Okay. I need to come clean about something.
When you were telling me that incredibly detailed story about your cousin’s friend’s wedding catering dilemma yesterday, and my eyes glazed over just as you got to the part about the gluten-free groom’s cake…
I wasn’t bored. I swear.
I was professionally distracted.
See, in the middle of your very real, very human anecdote, my brain shifted into its natural state: Editor Mode. It wasn’t listening to the content anymore. It was analyzing the structure.
This is a great setup, my inner editor whispered, sipping a metaphorical whiskey. But the payoff is taking too long. We could trim about 40% of the middle of the buttercream variance. The emotional core is the groom’s silent, celiac-induced panic. Let’s cut to that.
And just like that, I was gone. Miles away. Reworking your lived experience for better narrative flow. I am so, so sorry.
The writer’s brain
This is the curse. Once you learn to see the world through the lens of story, you can’t turn it off. Every coffee shop line is a chance to study crowd scene choreography. Every family argument is rich with subtext and character motivation. Every first date is a live audition for meet-cute dialogue, and I am both the anxious performer and the merciless critic in the back row.
It’s not that real life is boring. It’s that it’s a spectacularly messy first draft. It’s full of redundant dialogue, loose ends, anticlimaxes, and scenes that start strong but forget their point halfway through. My compulsion isn’t to judge it, but to fix it. To find the clean through-line. To highlight the revealing detail you almost glossed over.
It’s not you, it’s my timeline
So, this is my blanket apology. My preemptive explanation.
If I stare just past your left ear, I’m not wishing I were elsewhere. I’m adding a flashback to give your current emotion more weight. If I suddenly ask a seemingly random question, I’m not changing the subject. I’m seeding a detail for a payoff three scenes from now. If I smile at a moment you think isn’t funny, I’ve just appreciated your tragic irony.
I am, against my will and better manners, workshopping our lives. And you are an endlessly fascinating, if occasionally verbose, co-writer.
The upside? If you ever want to know the thematic through-line of your last breakup, or the perfect logline for your current job drama, I’m your girl. I’ve already drafted it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, this blog post is running long. I need to go edit it down.
— Montse
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