Pixar's 22 Rules of Sttorytelling

 Pixar’s 22 Rules of Storytelling

#1: You admire a character for trying more than for their success.
(We love the strugglers more than the flawless.)

#2: You have to keep keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be very different.
(Hard truth: your clever wordplay might not land. Focus on connection.)

#3: Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about until you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.

#4: The story frame:
Once upon a time there was ___.
Every day, ___.
One day ___.
Because of that, ___.
Because of that, ___.
Until finally ___.
(Yes, this works for pitch decks too.)

#5: Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.
(Translation: cut the fluff. Always.)

#6: What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?
(Comfort zones don’t sell tickets—or products.)

#7: Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.
(Same for content: know the CTA before you start writing.)

#8: Finish your story, let go even if it’s not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.

#9: When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.
(Brainstorm in reverse. Brilliant hack. This also works for figuring out who your ideal customers are… start by knowing who they aren’t.)

#10: Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.
(Deconstruction is the fastest way to level up.)

#11: Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.

#12: Discount the first thing that comes to mind. And the second, the third, fourth, fifth…get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.

#13: Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.
(No vanilla. Same for brand voice.)

#14: Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.

#15: If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.
(Empathy > everything.)

#16: What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.

#17: No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on. It’ll come back around to be useful later.

#18: You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.
(Perfectionism kills stories. And, well, everything.)

#19: Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.

#20: Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How d’you rearrange them into what you DO like?

#21: You gotta identify with your situation and characters. You can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?

#22: What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

Why This List Still Hits

Pixar’s movies work because they understand that stories don’t live in plot twists or witty dialogue. They live in truth.

Each of these rules is a way of getting to the truth of your story, faster. It doesn’t matter if it’s a novel, a keynote or a LinkedIn Post. And that’s the part worth stealing. The real magic isn’t that toys come to life. It’s that you believe it, and by the end, you feel changed.

Father & Son by Paul Delgado

 

Father & Son

It has been 17 years since my dad passed away at age 84. 

He was in so many ways bigger than life…My hero and mentor and his words of wisdom are still my guiding compass today.

Looking back at my life now that I am in my seventies, the regrets and mistakes on my life’s journey resound in the depths of the night.  Lying in bed looking out at the ocean from my bedroom window, I often think about the times I didn’t listen to him and foolishly jumped off the cliff of bad judgement into a pool of regret. 

He used to tell me so many times…

”I give you this advice because I have been down that path before and don’t want you to step on a landmine”.

His words of wisdom were especially meaningful when I turned eighteen.

It was September of 1971, and I had just registered for the draft. 

My lottery number was 95 and although not a particularly low number, I was still on the cusp of easily being drafted.

The Viet Nam war was a divisive time in America, and I remember joining a peace March organized by Whittier College students. The war had already claimed fifty thousand young American lives and there was no clear path ahead as to an end. I was quite torn as to what to do. 

Should I enlist? My cousin Art was six years older and had enlisted a few years before. Since childhood he was my big brother and best friend. His pals. Mike, Adrian and Raulie, who I had also respected since grammar school, joined the army in 1968 and saw combat as infantrymen.

Needless to say, the draft was a dilemma that weighed heavily on me. During my first semester in college the anti-war sentiment was strong. I personally felt the war was misguided and pointless, yet, I was torn as to what path to take. My intuition told me to avoid this war at all costs. Yet, my father’s distinguished military service in WWII made me think twice about being a potential draft dodger. 

An advantage of enlisting back then was you could select an area of service such as an aviation mechanic, rather than being drafted and another infantry boot on the ground. It seemed to me that by enlisting I perhaps could control a bit of my destiny. If there was such a thing.

In early January of the following year,1972, The Vietnamese launched a major offensive in the Quang Tri province along the DMZ (border between the North and South). In response, Nixon unleashed Operation Linebacker, the unrestricted bombing of all military targets in North Vietnam. It looked like this would be a new phase in the war and an immediate need for more draftees.

What to do?

Early one Saturday morning, sitting on the patio of our home in La Mirada, I was lost in thought. My dad sat down on the lawn chair next to me with two cups of coffee and commented on the beautiful morning. Crisp blue sky and typical early January Southern California weather.

He didn’t say anything as he handed me a cup while he sipped his coffee. 

I told him I was worried about the direction of the war and wasn’t sure what to do regarding the draft.

As we sat and drank our coffee, he quietly listened as I explained my inner struggle. 

