Structure vs Self-Trust — what do you *actually* need?

An open journal on a wooden table on a porch. Trees, lake, and sky just beyond.

Here’s something we hear a lot at Firefly — “My writing needs structure.”

I need to find my story’s structure.
I want to figure out how memoirs are structured.
Once I get my project’s structure down, I’ll be good.

I understand this right down in my bones. I have a whiteboard in my office with diagrams for every essay shape I’ve read this year. I can talk to you all afternoon about non-western approaches to plot, and the pros and cons of the Heroine’s Journey and the Hero’s Journey, and so on. I’m with you.

But weirdly, when I start talking about this, it rarely lands.

I got a big clue about why on our last Spring Thaw retreat. The structure question kept coming up, so Mari and I suggested a breakout group to approach it directly with people who wanted to. I cozied up in a corner of the big living room with four writers, all with a version of the same question.

They talked through their projects, I got to share some smarty-pants ideas and theories, and their eyes predictably glazed over. What am I doing wrong?

Then one person turned to another person in the group and said: “It sounds like you do know how you want to write this, you just don’t trust yourself.”

There it was. The shining truth.

Her eyes lit up, and then, as each person took the question in, all their eyes lit up.

I asked everyone: “In your heart of hearts, do you think you need structure, or do you need self-trust?” Everyone had the same answer.

My diagrams and theories weren’t landing because they weren’t needed. Deep down, everyone already knew what they wanted to do. They didn’t need a blackboard, they needed a circle of open, curious faces and space to connect to what’s true beyond their doubt.

The enormous lake sparkling outside the window probably also helped.

The world is packed with information about how to write.

Endless books and blogs will sell you the promise of the perfect plot, the flawless format, the bulletproof routine that will get your book done in 3 months. These can be fun. But beyond the glossy promises, I rarely see them helping very much.

But when it comes to the mystifying, idiosyncratic, deeply personal landscape of your creative life, only you have the map.

I’ve learned a lot about this from Firefly coach Kim.

She’s the biggest structure-nerd of us all, she’s read all the books and has made dozens of Firefly resources and handouts about different ways to understand plot.

But despite all her smarts, I only hear people saying things like this:

I learned a lot, but I mostly learned to listen to my intuition.
She gave me tools, but she really gave me options.

But don’t look to Kim, or any of us, for answers. Instead, take a breath. Imagine you’re cozied up in a beautiful living room, with a big quiet lake outside the window. There’s a caring circle of people who’ve listened to you explain what you want to write, and who have perfect faith that you’ve got this.

Breathe in all that trust and spaciousness, and then ask yourself — what do I need next?

This trust thing also applies to us in our work too.

As nervous new writing coaches, we have outlines and contingency plans for every conversation. We practice, we prepare. When I’m training people, I know I can’t get them to skip this step. It’s part of how we build our boats.

But conversation after conversation, we start to realize that we don’t need these. We know how to be with people. The real art of coaching is attunement, appreciation and keeping an open, ready, agile mind. When we trust ourselves to do this, we’re already sailing.

And — trust me here — so are you.

In it with you,