“WAIT!”

I yell to the man only a few feet ahead of me, arms full and momentum already committed. I know he saw me. Anyone with peripheral vision could see a woman speed-walking toward the door while juggling a chai latte, a favorite pillow, and a tote bag stuffed with the kind of things that only make sense to me.

He hesitates. Just long enough.

With a sigh that suggests he’d hoped to avoid this interaction entirely, he holds the door open.

“Thank you so much,” I say brightly, as if surprised by his sudden act of chivalry.

He gives me a look, annoyed but resigned, and I feel a small, deeply satisfying spark of victory.

I’m not late. I’m just on time enough that I’ve been rushing all morning. I had time to stop for the latte, but not enough to finish my hair, which is now twisted into a messy updo and secured with my favorite claw clip. Priorities. Tea over hair any day but especially today, when protecting my voice matters far more than appearances.

I give my name at the front desk - Eliza Wynn - and mention the project and producer. The woman smiles politely and directs me down the hall toward Studio C.

Inside, the studio is quiet in that deliberate, cushioned way only soundproofed buildings manage with soft lighting and muted walls. There is a faint hum of equipment always waiting to be used. Studio C is, without question, the nicest recording space I’ve ever worked in and I’ve been narrating audiobooks for seven years.

I set my “I’m the voice inside your head” tote down and begin unpacking. Like most narrators, I have a few non-negotiable rituals that must be completed before recording can begin.

Chai latte - check.
Water bottle and a limoncello-flavored La Croix - double check.
A squishy dark purple pillow that can be used for sitting, snuggling, or discreetly stifling the sounds of my stomach when I inevitably forget to eat lunch because I’m too engrossed in storytelling to care about things like basic nutrition - also check.

Last, but certainly not least, the manuscript. The pages are already softened at the edges, crowded with colorful tabs, highlights, and notes. This book matters. I want to do it justice when I bring Lucy Hart to life.

As I take in the space with the sleek microphone, black cushioned acoustic walls, brand new equipment, and a desk chair that looks sturdy but not entirely welcoming, it hits me. I’ve never been in a studio quite this new or this well-funded. So, this is what a big budget on a highly anticipated release looks like, I think.

Landing a role on Julia Hartwell’s newest book, Murder Is a Scheduling Conflict, feels like a quiet miracle. When I first read the manuscript, something sparked an excitement I hadn’t felt in a while. Lucy is bold, funny, and unapologetically messy. She’s navigating an unfolding murder mystery while being forced to work alongside a detective she knows far too well.

The book is sharp and alive, with two main characters that are going to be a hit when this book is on the market. The past couple of years of my career have been… fine, steady and comfortable. This book feels different. Borrowing Lucy’s confidence, her humor, her refusal to shrink feels like borrowing light. I realize, a little too honestly, that it’s been a while since I’ve felt much of my own. I roll my shoulders and stretch, preparing my body for what will likely be a long session. Lip trills follow. Tongue twisters.

“She sells seashells by the seashore. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…”

I take a sip of tea, then reach for my favorite lipstick - Clinique Black Honey, my quiet superstition. I apply it carefully, pressing my lips together once. Armor. With the manuscript open to the first page, I slide on my headphones and relish the way they hush the world. The quiet feels physical. I close my eyes. Inhale -

and hear a voice. Not mine. Deep, measured, and calm in a way that suggests control rather than effort. The kind of voice that can either make you feel safe…

or make your stomach drop.

I know that voice. I haven’t heard it in years, but it’s achingly familiar. A memory of whispered promises and carefully planned futures I once believed in. Unease trickles down my spine.

No.

I open my eyes and look through the glass into the booth across from mine. The lights are dim. All I can make out is the silhouette of a tall, broad frame.

The voice continues reading.

My own betrays me, slipping into the microphone before my brain can intervene.

“Matty?”

The figure freezes.

Slowly, the lights in his booth brighten.

And there he is.

Matthew Hale.

Time does something strange then. It compresses and stretches all at once, dragging the past into the present with no warning. The unease that started at my spine settles into a heavy knot in my stomach.