“Should I enlist?”

“Should I wait and get drafted?”

“Should I go to Canada??”

I told him I wanted to do the right thing and not disappoint him.

He sat quietly and listened intently.

“Dad…what should I do?”

He had a distant look in his eyes when he spoke.

“Paul…War is a terrible thing… There are no words to describe the horror you will see and the terror you will feel.

“There is no easy answer to your question.

“When I was your age and confronted with the same question, the only choice for the western world was to fight and defeat Nazi Germany and Japan.

“But this war is much different.”

His eyes were filled with tears as he said,

“I could not bear the thought of losing you.

“But you must follow your heart.

“Whatever you decide, I stand shoulder to shoulder with you.

“But if I were you, I would roll the dice.

 “If you get drafted…Serve with honor.

“But I believe this war will end soon.

“Stay in school.”

And so I did.

He was always right.

Aunt Nancy by Don Taco

  I had news this morning. My Aunt Nancy passed away.

  She was well into her 80s, had been ailing a while, had recently broken an arm in a fall, made it to the family's Thanksgiving dinner, held out long enough for her eldest daughter, Ellen, and her husband Ray, to finish traveling across the country and have a visit, and then peacefully drifted off. Life can treat you worse that that. As our clan well knows.

  My clan, our clan, and I choose that word very deliberately, is matriarchal, and I choose that word very deliberately as well. Some of you knew or met my mother. My sisters also. No more needs to be said. Women hold up much more than half the sky in my world. I'm fine with that. It seems perfectly normal, and it works. It works a hell of a lot better than the government and the culture here in the country I grew up in. 

  My grandmother, Harriet, Nancy's mother, didn't like the term Grandma. She was Nannie. She may have inherited that from her mother, Old Nannie. I am not sure if I was ever old enough to meet Old Nannie, but as I am among the eldest of my generation, she may have met me. Old Nannie was famous for beginning the festivities at the big holiday dinners by waving a turkey leg around and shouting, "Down with the Roosians!" Having heard this story all our lives from our parents, me and my two dozen cousins always begged Nannie to take up that cry. But she didn't like the turkey legs, and was reluctant to become her mother, for whatever reasons. 

  Harriet herself lived to be 101 and a half, and you could have used her for the dictionary illustration of frail, but she was lucid to the end.

  We have a reunion every three years. Anywhere up to 150 people might attend. The next one after Nannie passed, (it almost seems disrespectful to say Harriet. She was always Nannie to me), it occurred to me that we had never gathered without her, and I went and found Nancy, the eldest of her four children, and pointed out that she was now the eldest generation. She whooped, "I AM THE MATRIARCH!" And I said, "Yes, you are!" It occurs to me now that she wasn't much older then than I am now.

  Nancy was Harriet's eldest, and my mother, Sally, was next. She has been gone a while now. The two youngest are the boys, Ed and John, my uncles, who are still with us. This next statement, if I was to say it in earshot of my clan members, would elicit gales of laughter, for the truth of it. My uncles are NOT clan leaders.

  So, where does that leave us? Steve and I, born a few months apart, are the oldest of the male cousins. His sister Ellen, a few years older, is the only one born before us. For better or worse, she has inherited the position. Whether our generation feels ready or not. 

  I hope we're worthy. But, you know what? I believe we are. We stand on the shoulders of giants.

Beating Hearts And Legacy By Mike Freeman

 Beating Hearts And Legacy

By Mike Freeman

I miss my birth. People say I was there. But I have no recollection. I also miss my wife's birth. I'm a robust two-year-old in Southern California when a doctor slaps her fanny in Northern California.

I explore the universe by flying my secret rocket ship disguised as an orange tree in our backyard. I discover ant hills and play with my red fire truck, which has a working hose. Sometimes, I drown ants while trying to rescue them from imaginary fires.

My wife and I got married 18 months after our first date. Our two beating hearts are now responsible for bringing seven beating hearts to this planet. I do not know how they will impact the over 8 billion beating hearts on Earth. I experience their beginning. Their contributions and endings are in the fog of the future.

Each of our three children's births is an adventure.

Beating Heart One

DeeAnn and I finalize the last details of our baby's room. We celebrate with a large pizza and look forward to a great night's sleep. Our baby is due in three weeks. It is a great plan. Our baby disagrees.

Late that night, my wife wakes up and says, "The baby is coming!"

