What My Dogs Taught Me About Listening to Stories

For years, I have walked my dogs the same way—efficient, purposeful, on my schedule. We march through the neighborhood, hit our endpoint, and head home. I have things to do. The walk was a task to complete and physical exercise for us all, not an experience to savor.

Recently, I’ve made a shift. I slowed down. Let them set the pace. Stopped pulling them along when they wanted to sniff a particular spot for the third time or hunt voles in the field. Stopped mentally rushing through my to-do list while they tugged at their leashes.

And you know what? They’re enjoying their walks again. Really enjoying them.

Nyssa and Dash are alert now, curious, present. They investigate every possible vole tunnel in the snow. They pause where something interesting happened—something I can’t see or smell, but they know is there. The walks matter again. To them, and to me.

Cedar, well, he’s as laser-focused on getting around the fields as I was. But I’m seeing signs of him exploring random scents more, if only for a moment. He and I are working on slowing down and noticing what’s around us, what was there, what might have been. And feeling better for it.

I’d been so focused on the destination—getting the walk done, checking it off, moving to the next thing—that I’d forgotten the point for them was the walk itself. The exploration and using their intellects and senses. The being present.

And at one point, I realized: I do the same thing with stories.

My 2026 Word: Explore

Every year, I choose a word to guide my intentions. Not a resolution—resolutions feel like obligations. Just a word. A compass.

This year, my word is Explore.

After years of optimization, production, increasing—after pushing myself to do more, edit faster, be more efficient, grow the business—I’m ready to pick my head up. To be curious. To follow threads without knowing where they lead.

In my garden. In my editing work. In my creative life.

And definitely in how I approach stories.

When Writers Rush (and Why It Kills the Story)

Here’s what happens when we rush our stories:

We know where the story should go. We’ve plotted it, outlined it, maybe even written character sketches and beat sheets (if you do such things, I know not all writers do). We push toward that destination. We make characters do what they’re supposed to do. We write scenes that move the plot forward. We hit our word count targets.

And the story sometimes feels... flat. Mechanical. Like we’re assembling furniture from an instruction manual instead of cultivating something living.

Why?

Because we’ve prioritized getting to the end over discovering what the story actually is.

We’re hustling our characters through the plot like I used to chivvy my dogs through their walks. Efficient, yes, but missing the entire point.

What It Means to Slow Down and Listen

Listening to Characters

When you slow down, characters tell you things you didn’t plan.

Not what you decided they should fear—what they’re actually afraid of.

Not their macro story goal—what they want in this specific moment, in this conversation, in this breath.

Not how the plot needs them to respond—how they’d actually respond, given who they are.

I see this in client manuscripts and my own when an author/I plan and execute a scene. The outline says “they argue, MC walks out, relationship fractures.”

But when I/the author slow down and listen to the character, something different happens. The protagonist doesn’t storm out. They stay. They try to make the other party understand. They fail. They leave quietly, defeated.

That’s not what was planned. But it’s what was true.

I (or the author) only discovered that by slowing down, by letting the character lead in that instance, by not forcing them into the outlined version of their moment.

Listening to Scenes

Some scenes want to linger. Others want to move fast.

When you rush, you flatten everything to the same pace—get in, advance the plot, get out.

But scenes aren’t all the same.

Some scenes need space to breathe:

• A character processing grief
• The moment before a huge decision
• Sensory immersion in a new place
• Two people finally saying what they’ve been avoiding

Other scenes want momentum:

• Action sequences
• Escalating arguments
• Reveals that should hit fast and hard

You can’t know which is which unless you slow down enough to feel it.

If you’re always rushing to the next plot point, you miss the scenes that need to expand—and you drag out the scenes that should snap.

Listening to the Story Itself

Sometimes, perhaps even many times, the story you’re writing isn’t the story you outlined.

I know this from experience. I’ve talked with writers and worked on manuscripts where the author had a complete outline, knew exactly where they were going, and 50,000 words in, realized the story wanted something different.

A subplot that was supposed to be minor became central.

A character who was supposed to be an obstacle became an ally.

A theme that wasn’t in the plan wove itself through every scene.

Rushing enforces the outlined version even when it’s not working.

When you slow down, you notice when the story or character is pulling in a different direction. And you follow it.

That takes trust. Trust that the exploration isn’t wasted time. Trust that the story knows something you don’t yet.

What Exploration Looks Like in Practice

During drafting:

• Write the scene you’re curious about, even if it’s “out of order.”
• Let characters talk longer than the plot requires—see what they say.
• Describe the setting in more detail than you think you need (you’re exploring, not performing).
• Ask “what if” and follow the answer for a few pages.

In revision:

• Slow down in scenes that feel flat. What are you rushing past?
• Notice where you’re forcing the outline. What might the story want instead?
• Read without fixing—just observe what’s working, what’s not.
• Trust your “something’s off here” instinct, even if you can’t name the problem yet.

In editing (the work I do with clients):

• Ask questions instead of prescribing solutions.
• Notice patterns without rushing to diagnose.
• Sit with confusion. Not everything needs to be immediately clear. (this is my favorite)
• Let the story ecosystem reveal itself before I start suggesting changes.

The Permission You Need

Here’s what I’m giving myself permission to do this year. Maybe you need it, too:

It’s okay to not know where a scene is going when you start it.

It’s okay to write past the “end” to see what happens next.

It’s okay to spend three pages on a moment that feels important, even if you can’t articulate why yet.

It’s okay to follow a character’s tangent; it might not be a tangent. It might be the story.

It’s okay to slow down when your instinct says “pay attention here.”

Exploration isn’t inefficient. It’s how you unearth what matters.

The Walk, the Story, the Year Ahead

This morning, Cedar, Dash, and I walked through the frozen neighborhood. They stopped to investigate every fallen branch or deer track in the snow. I let them.

We didn’t cover as much distance as we used to.

But the walk mattered. To them, and to me.

They showed me things I would’ve missed if I’d been rushing:

• The perfectly preserved, frozen skunk under the snow.
• The specific spot where something interesting happened (I don’t know what, but they do).
• The quality of light at 6 a.m. in January—predawn, colorful, invigorating.

Stories are the same.

When I slow down and let them lead, they show me:

• The emotional beat I would’ve rushed past.
• The thematic thread the author didn’t plan but is woven throughout.
• The moment where everything clicks—but only if I’m paying attention.

My Invitation

This year, I’m using the Explore approach.

Not as permission to wander aimlessly. But as permission to slow down and pay attention.

To honor the process, not just the product.

To listen to what stories (and dogs, and gardens, and life) are trying to tell me.

To trust that exploration is part of the work, not a detour from it.

If you’re feeling rushed, pressured, or like you’re dragging your story toward a finish line it doesn’t want to cross:

Slow down.

Listen.

Explore.

Let the story set the pace. Let characters show you what they need. Let scenes breathe.

You might discover something you didn’t plan. And that might be exactly what the story needed all along. ~