Start Again (and Again): A Lesson from Rose
Rose, my tiniest Tiny Stories participant, observing the world around her. And probably inventing a little story about it…
Stories come from everywhere. And everyone.
Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need to have lived an entire lifetime to begin writing.
For the last fifteen years, I’ve seen it again and again:
Adults freeze when they’re in an unfamiliar situation.
But kids don’t.
I think maybe this is why: to kids—and to artists—everything is new. Even the old familiar things shimmer with freshness and strangeness. They keep discovering. They ask questions. They throw their whole hearts into whatever they’re doing. They feel the highs, the lows, and then they come right back for more.
Kids are porous.
They’re open to hearing new ideas.
They’re open to sharing their own.
That’s how artists operate, too—even the quiet, introverted ones. We’re open. We’re listening. We’re processing. And when we feel safe, we share: in writing, in a song, over coffee, in a painting. (Or even in a curated safe space, like our retreat, Woven)
Last week, the youngest person in my Tiny Stories workshop was a 10-year-old student named Rose. She joined us from the UK—at the end of a long day, no less—and she was my MVP.
At the end of class, I asked the group, “Did anything surprise you about this last hour?”
After a long pause, a little hand went up in one of the tiny boxes on my screen. Rose said:
“I was surprised by how much I could write in two minutes. Even in thirty seconds!”
“YES MA’AM,” I said, right out loud to the whole group. “I’m going to take you on tour with me, Rose. Put you on stage!”
Because that’s the thing. You don’t need anything to begin.
You don’t need to be retired to start writing.
You don’t need a cabin in the woods or hours blocked off on your calendar.
You do not need one more fancy journal. No you don’t!
You just need two minutes. Four minutes. Thirty seconds.
You just need to start. And start again And start again.
That is the essence of this practice.
My practice is not about red pens and tortured editing. It’s not about good versus bad, or genres, or expectations.
You’re writing.
That’s it.
Who cares if it’s a poem, a memory, or a scrap of paper you’ll use to set your coffee cup on? You’re not wishing you could do it. You’re already doing it.
And Rose, bless her, she reminded us all of that truth.
Here are a couple of her Tiny Stories:
6min - new jacket
A new jacket isn’t always new, and an old jacket isn’t always old and torn. Just because there is a label doesn’t mean it's the same as the others. Just because they make one mistake doesn’t mean they’ll make another. So why still judge an old jacket and pick a new one if you don’t know the story?
4 min - sparklers
Sparklers shine and glimmer within the sky just like stars, but sparklers are on a time limit and can be broken down or refueled by others, but stars are always shining, like little rays of hope. Even if you can't always see them in the dark because they don't care what others do to them... they don’t stop.
1 min - doormat
A doormat is treated like trash, collecting dirt, while carpets are treated like gold.
Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
Tiny Stories aren’t about performing. Or perfection. They’re about remembering. They’re about reclaiming the small, true things that make us human. Today, I’m going to be like one of Rose’s stars: I’m going to keep shining, and I’m not gonna stop.
So thank you, Rose. You reminded us what it looks like to stay open, stay porous, and start again—one minute at a time.
