Last spring, I wanted to be Fredrik Backman. I don’t mean famous. Or Swedish. Or brilliant. Or a guy. No, I wanted to be the writer whose words could cause a quinquagenarian former high school principal, not prone to emotional outbursts, to weep openly in an auto repair shop full of men to awkwardly examine the ceiling tiles while praying for their trucks to be done soon.

I’ve been devouring his work. His novels knot my heart and mind until I can’t unravel where all the feelings start. I have to pause and do that Navy Seal breathing strategy from TikTok just to be able to analyze how he can turn ten ordinary words into a tornado of universally felt emotion. I read three of his novels before I realized that I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. And not just because I cannot actually be Fredrik Backman.

I am reconceptualizing my goal modeled roughly after a dog show.