“Eliza,” he mouths.

We stare at each other through the glass, taking in the familiar and unfamiliar all at once. His sandy blond hair is shorter now, neatly styled. His eyes are still that same unreadable shade of steel blue. His jaw is set in the same careful expression I’ve seen a thousand times, the one he wears when he’s preparing for impact, or pretending not to feel what he clearly does.

Matthew was always good at that, being guarded and controlled. Me? I’ve never been subtle. I realize this a beat too late and drop my gaze to the page in front of me, hoping he hasn’t already read everything written across my face.

The door to the production booth opens, and the producer presses the talkback button so we can all hear her.

“Welcome, Eliza. This is Matthew Hale. He’s recently joined us after leaving sports broadcasting. Matthew, Eliza Wynn has been narrating with us for seven years, she’s one of our leading voices.”

“I thought I was reading with Ryan Walker,” I interrupt, before I can stop myself.

“Ryan came down with the flu,” she says apologetically. “Matthew stepped in. His voice is perfect for Jack Turner.”

Of course it is.

“Right,” I say, drawing myself together. “Well…welcome, Matthew. This is unexpected, but I’m looking forward to working with you.”

My cheeks feel warm, and I dim my lights slightly, just in case he can see me blushing.

“This should be…” he pauses, the faintest edge in his voice, “…interesting.”

I hear it. The nuance. The tension.

The producer smiles, oblivious. “We’ll begin Chapter One when you’re ready.”

Chapter One. With my ex-boyfriend. I settle back into my chair, clutching my purple pillow like a shield, the glass between us suddenly feels much thinner than it should.

I keep stealing glances, listening too closely and trying to read between the lines.

I clean with music on.
I drive with an audiobook.
I pack while talking on the phone.
I work best with Friends, The Big Bang Theory, or HGTV humming in the background like emotional support noise.

When I write, I curate playlists with great seriousness. And apparently (this feels on brand), I also like having more than one writing project going at once.

One to hold the weight.
One to keep things light.

Lately, everything feels heavy. The news. The conversations. The general atmosphere. My main work in progress is meaningful and layered and asks a lot of me emotionally. I love it, but it is not exactly a place to rest.

And I realized I needed a little joy.

Not escape.
Not distraction.
Just balance.

I also needed a pressure-free place to practice, especially dialogue (that word scares me a little). A space where I could move quickly, trust my instincts, and let scenes breathe without asking them to carry the emotional weight of the world.

So I’m letting myself do what my brain clearly prefers: two things at once.

Alongside my primary project, I’m starting a short, episodic romantic comedy series here on Substack. It’s light. It’s playful. It’s designed to be read in small moments, like episodes instead of chapters.

A rom com about second chances.
Low stakes. Soft edges. A little hope.

This series isn’t a departure from the work I care about. It’s a companion to it. A reminder that not everything we write has to be heavy to matter, especially when the world already feels that way.

The first episode arrives February 1.
I hope you’ll read along.

And still…

The Big Bad Blank Page stares at me, waiting.

Blink.

My fingers hover over the keyboard like they are ready to dance at my command, and my brain… does what an ADHD brain does; it becomes a busy airport. A thousand flights. All boarding. All urgent. All flashing red.

So I close the laptop.

I do the laundry. The dishes. I tidy that pile over there. I sort those papers over there. I become a woman possessed by productivity that does not include writing.

Then I reopen the laptop and there it is again.

Blink.

“Hello,” it says.

Blink.

“I’m waiting.”

Blink.

“So is everyone else.”

People tell you, “Just write, even if it’s bad. First drafts are supposed to be bad.”

I hear them. I do. I even believe them.

Anne Lamott says all good writers write shitty first drafts.
Elizabeth Gilbert reminds us that done is better than good.

So why am I sitting here like the cursor is a tiny judge in a black robe?

Because when I start typing what I really feel, what’s wrong, why I cannot write, it turns into this post you are currently reading… instead of the prologue to my work in progress.

So what is stopping me?

It’s fear, y’all.

The same fear and demand of perfectionism I keep writing about, with imposter syndrome as its persistent sidekick.

