I’ll always remember the first story that moved me in the strange, mysterious way only short fiction can.

It was “The Year of Spaghetti” by Haruki Murakami, published in the New Yorker. I was twenty-three. The story was about a man who lived alone in an apartment and cooked and ate only spaghetti. Almost nothing happens. At one point the ex-girlfriend of an old friend calls the man, and they have a strange conversation in which he avoids talking about anything of substance. The story devastated me. It was a perfect portrayal of loneliness, and this, perhaps ironically, made me feel less alone.

As a young person I wanted to be a writer, but a farm-girl voice in my head suggested I try something more practical, so I became a journalist. Although I did well as a city newspaper reporter and loved listening to strangers’ stories, I eventually realized the job didn’t suit my temperament. I set out on my own path, finding work in communications and teaching, and often working freelance while I figured out how to write fiction.

The language itself came easily; it took much, much longer to figure out the nuts and bolts of storytelling: plot, endings, dialogue. Conflict. For a while my characters were too passive, and after that, my stories meandered too much—I was never quite sure where they were heading. 

But as a farm girl I am nothing if not stubborn, so I kept at it, and finally things began to click. My stories started to make sense. They began to land in respected print journals and online publications including Wigleaf, where I won a third-place prize. Winning first place in a contest judged by Carmen Maria Machado gave me a huge boost of confidence. Around the same time I began teaching fiction at Sarah Selecky Writing School, completed an MFA, and later taught journalism at the University of Hong Kong.

The further I go, the more committed I am to a life of reading, writing, and contemplation. I love nothing more than helping other writers discover how to tell a story that moves their reader. I believe this work can be an antidote to the loneliness we all feel as humans—a way to connect despite the challenges we all face. A way to celebrate the beauty the world still holds.