How to Follow the Narrative That Refuses to Let You Go

I’ve often wondered where stories come from. I know that Dear Sister chose me a few years ago, an accumulation of thoughts that pulled me into the story time and time again. But between those moments, countless other outlines surfaced, each with their own whisper, their own pull. Some were fleeting, others lingered like shadows at the edge of my mind. How do I honor them all without losing myself in the overwhelm? How do you navigate the chorus of voices, each one asking to be heard?

Writing isn’t just the neat outlines we sketch in notebooks or the characters we name and file away for later. The real stories arrive uninvited, settle in like old friends, and refuse to leave. The ones that start as side projects, casual ideas whispered between sips of tea, and then, somehow, they grow roots. They expand. They demand.

Grounded was never meant to be more than a novella. Just a practice, I told myself. A small thing. But Emma expanded unexpectedly. She grew louder with every word, her life more vivid with every draft. She found her purpose as an advocate for freedom, and I found mine tangled in the spaces between her sentences.

This happens to me a lot. Maybe it happens to you too. Have you ever started a story with one intention, only to find it growing into something deeper, something unexpected? Think back to a project where the characters surprised you, where the narrative pulled you in directions you never planned. What did that story reveal to you? You start writing with light intentions, but the story deepens, layered with themes you didn’t expect: grief, justice, love, loss, hope. 

Characters become real, not because you planned it, but because something in you needed to tell the truth.

I used to wonder why. Why couldn’t I just keep it simple? But I’ve realized it’s not about control. It’s about listening. Stories aren’t always born from us. Sometimes, they pass through us, shaped by the weight of who we are, what we’ve lived, what we’re still trying to understand.

If you’re like me, if your stories always grow bigger than you planned, maybe it’s because they’re supposed to. Maybe you’re not just writing for practice. Maybe you’re writing to witness something, to hold space for truths too tender to say out loud.

And when you find yourself torn between projects, wondering, *“Which story should I choose?”, remember this: you don’t choose the story. The story chooses you.

Today, it might be Dear Sister, soft and familiar, like a heartbeat you’ve always known. Tomorrow, it might be Against the World, fierce and urgent, a fire you can’t ignore. Or perhaps it’s Grounded, steady and unexpected, a story that grew roots when you thought it was just a passing idea. You don’t have to pick forever. Just pick now.

Write the story that won’t let you walk away. You know the one, the idea that keeps nudging you when you’re trying to focus on something else. What’s it saying? Why can’t you ignore it?

And trust that the others will wait for you.

**

Tell me: Which story is choosing you today?