The first few lines have to hook the reader.
The first five pages must grab their attention, start with action, answer questions, and raise new ones.
The first chapter will make or break whether an agent, a reader, a publisher keeps reading.

No pressure. None at all.

And yes, I know what you’re going to say.

“Write it and make those things happen in revision.”

I know it. I hear you. Still, the blinking cursor flashes mockingly.

Blink.

I sigh. I put in my earbuds and crank Halsey.

“Don’t want to live as an untold story, rather go out in a blaze of glory.”

And suddenly I remember why I write. Why I have to write this book.

It’s calling me. It demands me.

Readers need this. Women need this. Military spouses need this.

I need this.

So I write.

I may not become a bestselling author…though, let’s be honest, that would be lovely, but I truly believe in what I’m writing and why it matters.

I can’t wait for you to read this book one day.

I promise the prologue will eventually do what it is meant to do.

But today, it exists in imperfection.

Not once have I found them enlightening or inspiring.

Maybe they work for some people. Truly. But for me, they feel more like a scoreboard than an invitation. I keep coming back to the same question: is the goal really to count the words, or is it the words themselves that count?

I am far more interested in how you wrote that day…what you squeezed in between real life, than how many words you produced. Because I am firmly on the struggle bus of balance.

I have a very short window to write. I am a mom of three. I work as a public information officer. I am a wife. I have a house to attend to, two active dogs, parents, friendships, and a full life that requires tending. Creativity has to happen in the margins, and those margins are thin.

I have ideas. I know I am a decent writer. I know I have something to say. But writing at the end of a long day, when my energy is gone and my brain is full, can feel like reaching for chip crumbs at the bottom of an empty bag when you are starving. Technically food. Deeply unsatisfying.

And still, the desire to write does not leave me. It lives in my bones.

Lately, I have also been thinking a lot about performative writing culture - the way we are encouraged not just to write, but to perform our writing. To package it. To track it. To market it in neat, digestible pieces that signal productivity and success.

And I am not above it. I am guilty of it, too.

There is a strange tension in being both the artist and the brand. We are told to show up consistently, to be visible, to build an audience, and all of that matters. I believe in thoughtful marketing. I believe in taking the work seriously. But somewhere along the way, it can start to feel like the performance becomes louder than the work itself.

I find myself wondering how we talk about our writing without turning it into a commercial. How we share progress without turning it into proof. How we build a presence without losing the quiet, private parts of the process that made us want to write in the first place.

This is part of why Substack feels different to me. There is more room here for honesty. For unfinished thoughts. For saying, “this is where I am today,” without needing it to be aspirational or impressive. It feels less like a campaign and more like a conversation.

What I want, and what I am trying to practice, is a way of being visible without being performative. Of inviting readers into the work without flattening it into a metric. Of marketing a book and a brand without losing myself in the process.

What makes all of this harder is that the people I love most do not fully understand what it means when I am writing. When I am sitting still with my laptop open, the glow of the screen lighting my face, it seems to signal availability instead of focus. A perfect time to talk. To ask questions. To need help. Times three. Sometimes four, if my husband joins in.

The dogs, at least, understand. They seem genuinely grateful when I sit still, offering quiet companionship and infinite snuggles.

So I am asking this honestly, especially of other writers living full lives: how do you protect your creativity in small, imperfect windows? How do you stay connected to the work while also navigating the very real pressure to market it? What actually helps, not what looks good on a graphic?

I am less interested in your word count than in how you return to the work, again and again, without losing yourself along the way

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how every place I’ve called home has marked a different season of life. And in this season of gratitude, I’m thankful for all the tiny maps that led me here.

Mason, Texas - Early Childhood

I never lived in Mason, but I spent summers and holidays there with my grandparents.

There was one stoplight in the whole town. The Friendly Cafe and a Dairy Queen. My Grandma liked to joke, “Where do you want to grab a hamburger: Dairy Queen, Dairy Queen or Dairy Queen?”

Their house sat on ten and a half acres, shaded by cedar trees. I’d swing on the tire hug from a sturdy branch, sip mostly milk coffee on the porch, and listen to the cicadas rise with the Texas sun.

