Quiet Endings

There is something haunting about how life’s most significant endings slip by unmarked. We expect it to feel dramatic, definitive, or ceremonial. Instead, it arrives as just another day. Our last conversation felt routine, with those casual promises of “talk to you soon” made without knowing we’re lying.

The cruelty isn’t just in what we lose, but in how we’re denied the chance to pay attention when it matters. We can’t savor what we don’t know we’re losing – we can’t say proper goodbyes to moments that are quietly slipping away. That last deep conversation with a friend before we drifted apart. The last time I held my nephew. Each adds weight because we carry the knowledge of what we didn’t know we should have been holding onto.

A Novel Journey: Masterclass in Pacing

Pacing a narrative has always challenged me. You must provide enough detail to immerse the reader in the world you’re building—but not so much that the scene overtakes the story. As I work on my novel, I’ve come to appreciate how fine the line is between the immersive and the excessive.

After rereading Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days, I found myself inspired. The novel is a brilliant example of masterful pacing, blending urgency, structure, and variation with literary precision.

My appreciation for Verne’s craft only deepened as I began to analyze why the story’s rhythm feels so satisfying. He employs a number of techniques to maintain a compelling tempo without sacrificing clarity or engagement.

The central conceit—a wager requiring the protagonist to circumnavigate the globe in 80 days—creates a built-in momentum the narrative must obey. This ticking clock forces forward motion and prevents stagnation. Every delay tightens the tension. Every success is a temporary reprieve.

Each chapter or location serves as a self-contained vignette with a compact narrative arc. These episodes are complete enough to feel substantial but brief enough to avoid lingering. Together, they create a steady rhythm that carries the reader effortlessly through the story.

Yet within that rhythm, Verne finds variation. He introduces setbacks at just the right moments, shifts narrative focus between characters, and balances the calm precision of Phileas Fogg with the exuberant energy of Passepartout. The result is a story that feels in constant motion, yet never chaotic.

Verne’s prose itself is remarkably economical. Each sentence delivers just enough detail to spark the imagination—vivid, but never indulgent. He sketches scenes in bold, efficient strokes. In this way, he is as disciplined with language as Fogg is with emotion.

As the journey nears its end, the tempo quickens. Events unfold with increasing urgency, mirroring the dwindling days of the wager. The novel’s final chapters pulse with energy, culminating in a resolution that lands with precision and satisfaction.

Around the World in 80 Days is a masterclass in pacing because every narrative choice serves the larger momentum of the story. It’s a travel novel that never drifts—precise, efficient, and unrelentingly forward-moving. Much like Fogg himself.

A Novel Journey: Fiction as an Empathy Machine

I thought writing fiction would be easier. After all, I've read hundreds of novels, dissected story arcs, and studied character development. But I've discovered that crafting convincing fiction demands something far beyond technical skill: it requires an exhausting emotional intelligence. Creating believable characters isn't just about inventing biographical details or crafting clever dialogue — it's about fully inhabiting another consciousness. Each day at my desk feels like an acting exercise gone deep, as I struggle to think, feel, and react as someone fundamentally different from myself. It's proving to be one of the most emotionally and intellectually demanding things I've ever done.

Writing fiction, at its core, is an exercise in empathy. It compels the author to inhabit the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of people not like them – sometimes people who are wildly different, morally ambiguous, or outright reprehensible. A well-crafted story forces us to confront and find understanding in the actions and motivations of others. Storytelling functions as an empathy machine, forcing us to see the world through another’s eyes. To write well, I can’t observe characters from a safe distance. I have to fully assume their psyche – the character’s most personal thoughts, personality flaws, and deepest motivations must be comprehensively studied.

Writers must temporarily suspend their own judgments, beliefs, and moral frameworks to fully understand their characters' choices. Even when writing villains or characters whose actions we deplore, we must find that thread of human truth that makes their motivations comprehensible, if not justifiable. This deliberate practice of perspective-taking shapes not just the characters, but transforms the writer, expanding our capacity for understanding the complexities of human nature.

