping what you find, that’s what the deeper work is for.

Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

If you’re not sure where to begin, or just want more information about the new offerings, check out this post and the about page.

Drop questions/ideas in the comments or direct message, I would love to hear from you. See you at the write-in on Wednesday, can’t wait to see what you are working on.

Leave a comment

With gratitude,
Michelle

States of Matter

ps. Please share this opportunity, this community, with anyone who might benefit!

Share states of matter

This video is a demo of a Story Discovery session, a one-on-one video call that helps you dig into your history to find your story.

What can you do with your story?

More than you think, it’s not just about writing a memoir or examining your past for endless reflections; it’s really about learning how to share your personal experiences to create trust, connection, and even opportunity.

As a free subscriber, you have access to my videos and posts, and next month, we will drill down on what it takes to find and tell your story well. Paid subscribers will unlock free story discovery sessions and access to exclusive group Zoom calls for feedback and to celebrate your work. As David pointed out in this video, finding and telling your story can be a challenge, but it’s always worth it because you not only reclaim your own narrative but also help others understand theirs.

Right now, I’m running a special that lasts until the end of April: a 25% discount on the paid tier. Consider that most coaching sessions run $50-$200 per hour, and with my yearly subscription, you get 4 sessions for less than what you would pay for one hour, plus other perks. I’ve been a teacher for 25 plus years, and I believe in the power of a story and want to help you tell yours.

Drop by the states of matter. Or visit my website to learn more. I would love to hear from you!

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I’m featuring one of my lyric essays in honor of rolling out the new states of matter writing program. This month, the Lyric essay will be the star, and we will learn a few moves to make your lyric essays sing, dance, and con your readers. No, just kidding, that is what this essay is about, though! In my next post, I’ll break down this essay, and you’ll learn a few craft moves to create your own lyric masterpieces. Also, don’t miss my live session tomorrow, where I’ll share more information about what is happening this month.

Summer Con

I always woke up sweaty because there was no AC, and that morning was no different. The insistent hum of the ceiling fan stood out more in the mornings, when everything was still quiet, at least inside the house. Outside, the red-eyed cicadas droned on. I always listened to the layers of sound, maracas shaking over the insistent low buzz, something electric, the entire summer vibrating at two frequencies at once. I guess I slept in because my sister was already gone, and Mom was at work.

I jumped on my bike, maybe I could catch my sister or friends playing pinball at the Kwik Trip. It was mid-morning, but sweat was already sticky on my back as I pedaled over the red brick roads. Some streets had been paved over, but some still had the bricks, just extra friction under the wheels. The heat was already doing its thing, pressing down, squeezing out the smell of cut grass.

As I pulled into the Kwik Trip, I saw the buildup of bikes and thought I recognized one. I didn’t have any money; should I go in? I peeked through the window at the clerk. They thought we stole, and we did sometimes, so I didn’t blame them. Cars hummed by. A waft of donuts floated over from the bakery across the street. I sat on the curb and counted the days left in summer. I was up to 35 when my friend walked out. Chris, a boy I used to like in third grade, was now just a friend. I was always his first girl pick on the playground.

We rode off together. “You want to go to Potter’s Lake?” Only a few blocks away, technically on the university campus, a no-go zone, but I went anyway. The cicadas followed us with that low thrum and the maracas rattling on top.

Potter’s was really a pond, not much bigger than an above-ground swimming pool, but ducks waddled around, and you could wade in a little and see the small fish darting. We dropped rocks and watched them scatter, radiating away faster than the ripple from the drop. The smell of the water, damp bread, warm mud.

“Let’s go to the Union,” Chris said, like it was no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t for him. We tried to ride our bikes, but the campus sits on a hill, and even pushing them up was too hard. So we ditched them behind a bush. I bent a branch back to make room, felt it flex and resist, then let it go.

The sky was wide open up there, no clouds, and a breeze teased through my short hair. We loitered around the game room, slumped around the pinball machines, wishing we had money, checking every payphone and vending machine for loose change. Then we took the stairs to the main floor and leaned against the plate-glass windows. Our domain sprawled out before us. I pointed to the pond, 9th Street, and the bright orange Kwik Trip sign, which now looked so far away. The building hummed at the same low frequency, the city buzzing below the glass.

