What Happens in a Room When a Story Is Told Well

There's a specific moment I watch for when I'm speaking.

It happens a few sentences into a story, and sometimes sooner. The quiet shifts. The restlessness that lives in any audience settles. Phones go face-down without anyone deciding to put them down. Eyes that were drifting come back to the front of the room. The collective attention of a group of separate individuals becomes, briefly and remarkably, a single thing.

It's neuroscience. But sometimes, it can feel like magic. It's the way human brains are wired to respond to narrative. To synchronize, to lean in, to follow a story the way they'll follow almost nothing else.

But story doesn't have to be dramatic to produce that magical reaction.

It doesn't require high stakes or unusual circumstances or a particularly remarkable outcome. What it requires is specificity and honesty. A real moment, rendered with enough detail that the listener can step inside it. A genuine emotion, named or implied, that creates recognition.

When those elements are present, the speaker doesn't have to forcibly manufacture or control the reaction. It just happens. The audience brings themselves into the story. They map their own experience onto it. They're no longer just listening. They're participating, finding themselves somewhere in the narrative.

It's why I recently branched out and landed on the Get Rooted platform. On the blog and inside every graphic that goes on a product, the power of words and story take center stage. Every single person has a story to tell, and we help make that happen at the Get Rooted blog, all while grounding everything in God's truth. Those simple stories change lives.

That's the moment I work toward every time I speak. I don't hope for any applause at the end. No, I strive to achieve that quiet shift, a few sentences in, when the room becomes one thing.

Have you ever felt that shift in a room? The moment when a speaker or storyteller captured everyone at once? What were they talking about? I'd love to hear in the comments.

Why I Speak About Story

I didn't set out to be a speaker.

In fact, the first time I was asked to share my story, a well-respected woman approached me just before, with her narrowed eyes and slight curl of one side of her mouth. She looked me up and down and said, "Who do you think you are coming here to talk to us women? You're barely out of school and not married or a mother, and you're just getting started in life. What could you possibly have to share that would help us?"

Ouch, right? That one hurt. A lot! And although I did get up in front of those women to share my story, I allowed that woman's words to haunt me for the next 15 years. Every time I thought I might have some insight or wisdom to share with someone else, either individually or in a group, that "imposter syndrome" would rear its ugly head, and I'd keep my mouth shut.

Instead, when the opportunity to write fell in my lap, I jumped right on that path. Writing has always held a special place in my heart, and I'd still consider it my primary calling. But for too long, I hid behind the protection of distance between what I wrote and my audience.

After I had a few books and a couple dozen articles under my belt, the opportunity to speak came my way again. Although a part of me wanted to run the other way, I chose to step forward. It took everything I'd learned about communicating truth through story to figure out how to do it standing in front of a room full of people instead of alone at a desk.

Once I stood at the front, the small audience looking at me, I realized something.

The principles are the same. A room full of people responds to story the same way a reader does. The defenses lower, the attention sharpens, the emotional access opens. A well-placed story in the middle of a talk does what a well-placed scene does in a novel. It makes the abstract concrete. It makes the distant personal. It makes the truth become real in a relatable way.

I speak about story because story is what I know most deeply. It's also because the longer I've worked with it in fiction, content, or conversation, the more convinced I've become that it's one of the most powerful tools available to anyone trying to communicate something that matters.

Not just writers. Anyone.

The business leader trying to inspire a team. The teacher trying to reach a struggling student. The parent trying to explain something important to a teenager who has stopped listening to direct instruction. Story reaches where argument can't. It always has.

That's why I speak about it. When you understand how story works, it changes how you communicate everything else.

Has a speaker ever used a story that completely changed how you received what they were saying? What made it land? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Letting Characters Speak Words You Can't Say

Some of the most important things I've ever said, I said through a character in one of my novels.

Sometimes I don't realize it until I'm rereading a scene months later and something in it catches me. It could be a line of dialogue, an interior thought, or a moment of raw honesty that I recognize as something I needed to say and didn't know how to say it any other way.

Fiction creates a kind of permission that real life doesn't always offer. Behind the shelter of a character, a writer can approach truths that feel a bit too risky or maybe even embarrassing to state directly. The character can be afraid, or angry, or broken, or desperate in ways the author might not feel safe being in plain view. And paradoxically, that roundabout honesty often reaches readers more deeply than a direct confession would have.

