When I was little, there was a period when so much attention in my family was going somewhere else. And somewhere inside that experience, I started feeling like I didn’t matter. 💔 😔 Like I wasn’t seen. 😔 Like I wasn’t heard. 😔 Like no matter what I did, it wouldn’t make enough of a difference for someone to notice. I understand that differently now than I did as a child. 👧 And I think it’s one of the reasons I care so much about stories. 📚 Because being heard matters to me. Being seen matters to me. Sitting with someone and actually hearing what s/he’s trying to say matters to me. That doesn’t mean I believe every writer has my childhood story. You don’t. Your experiences are yours. ❤️ But I do know what it feels like to want your existence, your experiences and your voice to matter. So, when someone comes to me with a story she has carried for years, I don’t want my first response to be: Okay, let’s shove this into a template. I want to understand it. Why this story? Why now? What are you actually trying to say? Who do you hope receives it? Because before we start deciding what the book should look like... I want to hear the person who is trying to write it. ✍️ What do you wish someone would ask you about your story? 🤔