I compassionately reply, "The baby bumped your bladder. Forget it."

Wife and baby win the argument. Our departure to the hospital reminds me of a Keystone cops movie clip.

A few hours later, our doctor says, "Congratulations! You have a conehead baby boy!"

A nurse uses a blue pullover hat to hide our son's conehead.

Another nurse lays Jay down on DeeAnn's chest. Her face is glowing with love and joy. A short while later, she turns and says," I can do this again!"

I am agast. I am just beginning to process our life transition!

Beating Heart Two

Our next baby decides to be born during the sixth month of pregnancy. DeeAnn goes on bed rest. Over the next few months, we rush to the hospital a few times, thinking today is the day. Each time we return empty-handed.

I stopped for a Carl's Jr. hamburger one day, while working. As I wait for my meal, the restaurant manager yells into the dining area, "Is Mike Freeman here?"

"Here I am," I answer.

He tells me to call my workplace. Cell phones are a few decades away.

I call my work on a landline.

They say, "Your wife is on the way to the hospital to have the baby."

I drive to the hospital like a madman. I am experiencing a horrific vision of my wife and a highway patrol officer delivering our baby on the side of the freeway.

I sprint into the hospital looking for my wife. I bounce back and forth between the emergency and delivery rooms. No DeeAnn!

I desperately call home, waking her up. She changed her mind while driving into the hospital and returned home to nap.

She left me a message at work. I start thinking about investing in walkie-talkies.

One hospital visit, our doctor proclaims, "It is time."

Our nurse checks DeeAnn and says, "It will be a while."

The doctor decides to give my wife an epidural.

DeeAnn sits up and says, "The baby is coming!"

"No way," says the nurse, "I just checked."

She checks again.

"The baby is coming!" she exclaims.

Nurses sprint down a long hallway, towing DeeAnn on a cart to the delivery room. Our doctor is putting on his garments as he runs by me.

"Put these on." He says, throwing my garments to me.

My doctor's expertise in dressing while running is impressive. I stumble down the hallway, tripping over my pants.

I careen around the corner, running into the delivery room. I begin coaching DeeAnn to take slow, deep breaths. On her third breath, our son Zack is born. Then her epidural kicks in.

Beating Heart Three

"How will our third child fit into our family?" I wonder. "There are no corners to go into. Do we evolve from a square into a pentagon?"

It is a gorgeous September Sunday morning. Early morning sunlight cascades into our hospital room. Our doctor announces that this is the day. We will have a new family member.

"There goes our relaxing football Sundays," I muse.

My wife is an avid San Diego Charger fan. We hope to watch one last game before the flurry of infant care.

My hope for watching the game evaporates. My wife is determined.

"We've got to have this baby before game time!" DeeAnn declares.

Everyone laughs. This unpredictable process takes time.

I will never understand the miracle of birth. That is God's territory. Our daughter, Hannah, quietly arrives with eyes open, minutes before kickoff. She does not want to miss the football game either!

Our three little beating hearts grow up. They make our beating hearts proud. They also provide a few near heart attacks along the journey.

Beating Hearts Four and Five

Both sons marry. They begin their families.

DeeAnn and I fly to Texas for the birth of our first grandchild. Finn, a bald bundle of boy joy, arrives. We instantly fall in love. We travel to Northern California five months later. Granddaughter Kayden makes her majestic entrance into the world and our immediate love.

We instantly start spoiling our grandkids with many gifts. We refuse to discipline them. That is the role of parents. We discover tremendous satisfaction watching our children discipline their tantruming children, changing dirty diapers, and enduring sleepless nights. Some of the words and instructions they give our grandchildren echo from our distant past. We do not say anything. We smile and leave when the chaos is overwhelming.

One week after Kayden is born, I fall down concrete stairs while hiking and break my neck. I am now a quadriplegic. Traveling with a wheelchair is a complex challenge. The only time I see our grandchildren is when they visit us.

Beating Hearts Six and Seven

Two years later, Jordan is triumphantly born. Callum makes his energetic appearance six months later. I am physically unable to attend their births, but am there spiritually and emotionally.

DeeAnn and I continue savoring our roles as parents and grandparents. We now have seven beating hearts to nurture and encourage. We thank God for the time we have to enjoy this. I can now travel to visit our children and grandchildren.

I wonder how long DeeAnn's and mine hearts will continue beating. If my wife's heart stops beating before mine, she says I am free to marry again. She doesn't mean it.