Readers feel this from the other side too. A character says something and a reader thinks, yes, that's exactly it. That's the thing I've been carrying and couldn't name. The character has done the work of articulation that the reader couldn't do alone, and suddenly the reader feels less isolated in their own experience.

That exchange from writer to character to reader, where the truth travels the long way around, is one of the most quietly powerful things fiction does. It connects people across the distance of their private experience and says, you are not the only one. You are not alone.

That's one of the many reasons I write these stories. And it's a very worthy goal to set, every single time.

Has a fictional character ever said something that felt like it was meant specifically for you? Something you'd been feeling but couldn't find the words for? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Truth in Disguise: the Surprising Power of Fiction

Fiction lies, technically speaking.

I often joke and say I get paid to lie. The characters aren't real. The events didn't happen. The places, in many cases, exist only in the architecture of my imagination. A novel is, by definition, made up.

And yet.

Readers regularly describe fictional experiences in the language of truth. That character understood me. That story changed how I see things. That book told me something real about myself. We don't say those things about things that are simply false. We say them about things that have gotten somewhere true by an unexpected route.

That's the paradox at the heart of fiction, and it's one I find endlessly valuable. A story can be factually invented and emotionally, spiritually, humanly true at the same time. The invented surface carries something real underneath, and what the reader receives is the real thing, not the invention.

This is why I've never felt any tension between writing fiction and caring deeply about truth. The fiction is the vehicle. The truth is the destination. A well-crafted story doesn't lead readers away from reality. It leads them more deeply into it, through a door that would never have opened otherwise.

In this case, disguise isn't deception. It's strategy and grace rolled into one. It's the reason a made-up story can tell you something true about your own life that no amount of straightforward instruction could have ever reached.

Has a work of fiction ever told you something true? Something you recognized as real the moment you encountered it? What was it? I'd love to hear in the comments.

The One Person Who Changes Everything You Create

Every writer has an ideal reader living somewhere in the back of their mind. And every content creator has an ideal viewer.

Not the entire audience. Not the demographic profile or the market category. One specific person. The individual toward whom you're instinctively aiming, whose response you're imagining when you make a thousand small decisions about what to include, what to cut, what to convey plainly and what to leave for the individual to discover on their own.

Mine has shifted over the years, but she has always shared a few qualities. She's honest with herself, even when it's uncomfortable. She carries her faith seriously but not rigidly. She has been through something hard and is still standing, a little worn but not defeated. She reads because she needs more than distraction. She needs to feel less alone in the specific texture of her experience.

I write for her.

Knowing the individual who will receive what you create doesn't narrow the content. It focuses it. In writing, the most universal books are almost always the ones written with deep specificity toward a particular kind of reader, because specificity is what creates the feeling of being truly seen. A reader who feels seen becomes a reader who stays.

If you create anything — writing, art, music, content of any kind — knowing your one reader, your one viewer, your one listener, changes everything about the choices you make. It moves you from performing for a crowd to speaking directly to that one, individual person who needs what you have to offer.

That is where real connection begins.

Who do you create for? Is there one person, real or imagined, whose response matters most to you? I'd love to hear about them in the comments.

What Raising Kids Taught Me About Storytelling

There’s a funny thing about storytelling. You can study craft books, attend conferences, and read hundreds of novels, but some of the best lessons come from everyday life.

For me, a lot of those lessons came during the time I had to step back from writing my novels to focus on my family and being present with my kids.

There were years when my writing happened in the slim margins of the day. During naptime, after bedtime, or in the quiet moments before the house woke up. Those seasons didn’t leave much room for uninterrupted creativity, but they did offer something just as valuable. Looking back at what I did manage to write, I see I had a front-row seat to real human emotion.

If you've ever watched a toddler insist they can do something themselves, you've seen stubborn determination in its purest form. If you've comforted a child after a hard day at school, you've seen vulnerability. If you've witnessed siblings move from fierce argument to wholehearted forgiveness in the span of ten minutes, you've seen a character arc unfold in real time. Of course, in fiction, it doesn't happen that quickly.

Parenting as a Mirror to Character Development

Still, parenting has a way of revealing the layers inside people, both in your children and in yourself. It exposes impatience, perseverance, pride, grace, and the quiet courage required to keep showing up day after day. Those same layers are exactly what make fictional characters feel real.