I noticed a couple of women looking over at us. I lowered my voice, tried to wipe off the smudge I knew we’d left on the glass. Chris’s eyes widened. “One of them is coming over here.”

“Hey, are you kids lost or something? Do you know where your mom is?” I waited for her to laugh or sneer, but she just looked at us with doe-eyed concern. “Um, we’re here alone, but—” before I could finish, she was digging around in her pocket. “Here, take this and call your mom for a ride.”

In that moment, we knew what to do: act dumb, act innocent, act incapable of operating without adult guidance. I blinked puppy eyes. “Thank you. We will call her right away.” And we speed-walked back toward the stairwell.

We hit the door and went fast, bounding down the concrete steps, the plan spilling out between us in half-sentences, our feet echoing off the walls, loud now, nobody to perform for. The exit signs hummed above each landing, the building, and summer tuned to the same frequency. What if everyone thinks we need to call our mom? That was a lot of change for pinball, candy, whatever we wanted.

We scanned the bowling alley for our first real mark. Put on our best helpless faces. “Excuse me, but we are lost and need some change so we can call our mom.” She looked a little confused at first, a head tilt, then the hand dove straight into the purse. They think they know what they’re seeing, so they don’t look closely. We hit a few more people before heading up to the next floor. This time we split up.

By lunchtime, my pockets were bulging.

Chris and I went to the cafeteria and bought pickles, fries, and candy. The money was gone, but the con had registered. Added to my running list of ways to buy freedom: odd jobs, paper route, mowing lawns, now this.

Back home at dusk, the gap between day and dark. The cicadas had shifted and were quieter now, the maracas stilled, just the low hum remaining, the summer’s undertow. I spotted the first firefly. Then another. Small electric seconds blinking on, one pulse at a time.

This essay is the second in a three-part series; the first one is forthcoming in the May issue of Beyond Words.

Of course, invites you to tell us about your naughty childhood adventures. Did you break the rules? Have a gang of kids you rode the streets with? Drop your response below!

I’ll see you Tuesday at 9 am Pacific for the live session, and again on Friday, May 1, for a breakdown of this essay and more about the lyric form, and how to write it.

Dear Readers,

One year ago, I showed up here to tick a box on the way to writing my memoir.

What I found instead is why I’ve stayed: community, generosity, and authenticity. Over the past year, I’ve found myself becoming more vulnerable and wanting to give more, so I decided it was time to fully claim my experiences as a writer and teacher and offer them to you. (I’ve been teaching writing and literature for more than half my life, and I’m kinda old.)

I write to interpret my life and build connections in the world. And I want to help you find your reason to write — and your story.

So I’m going all in.

Here’s what’s included at every level:

Free — Weekly essays, poetry, and memoir pieces. Monthly genre explorations with sample works, lessons, and prompts. A live weekly write-in to keep you writing alongside a community of people who believe their lives are worth excavating.

Monthly Paid — Everything above, plus a craft post each month with an insider perspective from my MFA and my work as a Guernica reader. Each month closes with a Zoom session where we read and workshop our writing together. And one Story Discovery call, a 30-minute one-on-one where we dig into your history and find the story hiding inside it.

Annual Paid (25% off this month) — Everything in monthly, plus a free digital copy of my memoir Lessons (Un)Planned, and The Full Story — a four-session arc where we go deep into your narrative over time.

Founding Member (25% off this month)— Everything in the annual, plus Story Discovery sessions (6) and a signed hard copy of Lessons (Un)Planned, because some stories deserve to be held in your hands.

Here’s how every month works:

The paid tier is where you go deeper into finding your story, understanding how to shape and present it, and learning inside a community of like-minded writers who are doing the same work alongside you.

The next three months:

May — The Lyric Essay: Form as Meaning. The essay that doesn’t move in a straight line, because the best stories rarely do.

June — The Body & Place: Writing What You Inhabited. A place your body knew before your mind did. How to excavate and write about memories from a deeper place.

