My ex-husband said something to me recently that was both offensive and completely accurate.

He told me he’s not telling me anything anymore because I might write about it.

At first, I laughed.

Then I realized he was serious.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, the people in my life have come to the conclusion that any interaction with me has the potential to become literature.

I would like to state for the record that this is an outrageous accusation.

It’s also completely true.

The thing is, I don’t go around looking for stories.

The stories come looking for me.

Take my son, for example.

Recently I asked him whether he had applied for a job.

Without hesitation, he informed me that his father had taken him to apply at Whole Foods.

A very specific answer.

Almost too specific.

Now, a normal person might have accepted this information and moved on with their day.

Unfortunately for my family, I am not a normal person.

Something about the answer felt strange.

So I called his father.

‘Did you take him to apply at Whole Foods?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

Pause.

‘That was last year.’

Last year.

Not last week.

Not last month.

Last year.

The evidence my son had presented in his defense belonged in a historical archive.

This is exactly the kind of thing that causes people to become nervous around writers.

It’s never the event itself.

It’s the observation afterward.

Most people hear:

‘He applied at Whole Foods.’

I hear:

‘Interesting. Why did he think that answer would work?’

A writer’s brain is a dangerous place.

Not because we’re trying to expose people.

Because we’re curious.

We want to know why people do what they do.

Why they tell the stories they tell.

Why they leave out certain details.

Why they think one version sounds better than another.

My ex-husband has watched me do this for years.

A random conversation happens.

Everyone else forgets it.

Three weeks later I’m still thinking about it.

Then six months later it appears in an essay.

At this point, I suspect he views every interaction with me as a potential liability.

The poor man probably answers the phone the same way witnesses answer questions from attorneys.

Carefully.

Deliberately.

With legal representation nearby.

What’s funny is that people assume writers are collecting dramatic stories.

We’re not.

Most of my material comes from completely ordinary moments.

A broken pair of flip-flops.

A cat sitting in a kitchen chair.

A son attempting to submit last year’s job application as current evidence.

An ex-husband realizing that he may someday appear in a blog post.

The truth is, I don’t think people have stopped telling me things.

I think they’ve simply become aware that I pay attention.

And once people realize you’re paying attention, they start getting nervous.

Which, unfortunately for them, is also excellent source material.