One afternoon years ago, I remember sitting at the dining room table with a notebook open beside a pile of math worksheets. My child worked through fractions while I scribbled a few lines of dialogue between characters who were stuck in the middle of their own conflict. The two moments seemed unrelated at the time, but looking back now, I can see how closely they mirrored each other.

Both required patience.

Both required persistence.

And both reminded me that even though I like things tied up with a well-formed bow, growth rarely happens in neat, tidy steps.

What a Story Needs

Stories thrive on tension, the space between where a character is and where they need to be. Parenting lives in that same space. You guide, encourage, correct, and hope the lessons take root somewhere beneath the surface. You're also experiencing your own growth journey as a human being, guiding little future adults.

In many ways, raising kids sharpened my understanding of character more than any writing manual ever could. It taught me that people don't change overnight. They stumble. They learn. They try again. And sometimes the most meaningful victories are the quiet ones no one else notices.

Faith plays a role in that perspective, too. Watching children grow is a daily reminder that none of us are finished works. We're all learning, all stretching, all discovering what it means to live with humility, courage, perseverance, and grace.

Those truths inevitably find their way into my stories.

The years of juggling writing with family life may have slowed the pace of blog posts or manuscripts at times, but they deepened the well I draw from as a storyteller. And if there's one thing parenting confirmed for me, it's this:

The best stories don't come from imagination alone.

They come from paying attention to the people right in front of you.

I hope the stories I write now showcase greater depth and character emotion than the books I wrote prior to my hiatus. Although I still struggle with tapping into some of those emotional experiences myself, my characters can experience them for me.

Have you ever noticed how everyday moments—especially with family—reveal deeper truths about people and relationships? What life experience has taught you the most about understanding others? Share it with me in the comments.

The Story Behind the Stories

Welcome to Rooted in Story

There’s something fitting about beginning again with a story.

Years ago, this little corner of the internet lived under a different name — A Fiction-Filled Life. I posted book reviews, interviewed authors, shared photos from research trips, and talked about whatever story had taken hold of my imagination at the time. Then life shifted. Babies grew. My daughter showcased special needs. School schedules filled. Deadlines tightened. And like so many good things, the blog went quiet.

But the stories never did. Now, I'm back to tell more. I've heard folks relate better to failures than successes...although they still want to know you succeed. Well, this road bridging to the past has a lot of those tried-but-failed moments.

I’ve always written fiction because story is how I process the world. Give me a setting, a conflict, a pair of wounded hearts trying to find solid ground, and I can untangle almost anything. Fiction lets me ask questions safely. It lets me wrestle with doubt, forgiveness, pride, hope, and redemption without pointing fingers. It gives me room to explore truth through characters who feel real enough to sit across the table from me.

I still remember the years during high school sitting at my childhood desk. That old wooden one with the drawer that stuck every time I tried to open it. At that desk, I drafted my first serious attempt at a novel. I had a spiral notebook, a pen that smeared when I wrote too fast, and absolutely no idea what I was doing. I only knew that the characters wouldn’t leave me alone. I wrote after school, late at night, whenever I could steal an hour. I wasn’t thinking about contracts or publication or platform. I was thinking about whether the heroine would forgive the hero, and whether the ending would feel honest.

That hasn’t changed. What has changed is perspective.

Faith has always shaped my storytelling, but not in a heavy-handed way. I don’t sit down with a checklist of lessons to teach. I start with people. With broken places. With longings we all recognize. And because my faith informs how I see the world, grace and redemption naturally find their way onto the page. But I work hard to not lecture. I avoid a sermon disguised as dialogue. Instead, those redemptive themes exist as the quiet undercurrent that reminds me no story is beyond hope.

I believe truth resonates most deeply when it’s woven into lived experience. When readers see themselves in a character’s stubbornness or fear. When they recognize their own questions in a scene. That’s where story becomes more than entertainment. It becomes connection.

What You Can Expect Here Now

You’ll find behind-the-scenes glimpses of works in progress. Research rabbit trails. Reflections on books I’m reading and authors who inspire me or tell great stories. The occasional guest voice. Pieces of the writing life that don’t always make it into a polished novel. Let's call them the messy middles, the sparks of inspiration, the moments when a setting suddenly feels real.

This space has grown up a bit since its early days, just like I have. But the heart of it remains the same: a love for story, and a desire to explore the deeper truths that shape us.

Welcome (back) to Rooted in Story — where fiction, faith, and the life behind the books meet.

I’m glad you’re here. Let's journey through stories together!