The Anti-Froyo

Avoiding the hollow core and behind-the-scenes of writing a profile of Olympic gold medalist Suni Lee

Do you remember when frozen yogurt was all the rage?

I’m probably showing my age here but when Tasti D-Lites and 16 Handles were practically on every block in New York City? And before that, TCBY was in every mall?

I loved froyo. Usually vanilla—sometimes a vanilla-chocolate swirl. Always with chocolate sprinkles. I know that part of my love for it was because I felt like I was indulging in a treat, but one that was “allowed.” It was an idea so tied up in diet culture and my desire to be thin, but that’s not the point of this post.

Do you remember what happened when you got to the center of your froyo?

Photo by Neil Bates on Unsplash

I always started eating from the top. I remember taking my spoon and scooping off the peak of the swirl before scraping up the sides to catch the sprinkles before they fell.

But then I got to the center and it would be hollow and every time I was both surprised and disappointed. I felt like I was ripped off. I wasn’t getting the full value of what I paid for.

Yet, every time, even though I knew to expect that hollow center, I would still hope that maybe this one time, the server would fill up the entire cup.

I’ve been thinking about this image of froyo ever since I heard Mirin Fader talk about it with Michael Smith on his podcast in relation to her writing process.

For as much as writers wring their hands about the story’s lede (that opening scene or anecdote) or kicker (the ending), she said that the most under-rated part of the story is the middle. That’s when readers often give up, especially if that middle is hollow, like that cup of froyo.

And you can see it in Mirin’s work, her attention to the middle, the gut of the story as she calls it. Her profiles always seem to uncover a deeper, more personal story than you see elsewhere. She doesn’t want to leave them with a hollow core.

I happened to listen this conversation between Mirin and Michael this summer when I was in the middle of writing the October cover story for SELF, a profile on Olympic all-around gymnastics champion Suni Lee.

Because the middle is where writers can give up too.

Writing a profile of an athlete, especially a high-profile one like Suni, is an interesting exercise. You’re often given limited time with them—in this case, I spoke with Suni for about an hour via Zoom and she sat in on another interview with USA Gymnastics—and yet, you’re expected to write several thousand words about them.

That means I’m reading as many previously published stories about Suni as possible, watching clips of her in competition, listening to podcasts and pre- and post-competition interviews, interviewing those around her. I pull from all these different sources in order to triangulate a fuller picture of Suni.

I knew I had a unique angle going into this profile. Suni and her team had given me and the SELF team an exclusive interview. It would be the first time that she spoke in detail about her recent kidney disease diagnosis.

Still, I didn’t want to write the same or similar story as others have already written about Suni. I wanted to illuminate something new, something deeper than just her goals or simply praising her for returning to the gym without interrogating how she’s handled the rollercoaster ride of being diagnosed with a chronic disease and the complicated calculus of balancing her physical and mental health with her athletic identity and goals.

To be honest, I struggled to write this piece. The first draft I turned in felt hollow. It had a compelling opening and a decent ending, but that middle part? I couldn’t quite get it right. (It’s something that my astute editors also picked up on. Thank God for editors who ask really good questions that point you in the right direction.)

That’s when I had to go back to the individual pieces of my story. I had a list of my best scenes and quotes in front of me in order to figure out what was the underlying essence of the story. Sure, the story was about Suni’s health condition, her return to elite gymnastics in light of that, and her quest to make it to the 2024 Summer Olympics.

But what was the story REALLY about?

It’s really about how we face uncertainty.

It’s really about how we grapple with the pressure to live up to our past selves.

It’s really about writing our own stories on our own terms.

Every time I start a new story, I stare at a blank screen. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write and it freaks me out.

Then, I look at those individual pieces in front of me, things start to slowly slot into place, kind of like a jigsaw puzzle, and the story opens up. By seeing those pieces in front of me, I can also make sure that I’m not hoarding all the good parts for the beginning or the end but that I’m fortifying the middle of the story too.

Writing often feels like this weird, magical, mystical process. I’ve learned that I can’t force it or predict it.

But I’ve also learned that it’s not the same as “waiting for the muse” because there has to be certain guardrails in place—me sitting down at my desk, pre-writing in my head, turning ideas over on walks. Those practices create the container in which my writing can happen.

I still don’t feel like a writer. I’m not drawn to write or tell stories like some others, like my day or life wouldn’t be complete without it. It’s not a need to fill or an itch to scratch.

(Yes, I’m clearly still reckoning with my career and identity as a writer and author. Ironically, I’m working on an article about imposter syndrome and it is eye opening to dig into it.)

But I am drawn to the craft of it. I want to learn how to write well. How to construct stories that make people want to turn the page or keep scrolling, how to make people feel by just reading a sentence or paragraph or page.

That’s what makes writing both thrilling and terrifying.

I love hearing how other people approach creativity. What’s your process, whatever creativity means to you? Does the hollow center in your froyo disappoint you too?

Let me know in the comments below.

Thanks for being here. More soon.

Christine