July — Voice & Distance: Who Is the “I” on the Page? The question underneath everything: who is your narrator, and how close should she stand to what happened?

To celebrate one year with you, I’m offering 25% off an annual paid subscription for a limited time.

If you’ve been reading along and wondering whether to take the next step — this is the moment.

Your story is already there. Let’s find it together.

[→ Claim 25% off — anniversary offer]

With gratitude, Michelle

I’ve always loved spring, yet April is a hard month for me. Several special humans and animals have passed away in this season, so this time of renewal is also a time of reflection for me. This post is one of those reflections. It was originally written in the early Covid days, when it was impossible to visit a loved one in a health facility; video calls were a poor substitute.

In this short lyric essay, I try to convey the frustration of that call and the importance of passing down my Grandmother's memories to my son.

Carmela

These days, it is impossible to visit your grandparents in the retirement home. So you settle for a virtual visit; the nurse has to be there to translate because your grandma won’t wear her hearing aid.

You see your grandmother on the other side of FaceTime, and you don’t really recognize her because she looks so much smaller. You say, “Hi, Grandma! How have you been?” and she looks a little confused until the nurse yells, “She wants to know how you have been!”

You nudge your five-year-old to make sure he is smiling and are surprised when he happily greets her, too.

After you hang up, you stare at the blank screen for a moment. The boy wanders off to play, but you stay there thinking about everything he doesn’t understand yet.

The boy doesn’t understand what it means to be 94, confined to a single room. He doesn’t understand who this Grandma was years ago. You will have to tell him. To share the stories of Carmela, the woman he would have been named after if he had been a girl.

You will tell him, with a pointed side glance towards your husband, that you wanted to name him a boy version, Carmine, but Daddy said no, even though the boy was born with a slight mustache and all that Italian spirit.

You will tell him about your grandmother’s house, the grandma smell that is so hard to describe: lingering cigarette smoke, garlic bread, cleaning products, and dog hair. And that every meal ended with a dessert, served at the table with whipped cream and a spoon. The boy will want to know more. You want to share everything, but memories are jumbled in tight little knots. You will try to work one loose now.

You visited often in the summer, and the air conditioning was always blasting. You didn’t have AC at home, so it felt like a miracle. Like being in a little refrigerator.

Every afternoon, she would drive us to the pool down the street. It was only a few blocks away, but she never wanted to walk or mess up her hair. You watched in awe as the silver bouffant never moved, not even in the wind from the open car window.

You and your sister launched into the pool, but Grandma would inch her way down each step and finally submerge only up to her shoulders. She would do one slow lap of the pool, sidestroke, careful not to get her hair wet, then return to her lounge chair and pick up her Reader’s Digest.

You never had to beg to stay “just 5 more minutes” because Grandma didn’t want to leave until your prune-like fingers finally grabbed her arm and said, “Can we go now?”

The boy says, “Hey, why don’t we have a swimming pool?”

Then you have to tell him another story because the pool wasn’t the point. You tell him that Grandma always had a bowl of candy stashed in the kitchen and always shared, she let you stay up late to watch “Fantasy Island” on Saturday nights, and made you feel so grown-up.

Sometimes, when you were really good, she would give you a few quarters that she kept in the old film containers. You immediately bought Sweet Tarts and Double Bubble.

You tell your son that Carmela always talked to you as if what you said mattered, like it had real weight—the kind that would make a coin sink straight to the bottom of the pool when you tossed it in. You smile, always remembering how important you felt in her kitchen when she asked you to add the pasta to the water or cut the tomatoes for the salad. She never said, “Be careful,” or “Just let me do that” because she knew you could.

The boy smiles and says, “I hope we can go and really visit Grandma soon,” and you know your son means it. You nod and pull him close, this boy who almost carried her name. Because even though she looks smaller now, shrinking in that room, pixelated on a screen, the stories you’re giving him are so much bigger.

The Carmela who drove you to the pool, who handed out quarters like treasure, who made you feel important enough to cut tomatoes in her kitchen, takes up all the space in the world. That’s the one who will never shrink at all.