My grandpa would play guitar in the evenings, his deep earth-moving baritone rolling out across the garden. Sometimes he’d sing in Spanish, and I’d pretend to to understand every word - smiling because his joy didn’t need translating. The same guitar sits with me now, still holding the weight of those songs and memories.

Mason left such an imprint on me that when my first son was born, I named him after this place. And my middle child, Coleman, carries the name of another small Texas town just between Mason and Abilene, where we’d often meet my grandparents halfway for lunch or dinner before heading back home. Their names feel like a map of where we come from, and a promise to keep those memories alive.

I didn’t know I was making memories that would hold me for a lifetime, as this house and beautiful land unfortunately burned down a few years ago.

Mason, TX - childhood roots.

Abilene, Texas - Growing Up

How do you describe the place that was your entire world for twenty-three years?

Friday night lights (Go Eagles). The roar of lions from the zoo, airplanes from the airport, and play calls echoing from Shotwell Stadium on a Friday night.

My best friends. My first loves. Land parties and secrets whispered under the stars. The smell of home, a place so deeply familiar I can close my eyes and see myself in every street corner. It’s changed now. I feel like a stranger when I visit, yet still completely rooted.

It’s where I met my husband, stationed at Dyess, while I was finishing college at McMurry University. You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl.

Abilene, TX - growing up and finding my footing.

Bury St Edmunds, England - Newlywed Beginnings

I had dreamed of studying abroad in London, a lifelong British-lit fan longing to see where Byron, Shelley, Keats, Austen, and Wordsworth once walked. I never imagined I’d actually live there someday.

We were newlyweds in a 300-year-old townhouse with four narrow floors and a pub called The Bushel right across the street. We spent most nights there when my husband was home, which wasn’t often. He had just joined Special Operations, and the pace was relentless. It was hard — being a newlywed in this grand, old town but feeling so alone.

But it was also where I learned to be a military spouse. I met women who became role models, mentors, and lifelong friends. I found strength in their company and joy in the slow rhythms of English life and fell in love with the Abbey Gardens, ancient buildings, Saturday markets, and a community that folded us in.

The locals treated us like family. The Bushel owners invited us to their private New Year’s party and let us pull our own pints behind the bar. My British boss was wonderful. I even perfected my accent so well that patients at the orthodontic office were shocked to find out I wasn’t British at all.

It was hard and lonely, but it was the foundation of everything that came next.

Bury St Edmunds, UK - newlywed beginnings.

Clovis, New Mexico - Becoming a Mother

From cobblestones to dust storms. We were among the first families to move into the brand-new J-model squadron, and I was six months pregnant. It was only four hours from my hometown, but it felt worlds away.

The wind never stopped blowing. The smell of cow manure hung in the air. And yet, it’s where we bought our first home and brought home two healthy baby boys. It’s where I learned how to be a mom.

When my husband left, I’d pack up the kids, the dog, and the car and drive home to Texas. Those road trips were our lifeline. I leaned on other military families and set up playdates, house parties, and squadron gatherings that kept us going. I also saw a different side of military spouse life, one not always kind or graceful. It opened my eyes, and it toughened me up.

This was the season of survival, and the beginning of understanding who I was when everything else shifted.

Clovis, NM - first home, first babies.

Little Wilbraham, England - Rediscovering Myself

Little Wilbraham was an answered prayer, after having lived in big cities for 2 assignments after Clovis.

Our family was complete: the boys were seven and five, and our daughter was two. We hoped to share England with them, a kid-friendly, storybook kind of place, and somehow, we landed in a gorgeous farmhouse with a wide-open field behind it and two pubs within walking distance. It felt idyllic.

The village school had only 80 students, and the locals treated us like family. They took my children to soccer practice, invited us over for tea, and filled our days with warmth. I wonder if they know how much my time with them meant. My husband deployed for a year of our two-year stay, and when COVID hit, our adventures came to a halt. But what we gained was deeper than any travel itinerary. We found belonging, resilience, and time together.

