There’s a temptation in modern storytelling to always go bigger.
Bigger stakes.
Bigger concepts.
Bigger twists.
Bigger worlds.
And I love those things, a lot of my work lives in that space. But every once in a while, a different kind of story asks to be written. A smaller one. A quieter one. A story where nothing explodes, no universe is at risk, and no one saves the world.
Instead, two people sit in a room.
A small life hangs in the balance.
The power goes out.
And the noise of the world finally backs off.
What’s left in that space is something we don’t always make room for anymore: presence.
We live in a time where our tools for connection are incredible. We can reach anyone, anywhere, instantly. But there’s a quiet irony in that the same tools that help us connect can also become the very things that keep us from being fully present with the people right in front of us.
Some of the most meaningful conversations don’t happen in comment threads.
They don’t happen in DMs.
They don’t happen in perfectly crafted messages.
They happen when the phones are face-down.
When the room is quiet.
When there’s nothing to perform for and nowhere else to be.
As a new writer, I’m learning that not every story needs to be epic to be important. Sometimes the smallest moments like a long night, a shared responsibility, a fragile little life, a conversation that goes deeper than expected, are the ones that stay with us the longest.
Those are the stories that remind us we’re human.
If you’ve been following my work for a while, you know I love exploring big ideas, big futures, and big questions. But I also believe there’s real value in telling stories that live right here, right now, stories that reflect the quiet, unremarkable moments that end up mattering more than we realize.
Because sometimes, when the world finally goes quiet, that’s when we actually hear each other.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Sci-FiTy1972