She said I would love it after she heard about the book I was writing. Intrigued (and honored that she was paying attention), I took the book by author Allen Levi, but didn’t start it until a couple of months later.

Like many readers, I wanted to know who Theo really was. He refused to give his last name or any real specifics about himself to anyone he met. He was a master at turning the question around and letting others tell their story.

By the end of the novel, I had my answer. But what stayed with me wasn’t the mystery. It was the craft.

It Gets Harder to Read a Book Just for Pleasure

I’m always thinking about what I can learn from it and carry into my own writing.  I don’t mean that reading has become less enjoyable. If anything, it’s become richer.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Now, when I read, part of my brain is always studying.

Asking myself:

• Why did that scene work?
• What curiosity seeds planted earlier paid off later?
• How did this secondary character feel so real in only a few pages?

As readers, we follow the story.

As writers, we’re trying to understand how the magician performed the trick.

Theo of Golden reminded me that some of the most powerful lessons in writing have very little to do with plot. Its spirituality is woven quietly through ordinary conversations, acts of kindness, and the belief that every person carries a story worth knowing.

Every character has a story.

The novel’s central mystery is compelling enough. But what lingered for me were the people.

• A portrait artist who sees every face as a story and dignifies it in nearly everyone he paints.
• An accountant seeking more fulfillment than becoming the firm’s next partner. 
• A dedicated custodian working night shifts to care for his injured daughter.
• An intelligent, mentally-challenged, and misunderstood woman without a home.

Characters who could have remained sketches but instead became windows into lives we rarely stop long enough to notice.

That may be the quiet truth at the heart of the novel.

Every character has a story.

That’s true in fiction and in real life. And when writers take the time to craft those stories, readers feel it.

The Discipline of Paying Attention

Being seen is one of the deepest human desires.

Theo sees people.

He doesn’t simply look at them. He asks questions, listens to the answers, and looks them directly in the eye.

The portrait artist paints ordinary people, including our “best friends.”

He captures their essence because he’s taken the time to observe who they are and what they mean to others.

A writer tells stories.

Fiction or nonfiction. She researches, watches, listens, and absorbs everything that could make up the character she wants to portray.

Different callings, perhaps.

But each begins with the same discipline: paying attention.

Looking long enough to recognize the sadness, joy, contradictions, and hopes that make someone fully human.

As I continue working on my story, that’s the lesson I’ll carry forward. Not the mystery. Not the reveal. Not even the ending.

The willingness to slow down long enough to truly see the people who inhabit the page.

Maybe that’s what great writing asks of us.

And maybe that’s why some books stay with us long after we’ve finished them.

I finished the novel knowing who Theo was.

More importantly, Theo reminded me of the kind of writer I want to be.

The post What Theo of Golden Taught Me About Paying Attention appeared first on Kristine Bruneau.

He changed his mind almost daily, all the way up to the kickoff match. 

Even before the first touch of the ball, he could barely contain his excitement. He was somewhere between the edge of his seat and a full Shakira dance routine.

This summer, the 2026 FIFA World Cup comes to North America.

For the first time, the tournament will be hosted by three countries—Canada, Mexico, and the United States. For many Americans, it will be their first chance to witness World Cup culture in person.

And the twelve-year-old who once rolled his eyes at my soccer questions is spending the summer as a Production Quality Control Intern with Men in Blazers Media Network, reviewing podcasts behind the scenes to help tell the stories behind the sport he loves.

(For the record, he still rolls his eyes at my questions.)

It feels like one minute I was driving to practice, getting tutorials on offside rules. The next, my child was helping cover the biggest sporting event in the world.

Flipping through old blog posts on soccer, I realized most of them weren’t really about the sport.

The real story was always about connection.

During the 2014 World Cup, more than thirty text messages bounced back and forth between Rochester and our friends in Granada, Spain with colorful commentary about a single match.

“Look at his haircut.”

“Good to know some players would do well on the swim team.”

The game connected us, but so did the conversation.

A few weeks later, our Spanish friends arrived in Rochester with eleven young soccer players from Granada.

The boys didn’t share much language, but it hardly mattered.

Between Google Translate, a soccer ball, and a willingness to laugh at mistakes, they figured it out.

I remember one exchange in particular.

“You want finish watching the game? Or play mini soccer?”

The answer was obvious.

The following year, several local families traveled to Granada together while our boys trained with the youth academy there.

I remember hearing “¡Aquí! ¡Aquí!” shouted repeatedly during practice.

Here. Here.

The coaches emphasized keeping the ball, protecting the ball, moving into space, and playing with confidence. The language was different, but the game felt familiar.

Outside the training grounds, we wandered narrow streets, shared tapas, watched flamenco, and visited an olive farm in the Andalusian countryside. The boys complained about having to sit through classes at a Spanish secondary school, while the adults were fascinated by everything.

Soccer opened doors far beyond the pitch.

It led to travel, friendship, and the chance to experience another culture firsthand. For five teenage boys immersed in fútbol, it was everything.

What stayed with me wasn’t a particular match or drill.

It was the realization that soccer was creating opportunities for all of us to see the world a little differently.

Football has a way of shortening distances.

Between countries.

Between languages.

Between generations.

Back in 2014, I thought I was writing about World Cup soccer.

Looking back, I was writing about a boy making memories, sharing experiences, paying attention, asking questions, and finding common ground.

And a game that once felt like a summer obsession became part of a much larger story.

Somehow, between then and now, that boy grew up.

The game is still the same.

The story keeps unfolding.

P.S. If you’re new to the tournament, one of the best resources is Men in Blazers (100% biased!). Their coverage feels more like storytelling than sports analysis, with a focus on culture, history, travel, and the people who make the game meaningful. Their World Cup city guides are worth exploring, even if you’re only casually curious about soccer.

The post Twelve Years Later: What World Cup and Soccer Has Me Thinking About appeared first on Kristine Bruneau.

Springsteen had fame and had just come off a successful tour promoting The River (1980).

He wanted to do something different with his next album. At the same time, he was wrestling with memories of his father and trying to make sense of a relationship that never fit neatly into hero or villain.

Did I like it? Rob asked me.

Yes.

It was restrained. Slow simmering. Observant. It revealed his fraught relationship with his father through quiet observations — the micro traumas.

Not explosive moments. Smaller ones.

The film softens things without erasing them, so you can keep moving forward.

It’s human. Messy. Raw.

An acknowledgment of what people can and cannot give each other.

Maybe that’s why it felt familiar.

What stayed with me afterward wasn’t a single scene. It was the accumulation of small moments.

Around the same time, I was listening to an episode of The Afternoon Shift about burnout and the cumulative effect of stress. One idea stuck with me from guest Amy Campbell: nothing has to be huge. The little “t’s” add up.

Eventually, you reach a point where pushing through no longer works.

Springsteen reaches that point in the film. He turns to his manager. Later, a therapist asks him a question about his childhood, and the emotions he’s been carrying finally break through.

At the end of the film, Springsteen’s father tells him:

“I’m proud of you. I know I wasn’t always good to you.”

And Bruce responds:

“You did the best you could.”

I had tears in my eyes.

So poignant.

Recognition.
Regret.
Late reconciliation that doesn’t erase the past.

Springsteen knew he had something with Nebraska. He wanted to preserve the raw feeling of the songs — gritty, imperfect, human.

I’m glad he trusted the recording.

Sometimes the raw edges are the point.

The post Sometimes the Raw Edges Are the Point appeared first on Kristine Bruneau.