It’s where I found myself again. After years of moves, goodbyes, and new beginnings, everything I’d buried surfaced. I rebuilt from the rubble, and somehow, I became more me than ever before.

Little Wilbraham, UK - the heart that still feels like home.

Niceville, Florida - Home

Yes, it’s really called Niceville and, no, it’s not full of Stepford wives. It’s imperfect, flawed, and wonderful in all the right ways.

Florida was never the plan for retirement. I love seasons and mountains and walkable downtowns. But this place grew on us like ivy; quietly, persistently, and beautifully.

The kids planted roots first. They made the kind of friendships every parent hopes their children will find, the kind that shape you for life. I started subbing in their schools, made friends of my own, and realized that maybe, for the first time in a long time, I was settled. Settled in this town, in my work (I found an amazing one), and in my bones.

We bought a house. We’re building stability. We painted walls and bought furniture that isn’t from IKEA. The same eagle mascot that cheered me on in Texas now cheers for my children. Maybe that’s a sign.

I don’t know how long we’ll stay, but for now - it’s home. It’s everything I wanted for them, and finally, for me.

Niceville, FL - a new beginning that feels like forever.

From Real Places to Fictional Worlds

Each of these places has found its way into my writing…shaping the landscape, mood, and heart of my novel, Somewhere to Land.

That quiet English village, the farmhouse, the neighbors who became family - they all live on in those pages. The story is fiction, but the sense of place is deeply personal. Maybe every writer carries their hometowns with them, just waiting to build new worlds out of old ones.

Closing Reflection

Each of these small towns represents a chapter: early childhood, growing up, becoming, rediscovering, and rooting. Together, they tell the story of a life shaped by change, connection, and courage.

I used to think home was one place you never left. Now I know it’s every place that never left me.

Here’s to small towns, big hearts, and all the miles between.

Which place built you? I’d love to hear about the places that shaped your story.

Share yours in the comments, or forward this post to someone who helped make a place feel like home.

But, lately, instead of of fighting it, I’ve started to thank it.

This crazy, creative ADHD brain of mine is the reason I write. It’s the reason ideas spark out of nowhere, why I see patterns and connections in stories, and why my characters feel so real they start talking to me when I’m supposed to be folding laundry. It’s chaotic but it’s also magic.

To give all that chaos a fighting chance at direction, I’ve been using a Kanban board. Sticky notes, color-coded columns, the whole deal. There’s something deeply satisfying about moving a little square from “In Progress” to “Done.” It tricks my brain into feeling calm, even when my desk looks like a rainbow exploded.

Right now, I’m rebuilding the middle of my novel (why are middles so hard?). My main character, Lia Milton, is stuck - perfectionistic, overthinking, trying to control everything. Sound familiar? She’s me before I discovered coping techniques that help rather than shame. Lia hasn’t quite learned to embrace the chaos yet, but she will.

Meanwhile, I’m also having the best time adding clever text-message style GIF’s and memes as bridges between my chapters. They make me laugh while I write, which feels like progress in its own small way. (Maybe I will share them with my subscribers in a chat!) I’ve also started building the perfect book playlist (not listed on Kanban….hmm) thought, of course, perfectionism keeps remining me that it has to be perfect before I share it.

Today I’m choosing gratitude for the messy, restless, distractible brain that makes my stories possible. For the colorful chaos of my Kanban board. And for the reminder that perfection isn’t the goal, progress is.

What about you?

What part of your own “messy middle” are you thankful for right now?

If you’re curious about ADHD and creativity, Penn Holderness’s new book, ADHD is Awesome, looks like a great read.

For Kanban ideas, I searched Pinterest but if you want more information on how my daughter and I use ours, please message me! I would love to share this simple system!

I don’t have a formal office or Pinterest worthy writing nook (yet), so I work wherever I can…usually the kitchen table. The new laptop stand helps it feel a bit more official, and my lavender glow keyboard and mouse make the whole thing look like I actually have my life together.

My monsters? They have names like Imposter Syndrome, Perfectionism and That One Reviewer Named Karen.

Fear #1: The Blank Page

What if all the amazing things in my head vanish the moment I sit down to write? What if I show up, fingers over the keyboard and….nothing?

