For some reason, I woke up this morning feeling particularly chipper. All morning, I’ve had the lyrics of the old Bing Crosby song, “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive,” running through my head:

You’ve got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive
E-lim-i-nate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mr. In-Between

It’s that Mr. In-Between that interests me when I think about the writing of fiction and creative nonfiction. Those in-between places where people are torn, having multiple feelings all at the same time, make our writing memorable. These are usually moments when you, the writer, notice something in a character or a situation that others might overlook. Good writing lives in the in-between.

A story about love can also be a story about hate. A memoir can dramatize the moments from our lives when we felt victorious but also sad. We can be filled with satisfaction but also regret. We can want one thing while also wanting its opposite. If you’re going to be a writer, you better get practiced at noticing contradictions. That’s what makes people and the circumstances of their lives unforgettable.

So why not start with this simple exercise:

Have a character in a piece of fiction intend one thing with an action only to be surprised that it has its opposite result. Or find a moment in a narrative when, given the circumstances, a character does or says something we wouldn’t expect but which also seems believable.

Or maybe this exercise for a piece of creative nonfiction:

Recall a complicated moment from your past. Use the reflective voice to articulate something you couldn’t have articulated at the time. You might want to use this prompt: “At the time, I (fill in the blank with what you felt or thought), but now, as I look back on that day, I wonder whether (fill in the blank with a deepening of thought from the writer at their desk).  Maybe something like this:

At the time, I only wanted to hate my father, but now, as I look back on that day, I understand he was doing his best to move us beyond the ugly thing that had happened, so one day I would be able to see he really loved me. It’s that thought that fills me with love for him, and maybe just a bit of pity. Above all, I understand our love had been there all along. I’d just been too young—too self-involved—to see it.

Our lives are complicated, and we’re equally intricate beings. Our writing should honor that complexity. Otherwise, we’re just constructing narratives of sequential actions without investigating what those actions have to tell us about ourselves and others.