If my heart stops beating before hers, I tell her to do whatever makes her happy. I mean it.

If I am in heaven, I will joyfully wait for her and the others to join me. If in hell, I have bigger things to be concerned about. If atheists are right and I disappear into nothingness, it won't matter.

Will I leave a legacy? All the people I share my life with will either be gone before or with me. Only my children and grandchildren will know me personally in that future. Will I be that person in a photograph that future generations do not know or care about?

Do I think leaving a legacy is important? I sense it is. It seems to be the measure of a well-lived life. But how to measure it?

Poet Maya Angelou says, "Your legacy is written in the number of lives you touch, not the things you own."

I believe my best legacy is living and sharing values that encourage people to reach their full God-given potential. I want to be a contagion to everyone. What values allow me to achieve this?

DeeAnn and I work to instill the following values into our seven beating hearts:

1. Perfection is not the standard.
2. Everything is redeemable.
3. Speak your truth and listen with the intention of being influenced.
4. Embrace the ambiguity. Our life adventure unravels at its own pace.

After becoming a quadriplegic, I learn two more:

1. Help others and allow them to help you.
2. Be grateful for all things, all the time.

Bill Graham says, "The greatest legacy one can pass on to one's children and grandchildren is not money or material things accumulated in one's life, but rather a legacy of character."

DeeAnn’s and my legacy is living our values and the seven beating hearts we help bring into the world. Maybe one of these seven beating hearts can help influence or become the next Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King Jr., or Billy Graham.

The Fish Never Had A Chance By Mike Freeman and Hannah Freeman

 The Fish Never Had A Chance

By Mike Freeman and Hannah Freeman

The ferry bow slaps the crest of each wave as the boat slices through the open water. The dads of our tribe gather around an inside bar to share a drink. Our daughters run excitedly around the deck. We are on our way to our favorite camping trip at Camp Fox on Catalina Island. It is a long weekend adventure of hiking, kayaking, fishing, and roasting marshmallows under the brilliant stars.

Sipping my beer, I listen as the conversation turns to everyone's excitement to bond with their daughters while fishing off the pier. Looking over at the piles of luggage, I noticed, to my dismay, the abundance of fishing poles and tackle boxes. I am far from a fisherman. I have little interest in a sport where winning results in cleaning out fish and entrails.

"We'll be fine, there are plenty of other things to do with Hannah." I think as I bring my glass to my lips again.

We dock and unload our bags in the weathered plywood huts we will call home for the next few days. The other dads in my tribe immediately grab their fishing gear and daughters and head out to the pier that juts out over the water.

I am left standing alone with my daughter. The silence holds for a beat. Then she looks at me with expectant and wide-eyed curiosity and says, "Are we going fishing too?"

"Yes!" I quickly add lib, hiding my panic behind bluster. I scramble to improvise my next move.

"We will start by walking along the seashore," I say to her.

We set out for the pier. My daughter trots excitedly beside me, oblivious to the chaos that is unfolding behind my Adventure Dad veneer.

"Where do I find a fishing pole?" I ask myself as Hannah beams with blithe anticipation. There are no fishing pole stores on this island. What am I going to do?

"Let's walk along the beach and talk about what kind of fish we will catch," I tell Hannah.

I need to buy time and, hopefully, create a miracle. Panic-driven thoughts machine gun their way into my brain. I can distract her by looking for shells. We can spot a porpoise or whale swimming by. A colorful dead fish could wash up on shore.

"Oh dear God, please let something happen." I pray

Hand-in-hand, we walk along the beach looking for something. Anything. After several quiet minutes, the miracle happens! A 7-foot-long bamboo pole lies in the seaweed along the shore. I pick it up and show it to Hannah.

"Here we are! The perfect fishing pole." I say to her with false courage.

I pull out my Swiss Army knife with great flourish and hollow out two small holes at the thinnest end of the bamboo pole. Fishing line will run through the newly created channel.

Hannah is exuberant. We are going fishing!

We march back to the pier. The fishing poles of the other dads and daughters are dangling dolefully over the water. Despondency permeates the pungent ocean air. Mother Nature has failed to produce the anticipated shining memories of a glorious fishing trip. Father-daughter life bonding is low. The fish are not biting. The daughters are getting impatient.

