I had a conversation with a woman recently who told me an amazing life story. She’s also a writer, so naturally I asked if she was writing a book about it.
Her response not only surprised me, but also confused me.
She had been excitedly and eagerly telling me about a powerful experience she had, one that literally changed her life forever and that stays with her every day. But when I asked her if she was writing a book, she said that although she participates in a writing group and has written bits and pieces about it, mostly for herself, she hasn’t contemplated anything as official as a book.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I’ll ruin it,” she said. She worries that if she writes about it, then the experience will be changed and lost somehow.
There were other people around and the conversation shifted to other topics, but I can’t stop thinking about her response.
“I’ll ruin it.”
It made me so sad.
And I wish that I had the opportunity to tell her why a story like hers deserves to be told. Because for me it’s exactly the opposite: My life experiences only become more magical when I write about them. When something so powerful has happened to me that I’m compelled to write about it, it’s an honor to wrestle with how best to capture it on the page. Then, it’s a privilege to share it with others so that they, too, might experience even a glimmer of what I did.
That, my friend, is the reason we write about our experiences—so that they can become stories that get shared, helping people feel seen, less alone, loved, and to feel the powerful connection that exists between each and every human alive on this planet.
We don’t ruin our experiences by writing about them.
In fact, I believe that stories can’t be ruined.
They can’t be ruined because of how powerful they are—and we give them that power with our words by speaking them, and writing them, and sharing them.
With this power, that we impart on the stories we have to tell, we make them more beautiful than they ever could be. In this way we release them back into the universe and allow them to take on a life of their own.
If you have ever thought or felt like you might ruin something by writing about it, let me challenge you to ask yourself (and answer) the question: Why? This issue of Under the Gum Tree celebrates our thirteen-year anniversary, and I bet reading the stories in these pages will never make you think that the story or experience was ruined. No, you’ll read these stories about desperately helping our children navigate their worlds in a way that doctors can’t; facing the pain and grief when a thing we’re attached to is extracted from us; a simple recipe connecting us to memories of loved ones who have passed; a song helping us find the courage to share our truth; and a visit to an estranged aunt that teaches us to shift our own perspective—you’ll read these stories and feel their beauty and power.
The authors in these pages can’t ruin their stories, and neither can you.

Janna Marlies Maron
Editor & Publisher