It’s a beautiful autumn Sunday here in central Ohio. It makes me think of long-ago Sunday afternoon drives in the country with my parents. We drove the gravel roads, and my father pointed out where certain families had lived, the fact of their existence found now only in the overgrown mouths of lanes. We always ended up at our farm where we gathered hickory nuts. Sometimes we stopped to visit people my parents knew. We were in no hurry. When we were finally on the road again, Killdeer and mourning doves lifted up as we approached. Somewhere in the distance, a motor ran, a farmer at work even on a Sunday. We smelled the tang of leaves burning, smoke rising in wisps at one farmhouse or another. My normally severe father often told stories, and sometimes he even sang hymns in his ragged voice. My mother was at ease, released for these few hours from any of her normal household duties. I was content to daydream and to watch how the light changed as the sun dipped lower in the west. Soon, we’d have to go home, but not just yet.

This past Friday, I visited a writing group, a circle of thoughtful minds gathered in the cozy back room of a bookstore. I spoke about memoir and how it’s usually driven by something that troubles or haunts us. I said a memoir often features a question for which we don’t have an answer. What was my father’s life like after his accident, for instance. One participant asked why so many stories focus on trouble rather than joy? Wouldn’t readers be just as captivated by scenes of harmony?

We agreed that stories are often driven by extraordinary events—moments that push characters out of comfort and into action. Trouble, in its many forms, provides tension, stakes, and transformation. It’s not that joy is uninteresting; it’s just that narrative thrives on change, and trouble sparks movement where harmony might simply let us linger. Yet, the memorable moments in our favorite tales often come when light breaks through the darkness, reminding us of the power of hope and resilience.

In real life, joy and trouble coexist, woven together to create a rich tapestry of experience. Capturing both sides—the moments of challenge and those of gentle happiness—gives stories their depth. It’s in the contrast that each feeling becomes more vivid. As writers, we have the privilege to shape those moments, to highlight the quiet grace that lives alongside chaos.

This week, I invite you to try a simple writing exercise. Set aside the need for drama and write a short scene where harmony is the focus. Use sensory details: the sound of autumn leaves underfoot, the taste of homemade bread, the golden light filtering through trees. Show joy through atmosphere, gesture, and small interactions, without ever naming it directly. Let the reader feel the warmth and contentment simply by immersing them in the scene.

As writers and readers, we seek meaning in both trouble and tranquility. By weaving moments of harmony through our narratives, we reflect the fullness of real life. So, on this beautiful autumn Sunday, let’s remember to savor the joys, celebrate the ordinary, and discover where happiness quietly resides within our stories.