In our current era of polarization and tribal thinking, where social media algorithms and echo chambers reinforce our existing worldviews, this kind of radical empathy feels more crucial than ever. Perhaps what we need isn't just more stories, but more storytellers – more people willing to engage in the challenging work of inhabiting perspectives vastly different from their own. The skills required for fiction writing – deep listening, suspension of judgment, and genuine curiosity about different viewpoints – might be exactly what our fractured society needs to begin healing.

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Thanks to a good friend for the thought-provoking conversation that led to this realization. You know who you are, and your friendship is appreciated more than you know.

A Novel Journey: The Unwritten Story That Found Me

It began like all the others — with a short story. I had a drawer full of them: a few pages here, a scene there. Little vignettes, like windows cracked open to my subconscious, offering brief glimpses into half-formed worlds.

But this one was different. While the others rested quietly in their drawer — content to remain fragments of possibility — this one refused containment. Its characters whispered to me when I least expected — during walks, in the shower, just before sleep — hinting at histories I hadn’t written but somehow already knew. The world stretched past the page, bleeding into my life, unfolding scenes and conflicts too vast for a few thousand words to contain.

A single thread began to weave itself into something intricate and unruly. Each morning brought fresh connections, unresolved questions, characters who demanded to be known. Each morning I'd wake to find new connections forming, new questions demanding answers. What should have been a week-long affair stretched into months. The story transformed before my eyes — no longer a short piece, but something vast and breathing. My first novel.

I hadn’t planned for this journey. I wasn’t prepared for how it would consume me — how it would upend my assumptions, test my discipline, and quietly redefine who I was as a writer.

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This piece is the first installment in A Novel Journey, a series chronicling my experience writing my first novel — the unexpected challenges, small breakthroughs, and all the moments in between. If you’ve ever tried to wrestle a story into being, I hope these reflections resonate with you.

Next up: My characters teach me a life lesson in empathy.

The Tyranny of the Delete Key

The process of writing, or any creative pursuit, is as varied as the human experience itself, with an infinite number of paths from a blank page to a finished piece. An unexpected truth I’ve uncovered through the evolution of my process is that the path to better writing leads through deliberate inefficiency.

This realization came from an unlikely source: joining a letter exchange group. As I began exchanging handwritten letters with members from around the world, I noticed an interesting trend – my letters possessed a clarity of thought that eluded the rest of my writing. What began as a curious affectation became a valuable lesson in writing.

I now begin every first draft on paper using a fountain pen or typewriter. Only until I begin editing do I digitize my work. Ironically, adding a specific amount of friction to the writing experience improves my output. Internalizing the idea that you can’t easily modify what you’ve written prompts deeper consideration before writing. This mental “pre-writing” results in more deliberate sentence construction and a stronger logical link between sentences. After all, clear writing only results from clear thinking.

It turns out I had been solving the wrong problem. The efficiency in writing isn’t the speed, it’s the quality of thought. Removing the safety net of the delete key forces more profound thought and, ultimately, more effective communication through fewer drafts.

Finding Beauty in a Descending Line

Bach’s descending bass line gives life to a masterpiece.

One of the few perks of getting older is gaining a measure of perspective on life by recognizing patterns over time. There is a tide to existence that ebbs and flows—a cyclical order in an otherwise random world. When life’s tide pulls back, when what once felt sure and steady fades—leaving behind scattered debris and jagged rocks—it’s easy to believe that the tide won’t return, that progress is lost to the gravitational pull of a dark mass. Despite my successes, this year felt like an accumulation of challenges and setbacks leading to an uncertain future.

I am comforted by the wonders only visible during these times—hidden terrain we never see when the waters are high, and just as the waves grind rocks into sand, I find myself stopping to appreciate the feeling of resilience that keeps me moving through life’s rhythm. I find comfort in classical music, which speaks something profound about the human experience. Notes fall like drops of rain, managing to soothe despite their descent. As I listen, I realize that these notes don’t fall into despair; they gracefully descend as if to tell their own story of resilience. Their decay is inevitable—each note must give way for the splendor to come.

Life isn’t a quest to a destination but an exploration of the unknown. Sometimes you find treasure, sometimes you find wonder in the mundane, and sometimes you must simply endure the journey with the curiosity of what you’ll discover next. Keep your eyes, mind, and heart open.