Sometimes I stare so long the cursor starts to feel smug, like it knows something I don’t.

How I fight it:

Avoidance and dissociation (let’s be honest), followed by guilt and then forcing myself to sit down anyway. Snacks help. So does snuggling a puppy or a kid, whichever one wanders by first.

Fear #2: Too Many Ideas, Too Little Focus

My ADHD brain is a crowded cocktail party of ideas - all talking at once, all convinced they’re the protagonist. One’s whispering about a short story, another’s screaming about a Substack post, and somewhere in the background a voice yells, “Start a novel - or two!” and “Write a MilSpouse Survival Guide for The War Horse!”

How I fight it:

By hiring people smarter than me - a book coach and developmental editor who can help untangle the chaos. (Thanks Military Editor Agency, especially Julie Tully and Brunella Costagliola)

Fear #3: Falling in Love with My Work and No One Else Does

I reread a line that give me goosebumps and think, this might be the best thing I’ve ever written. Then the doubt creeps in: What if it’s not good? What if no one else feels it? What if I’m the only one who loves it?

How I fight it:

I talk to my mom and my best friend, my unofficial therapists, until I have overanalyzed every sentence and remembered why I started writing in the first place.

Fear #4: Rejection (and Imposter Syndrome’s Evil Twin)

Sometimes I think I’ve built a permanent vacation home in Imposter Syndrome. There’s always a voice whispering, “Who are you to tell this story?” It’s relentless.

How I fight it:

I remind myself that the people who have supported me - my editors, mentors, husband and friends, believe in me even on the days I don’t. Then I turn on music, dance in my kitchen and remember that joy is rebellion.

Fear #5: Writing the Dark Parts

In my novel, Lia’s depression mirrors my own. Writing those chapter feels like walking through a familiar fog. The kind you know too well but wish you didn’t.

I want readers to feel her pain and then feel it when she climbs out of it. I want them to know that darkness isn’t permanent, that healing is messy, and that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stand up again.

How I fight it:

By writing through it. By letting myself cry, pause or take a break when it gets heavy.

By watching a K-drama or listening to an audiobook until the ache softens.

And by trusting that I can go deep without staying there.

Fear #6: Never Finish, or Worse, Finishing and Losing the Spark

What if I get bored? What if I fall out of love with the story that’s defined me for so long?

How I fight it:

By buying more pretty book than I’ll ever read.

By remembering that creativity ebbs and flows. Sometimes it’s a flood, sometimes a drought, but it always returns.

And when all else fails - I write.

Writing is my true north, my compass and my guide. It’s the thing I return to again and again, no matter how lost I feel.

The Truth Beneath It All

I’m scared of all of it. The blank pages, the big feelings, the messy middles.

But fear means I still care.

Every doubt, every rewrite, every late-night snack-fueled editing session is proof that I haven’t given up.

Fear shows up when something matters.

So this Halloween, instead of running from my ghosts, I’m inviting them in. I’ll feed them chocolate, maybe a pickle (not together), and remind them that they don’t get to write the ending. I do.

What scares you as a writer, reader or creative? Drop it in the comments and we can haunt these blank pages together.

There are two types of people in this world: those who love pickles and those who are wrong.

If you fall in the first group, you get it. You know that briny, crispy, tart perfection that wakes up your senses. The way that first bit crunches - bitter, juicy, mouthwatering. Pickles are not just food, they’re an experience.

I’ve always been a pickle girl. Pickled okra when I’m feeling spicy or quirky. Dill pickles for comfort (Claussen preferably). Bread and butter when I’m feeling rebellious. Pickle relish when I’m embracing chaos. Each one fits a mood.

Maybe that’s why pickles feel like the perfect metaphor for writing. Because, like pickles, stories take time. The soak in emotion. They shift and settle and transform until they’re something sharp and tangy and alive.

But the truth is, I haven’t always known how to sit in the brine. I’ve been guilty of rushing through the hard parts - the edits, the emotions, the scenes that hit too close to home. Sometimes, I dodge what stings because I know if I go too deep, I’ll taste the salt of my own tears.