I’d love to hear about your special memories of a loved one. Or a season or time that always brings them to mind.

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WTF is the conversation?

In the thick of writing my memoir, I started researching the need for a social media platform. I was secretly dreading the response because I’m super Gen X, and I lived abroad for 15 years, so I didn’t even have a smartphone until the early 2010s. Facebook was my idea of being connected.

I heard about Substack at a writing conference when a publisher pointed out that she didn’t care about followers and numbers as much as seeing that the author was “part of the conversation.” At first, this intimidated me because I was like, WTF is the conversation?

But I ended up joining Substack because it kept coming up in that context. I expected something like Facebook or a blog where I would just post and move on. But I quickly discovered a real community of writers.

Posting the Prologue

One of my early posts was the prologue to my memoir. I remember sitting for hours, fussing with the heading and the images before finally posting.

That is still my most popular post, and it taught me that people have an appetite for what I’m writing—an amazing relief and a point of motivation considering I’m about to publish a book.

Only Numbers That Matter

Across my most-read posts, engagement has consistently landed around 15–20%, with strong comment threads.

That’s been more meaningful to me than subscriber growth. It tells me people aren’t just reading, they’re responding. But there was that one…

The Viral Moment

This note got hundreds of likes and brought in just over 100 new subscribers. It was exciting, and dopamine flowed every time I opened Substack.

But, in the end, it was like watching something beautiful in the moment, like a rainbow. It’s lovely, but the steady blue sky and clouds are the reality of my day.

What Actually Mattered

I’ve stumbled into an authentic community of writers and readers who care about the craft of writing and the writers themselves.

Coming from a generation that was distanced by gatekeepers, I have found Substack to be a revelation. To publish and be read, validated, and to read and validate others has taken me to another level of my art.

We don’t need a lot of feedback (numbers), but we do need authentic words that hit at the right moment. This is what Substack has given me.

The Substack Live Era

My Substack Live era started with , who is one of my Substack besties. I’ve appeared on her live show, The Inner Room, several times.

Marlana is one of the best live hosts I’ve seen. She manages to be casual, fun, and relevant at the same time. She draws out her co-hosts and brings viewers into the heart of the conversation.

She also motivated me to start doing my own Substack Lives. I’ve begun a series of interviews with published authors, exploring their road to publication. It’s demystified the process and helped reveal the true value of publishing one’s work.

The People Who Made This Real

Some of the comments and people that have motivated me or simply made me feel seen.

was one of my first Substack connections, and she showed me what true authenticity looks like.

is one of the best poets on Substack and regularly gut-punches me with her insightful verse. I’ve worked with both of these women to create a collaborative post on a subject we all deeply care about.

Labyrinth to Wholeness

Three Women. Three Cultures. One Question: What does it take to be seen?

We thought our lives were nothing alike—yet each of us carried stories about vulnerability, truth, and being seen that we’d once been told to hide…

Read more

a year ago · 36 likes · 16 comments · Ariadne Solis, Michelle Ray, and Nataliya Falevich

has been one of my die-hard supporters. She engages with my posts in a way that makes me feel it was worth the effort to write them.

has been an inspiration in helping me hone my message. He skips the hacks and tricks and teaches the most organic and authentic ways to grow and be seen.

is my favorite travel writer, and we’ve connected many times over the true reason for travel: gaining a deeper understanding of people and the world.

has shown me a stellar example of what memoir can be and has helped me write the hard things. I’m part of her Inner Room community, where I’m learning to open up my heart and catch what spills out.

I value words over numbers (I was never good at math). A few of my favs:

Anjali once wrote:

“I firmly believe that places change you… The places we go, the people we meet, and the experiences we have quite literally shape our lives.”

Emmett wrote:

“A thoughtful pause for you, this beautiful country, and the people. For all of us.”

Marlana reflected:

“Reading your piece made me pause and really think about my own mission here—how I’m showing up, what I’m creating, and why community matters.”

I could write an entire post on the people of Substack and what they’ve taught me. Someday, I will.