I move from father to father, asking if anyone has some spare fishing line. Glad to be doing something useful, one of the dads clips about 25 feet of line from his spool and hands it to us. Another dad volunteers some weights, and a third chips in with a spare hook. I quickly assemble a Tom Sawyer-esque fishing pole. We are ready. Hannah is the only girl on the pier who is thrilled about fishing.

We are only missing one critical component: bait. We continue to improvise. Hannah remembers the single portion box of Cheerios still in her backpack from breakfast. The professional-grade lures around us have failed to yield results. I am privately skeptical, but we have nothing to lose. I shrug as I slip a Cheerio onto the cheap hook. Hannah throws the line and baited hook over the pier edge while hanging onto the bamboo pole. The other dads give me a quizzical look. I don't care. I am fishing with my daughter now. MacGyver Dad saves the day!

Quiet settles over the dock. There is a growing resignation from the other girls and unwavering enthusiasm from my daughter. She is the only one not utterly shocked when a sharp tug threatens to yank the pole from her grip. She yelps excitedly as I scramble to help her bring the line in. The other dads gape at us in total befuddlement.

Unaware of the gravity of her words, one of the other daughters turns to her father and sweetly says, "Daddy, she caught one."

Her dad's eyes narrow a bit as he continues watching our improbable victory. With Hannah's gracious permission, I grab the fish, unhook it, and throw it back into the ocean. I do not want to clean fish guts this evening, and blessedly, neither does she.

Hannah restrings a Cheerio on the hook, wraps the spare line around her hand, and casts the line back into the water. Silence again settles over the pier. The air pulsates with a tension that was not present a moment before. Whatever happens next, I rest comfortably that I have defended my honor as a father. I have defied all odds to produce the mythical core fishing memory, which is eluding all the better-prepared fathers around us. I see my Dad of the Year trophy in my mind.

"My work here is done. Time for a beer!" I think.

My self-satisfied reverie gets shattered when Hannah lets out another whooping cheer. She has another fish! I do not know who is more shocked by this: me, the other dads, or the fish. She tugs the line up one tiny arm's length at a time. I take in the astonished looks on the faces of all the dads around us. I quickly grab our prize and remove the hook from its lip. Before throwing it back in the ocean, I check and make sure it's not the same fish caught twice. It's not.

"Daddy, she caught another fish!" The same girl says. Her sweetness is starting to sour as Hannah's success proves not to be contagious. The girl's dad's eyes narrow further as he fiddles with his high-end lure.

People inch closer to Hannah as she sends another Cheerio-laden hook into the water. A few minutes pass uneventfully.

"This is enough fishing for me," I think. "We seem to be hogging all the magic of this experience."

I sense the other dads' growing desire to nab a single fish, declare victory, and join me in our cabin for a beer. A fellow father approaches us. His chipper demeanor slumps further into despondency with each forlorn minute. He delicately requests to temporarily trade his brand-new fishing pole for Hannah's bamboo pole. He is straining to present the offer as a favor he's giving us instead of the other way around. Before I can say a word, my daughter hoists her bamboo pole high into the air. Another fish is dangling from the line.

Stunned, exasperated murmurs echo down the pier. I throw our third trophy back into the water almost apologetically. My sense of triumph competes with commiseration for the other dads. They and their daughters are a few feet away from us, inexplicably fishless. So far, the score is Hannah three and the rest of the world zero.

"Daddy, she's catching all the fish!" A growing chorus of girls complains. A few dads lower their heads. I hear some soft cursing under their breath as they try to puzzle out the hidden strategic genius of our driftwood stick and breakfast cereal configuration.

One of the dads comes to me pleading, "I will give you 20 bucks if you let us use the pole until we catch a fish."

Another dad, or hearing the offer, chimes in, "Hell, I'll give you 30 bucks for the pole!"

The auction is on.

My Greedy Dad side starts to emerge. Maybe I can bribe Hannah with a few ice cream cones, get a beer, and still have money left over? The dollar signs in my vision melt away as Hannah looks at me and asks, "Can I please keep fishing?"

"Yes, of course," I quickly say as I bury my Greedy Dad side somewhere in my back pocket. The other dad in my tribe walks back to his daughter, dejected but understanding my position.

Once again, the hook at the end of the magical bamboo fishing pole in my daughter's hand goes into the water. The anticipation ripping through the crowd, fishing around my daughter, is undeniable this time. They are hopeful that proximity to Hannah's golden Cheerio bait will provide them with the honor of catching at least one fish. I am as incredulous as the rest of our audience, as my daughter's luck holds. As the afternoon progresses, Hannah brings in a truly absurd total of seven fish. The rest of the dock does not get as much as a nibble.