And yet, that’s where the flavor is.

So, tonight, I’m eating pickles and editing. Reminding myself that good things take time. Good things take time, and that even when life feels a little sour, I can still find a bite worth savoring.

Fun fact: at my first middle school dance, when a boy asked me to dance, I panicked and said, “I can’t. I’m going to eat a pickle.” True story.

Every time I think I’ve nailed the flow, when the chapters are perfectly titled and outlined and the arcs feel balanced, I print it out and immediately spot something new. A better motivation, a tighter emotional thread, a character who suddenly wants to speak louder or one whose voice really wasn’t important at all.

It’s like the outline changes shape every time I hold it.

Pencil Marks and Printed Pages

I have learned that I can’t see everything on a screen. There’s something about holding printed pages in my hands and placing a perfectly sharpened pencil to the pages that wakes up a different part of my brain.

When I start marking up an outline with a pencil, my thoughts loosen. One scribbled note leads to a whole new plot twist, or a few words in the margin somehow fix a hole I didn’t realize was there.

It’s messy but it feels alive. Electric even. I eagerly hold my breath waiting for the next inspiration to leap my from brain, straight down through my hand and onto waiting pages.

Honestly, that’s when I know I’m on to something…when the characters start whispering to me while I’m folding laundry or sitting at one of the kid’s many sports practices.

The Myth of “Done”

I used to think I would know when an outline was finished. That moment of clarity where you close your notebook/laptop and say, “Yes. This is it.” But I’m starting to believe that “done” is a myth.

The truth is, the story keeps growing until you start writing it. And even then, it keeps evolving.

Maybe the goal isn’t to finish the outline perfectly? Maybe it’s to reach the point where the story feels alive enough to step onto the page.

Tell Me Yours

When do you know your story is ready to move from planning to writing?

Do you outline until you can’t anymore, or just dive in and see what happens?

Hit reply or leave a comment! I would love to hear how you know when your story is ready to begin!

Until next time,

Jessica

Writing the stories we didn’t know we were living.

Mason’s subplot involves cross country practice layered over doctor’s appointments for his broken arm. Coleman’s is flag football and long talks about his dream of playing tackle football, which, if I’m honest, makes me nervous. He’s small for his age, and with his allergy to all NSAID pain medications, the thought of injuries feels extra heavy. Vivien has the busiest arc of them all: competition cheer plus rehearsals for Junie B. Jones the Musical. And of course, all three kids still bring home the ongoing saga of homework, studying, and science fair projects. Which is fine, until the math comes out. Math has always been my kryptonite, so I’m usually cheering from the sidelines while they work through equations and hoping Google can back me up.

And then there’s my plotline. I just started a new work-from-home job, which I’m both excited and nervous about. Different type of work, different rhythms, and my ADHD brain is already wondering how focus will go when laundry and dishes call from the next room. At the same time, I’m working on my novel, balancing projects for The War Horse, and keeping up with freelance writing assignments.

Somewhere in there, I’m still supposed to find time to work out, shower (bonus points if it’s before 3 p.m.), and keep showing up as a wife, daughter, and friend. The balancing act is part comedy, part drama, and part chaos.

Maybe the trick isn’t to “win” September’s game of Tetris at all. Maybe it’s just to remember that every messy subplot still belongs to the story.

So tell me:

What does your September look like? And how do you make sure your own dreams don’t get buried under everyone else’s schedules?

For years, I’ve written essays about military life, resilience, and finding meaning in constant change. But I’ve also wanted a space that felt less polished and more real, somewhere I can share the messy drafts, the books I’m reading, the quotes and song lyrics that spark ideas, and the ordinary stories that make up this life between moves, milestones, and chaos.

That’s what Jessica Writes Here will be: a mix of reflection and humor, glimpses into my writing-in-progress, bookish conversations, and maybe even a survival playlist or two. Some days it may lean thoughtful, other days lighthearted, but always honest.

I’m so glad you’re here. Pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of tea, and let’s see where this goes.

Until next time, may your tea be hot and your stories honest. ☕✨