Also, a big shout-out to a few of my paid subs

My real-life bestie who has supported me in so many ways, including tutoring me through college algebra ( I got a B!)

The only friend who visited me when I lived in Dubai! Great guy and unconditional supporter.

The most supportive husband and lurker of my posts. I couldn’t do this without you…Substack, baby, Substack.

What Comes Next

Reflection isn’t just about taking a second look at those important moments. It shines a light on why those moments mattered, and even casts that light ahead into the future.

The excitement, validation, and connection are what I see in my Substack future.

I want to thank my subscribers, followers, occasional engagers, and even the lurkers for changing my life for the better.

I get a lot of shit for my Substack screen time. My husband even makes up little songs like “Substack, baby Substack” (to the tune of Love Shack), but honestly, I consider that the biggest compliment.

Substack, baby, Substack.

A little old place where we can get together

What has Substack meant to you? Drop them in the comments.

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George peeked his head into my classroom and asked if I was busy. It was lunchtime, and a student was the last person I expected to see peering in my door. Not really, I said, I ate earlier, just catching up on grading. What’s up? He stepped fully inside and said he’d been thinking about the story he was writing and wanted to add some stuff. Was that okay?

Of course, I told him. I tried to sound normal, as if students always knocked down my door to write on their lunch breaks. George fished his notebook out of the second-period bin and took his usual seat. I asked him a few questions, but I could tell he just wanted to write, so I let him.

This was back when I was Ms. Terry, a second-year teacher ready to take risks. So I tried a writing workshop (I was a Nancy Atwell groupie) During class, I taught mini-lessons, read alongside George and the other students, and conferred one-on-one. Some students loved the freedom. Some didn’t know what to do with it. George launched into something right away, a personal story about his friend’s recent death to gun violence. Over the next few weeks, his visits became a regular thing. A few more lunches, then, after school, he even showed up once during my planning period, pass in hand and itching to write.

I read parts here and there as he drafted. But I wasn’t prepared for the completed piece: seventeen pages, typed, a first-hand account of the scene, his reactions, his grief. At the time, I was impressed, mostly by the effort and commitment he showed in finishing something so difficult. Also, how was I supposed to grade this? It was beyond evaluation, so I focused on the process and asked point-blank how he managed to pin down such a difficult memory. He told me he could only write about it in our classroom, room 205. That there was something about me being there, and the space, that made it okay.

George wrote that in my yearbook at the end of the year, and I’ve never forgotten the words or the moments. I can only hope he hasn’t either. George is in his late forties now, which is hard to believe. What I hope he remembers is the feeling he had when he was writing, that inner voice that told him to push.

My main role in his success that year was to be a witness and provide a safe space. And that has stayed with me across twenty-seven more years of teaching, because it taught me very early in my career what the most important role of a teacher is: presence, empathy, encouragement. All things AI can’t do. Not by a long shot.

I’ve been thinking about it again lately, as the conversation about AI in education gets louder. I know many teachers are using AI to generate feedback, and students are using it to generate essays. Sometimes this saves time, but is it worth what is being lost? The community of writing, which is the thing that made George’s seventeen pages possible.

AI can generate feedback. It can suggest a stronger thesis, point to a weak transition, or offer three alternative openings. What it cannot do is sit next to a student who is writing about his friend’s death and know that what he needs is not advice. It cannot notice the look in a student’s eye mid-draft and know to say nothing, just nod.

That takes time. It takes nuance and human understanding, and yes, it’s slow. But some things need to move slowly. The talking and thinking that happens around a piece of writing, before the draft, between drafts, after the read-aloud, when the room goes quiet, that’s where the feeling underneath starts to surface, and a student realizes they have something to say.

I’m not arguing that AI has no place in a writing classroom. I’m arguing that teachers should be at the center, and the technology on the sidelines as a useful tool.

George didn’t write seventeen pages because of a prompt, a rubric, or a feedback algorithm. He wrote them because someone made the room safe enough to try.

How is AI functioning in your life? If at all. Is it blocking out something essentially human that you actually need, or have you dialled in AI as a tool? Drop your comments below.

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