The peal of the dinner bell from our campsite reaches us from further inland. A last-minute desperation prompts a resurgence and interest in buying us out of our magic bamboo pole. The bidding war resumes. My Greedy Dad side reappears. Dads are desperate and convinced I have the answer. Hannah settles the deal by saying, "Daddy, I can't wait to go fishing again tomorrow!"

Though I hide it, I am just as disappointed as the throng of dejected dads. We all leave the pier and go to dinner. Afterwards, there is a brief round of Bat-O-Matic. Followed by a campfire featuring scrumptious, chocolate, marshmallow graham cracker sandwiches. The dads converse about Hannah's day fishing as we get ready to sleep in our hut. As we settle in, fathers and daughters alike are a buzz in their bunks rehashing Hannah's implausible success at the pier. A dad asks me where I found the bamboo pole on the beach. I get the sense he would prefer precise coordinates or a very detailed map. He and his daughter want to head out in the early morning and scour the beach for their lucky fishing pole.

As I sit back, I puzzle over the day. What are the odds of this happening? I ask myself this over and over. Whatever they are, calculating them is beyond my ability. I am just grateful for the experience-Greedy Dad be damned!

The next morning, a dad in our tribe announces he is taking some of the girls fishing in a small boat and asks if Hannah wants to come along with her magic fishing pole. I encourage her to go, but I try to manage her expectations of a miracle happening two days in a row.

The small boat drifts out to deeper water as I stand on the beach watching what happens. I am confident that any magic in the pole has now evaporated.

Dad and daughters fishing off the pier take notice of Hannah out in the boat. They hope the fish will now bite on their fishing lines since Hannah is far away.

Hannah lets out a delighted shriek. I can hear it standing on the shore. The other girls in the boat excitedly watch her reel in another fish. Looks of horror flash across the faces of the dad standing along the pier.

"She caught another one!" One of the daughters cries out.

I am starting to enjoy the show.

"This can't be true. How on earth is this happening again?" I think.

Hannah throws her fishing line back into the ocean. Everything quiets down. I sense a commingling spirit of anticipation and dread. The dads and daughter standing on the pier are watching Hannah more than their fishing lines.

"I don't believe it," says one of the dads on the pier.

Hannah is reeling in another fish. Dads and daughters begin abandoning their positions to look for boats to go fishing in. I am enjoying the show more and more. Greedy Dad is still in the back pocket, but Arrogant Dad is making a guest appearance. Feels like the score is Hannah half a kabillion fish to the world's zero. All accomplished using a fishing pole I made!

One of the other girls in the boat lets out an excited yell. She caught a fish! Dads and daughters hope the curse is over. Fish are now available to other human beings.

One daughter on the pier screams with delight as she catches a fish. Her dad is exuberant!

Hannah is belly laughing as she reels in her fourth catch of the day. Another girl on her boat brings in yet another.

"This is turning into a fish slaughter!" I think.

After a while, the fishing activity gradually starts calming down. Maybe the sun is too high, the water is the wrong temperature, or the fish are sleeping.

The lunch bell rings, and everyone comes to shore, ready to eat and move on to another activity besides fishing. We do kayaking, hiking, and relaxing the rest of the day. And so goes the rest of the week. Hannah's fishing pole and all of its magic feats slowly recede from the daily conversation.

We prepare to leave on Sunday. As we gather our bags, I glance at Hannah's pole in the corner of our hut. It will be awkward to carry along with the rest of our gear. Lazy Dad whispers into my ear to leave it behind.

"Daddy, don't forget my fishing pole!" Hannah calls out. Begrudgingly, I pick up the pole and move our gear to the ferry boat. The pole makes it all the way back to our garage. It is stored in a corner and forgotten as lives move on.

A year passes. We are getting ready to return to Catalina for another long weekend. I have almost forgotten about the fishing pole in the corner of the garage for the past 360 days. Hannah has not.

"Daddy, please don't forget the fishing pole," she grins.

I later stand on the beach in Catalina, watching a few dads comb the beach, looking for bamboo poles. They noticed Hannah brought hers. So do their daughters.

"What are the odds of the magic happening again?" I think.

To keep a long story short, it did! But I never clean a fish, and the miracle fishing pole now resides in a ceremonial place of honor, buried in the corner of our garage.