I recently wrote a piece where I named my suffering. All the things I wanted to do or have in my life but was too afraid to admit to myself, let alone the world. A friend who read it asked me afterwards if I now felt pressure to actually achieve those things now that I’d declared them publicly (to, let’s be honest, about ten strangers on the internet).

I had to sit with that for a moment. Did I feel the pressure?

No, I don’t think pressure is the right word. Naming the thing felt more like releasing a breath I’d been holding for years. It wasn’t a declaration of “watch me go get this.” It was more like: ah okay, there it is. I can see it now. Hello, you.

This wanting is deeply personal and I’m not doing this to prove anything to anyone. But knowing what you want and knowing how to get there are two completely different questions. I’ve been sitting with the second one.

Discomfort guides the way

The uncomfortable truth is the path toward the life you want is paved by building your capacity for discomfort, not with willpower or grand gestures. Slowly, incrementally, expanding your tolerance for being in the gap between who you are now and who you want to be. Between the life you have and the one you’re reaching toward.

That gap is uncomfortable and most days I’d rather not deal with it. It would be so much easier to either close it (declare I’ve arrived, stop wanting) or erase it (decide I never really wanted that anyway) or that say good enough is good enough. What I’m trying to practice instead is to just it with it, feeling the discomfort of wanting something I don’t have yet, without rushing to resolve the feeling one way or the other.

Paul Graham writes about something similar — the importance of keeping your ideas about what you want separate from what seems possible. Not letting the gap between them collapse prematurely, because the way most of us manage that gap is by quietly lowering our expectations until the want fits inside the box of what feels achievable. Until we’ve talked ourselves out of it so gradually we don’t even notice it happened.

He’s right. I’ve done this. I think most of us have.

Always produce

He uses an image I love: always producing will find your life’s work the way water, with the aid of gravity, finds the hole in your roof. You don’t have to know where you’re going. You just have to keep moving, keep making, keep trying things, and eventually the direction becomes clear because you’ve actually gone somewhere, rather than just thought very hard about where you might go.

The act of making things, whether it’s writing the imperfect post, starting the course, experimenting with the idea you’re not sure about yet, isn’t just a means to an end. It’s also how you find the end in the first place. You don’t figure it out and then start. You start, imperfectly and slowly, and the figuring out happens along the way.

And crucially (and the part I have to keep reminding myself) you don’t have to make something good. You just have to make something. The writing doesn’t have to be brilliant. The course doesn’t have to lead directly to a five-year plan. The small goal doesn’t have to be the right goal. You just have to keep moving, trust that the water will find its way.

The myth of overnight success

We live in a world that is absolutely saturated with stories of instant transformation. The pivot that changed everything. The post that went viral. The person who quit their job on a Friday and was living their dream by Monday. We consume these stories constantly, and they warp our sense of what change is supposed to look like and how long it’s supposed to take.

What those stories almost never include is the ten years before. The decade of unglamorous effort. The failed experiments that didn’t make the highlight reel. The imperfect things made consistently, slowly, that made the “overnight” success possible.

Most people who end up doing work they love have careers with the trajectory of a ping-pong ball. Not a straight line. Not a clean arc. A series of bounces, detours, and pivots that only look coherent in hindsight. The person who seems to have always known what they were doing mostly just kept going.

I find this oddly comforting. Not because it makes the gap smaller or easier to bridge, but because it acknowledges that the slowness is normal. With each tolerable step, you build a little more capacity for the discomfort until one day you look back and realise how much ground you've covered,

What I’m actually doing

So here’s where I am. I have a life I’m genuinely grateful for and dreams that currently feel out of reach. I’m trying to hold both of those things without letting one cancel out the other.

I’m still working a 9-5 and trying to position myself to someday do consulting work.

I’m writing and creating — not as much as I want to, but more than I was. Eventually, I will finish my novel. This post is part of that same practice. The imperfect, uncertain, putting-it-out-there kind that Graham says is the only real way forward.

I’m starting a Relational Dynamics 1st coaching course in the autumn — something I’ve been circling for a while, something that feels like a step toward the kind of work I actually want to do: helping people live more honestly, more creatively, more like themselves.

I don’t know exactly where these things will lead but that’s the point. The experiments are the map. I’m trying to trust that moving however slowly, however imperfectly is more useful than standing still and planning the perfect route.

A note to you, if you’re in the gap too

If you’re somewhere in the middle of this — knowing what you want but not yet living it, taking small steps that don’t feel like enough, wondering if you’re moving too slowly or in the wrong direction entirely — I want to offer you the same thing I’m trying to offer myself.

Not a five-step plan. Just: it’s allowed to take as long as it takes. Whatever “this” is for you.

Make the thing anyway. Write the draft. Sign up for the course. Talk to people. Start the project that might go nowhere. Not because you know it’s the right move, but because making things — trying, experimenting, showing up — is how the right moves reveal themselves.

So: slowly slowly, gently gently we’ll take tolerable steps towards this thing that we will eventually arrive at.

I was recently listening to a Mel Robbins interview with Dr Martha Beck while folding my laundry (as you do.. ) and I found myself crying. Not only because the things she said resonated so profoundly with me but because I was listening to someone who was so clearly and deeply living their truth.

Dr. Beck said something landed so precisely that I needed a moment to sit with it before I could keep going:

the suffering you can’t name becomes the life you can’t explain.

I paused the video. I got out my journal (laundry be damned!). And I did the exercise she describes, which sounds almost embarrassingly simple: stop, feel where the discomfort lives in your body, and find the most accurate words you can for what’s actually there.

I want to share what came up, not because its resolved, but because this exercise cracked me open and maybe someone else will recognise themselves in it too.

What The Exercise Is (And Why It Works)

Beck’s “name your suffering” practice is built on one central idea: vague pain keeps us stuck. Precise pain gives us somewhere to start.

Most of us, when we’re struggling, reach for the vague. I’m stressed. I’m tired. Something feels off. These are true, technically. But they’re also a way of staying at a safe distance from the thing that actually hurts.

Beck — drawing on neuroscience, Buddhist mindfulness, and decades of coaching — argues that when you can’t name what’s wrong, your nervous system stays in a kind of scanning mode. Searching for the danger. Unable to find it, unable to stop looking. That low-level threat-scan is the engine behind a lot of our less-useful habits: overworking, people-pleasing, scrolling at midnight, keeping busy in ways that don’t actually fill us up.

When you name the feeling precisely, something shifts. The scan can stop. The brain has a target. And often, surprisingly quickly, the body settles.

The practice itself is just a few questions:

• What am I actually feeling?

• Where is it in my body?

• What’s the most accurate word — not the easy word, the accurate one?

Not stressed - what kind? Not sad - about what? Not I just feel off - off in which direction?

Simple. And, (you guessed it) not simple at all.

What Came Up For Me

Here is what I found when I stopped running from the vague and asked for the precise.

I want to write. I want to get paid for it. I want to help people live more fully, more honestly, more like themselves. I want a creative life, not just as a hobby fitted around everything else, but as the actual center of things. I want to be surrounded by creatives and people chasing their dreams. I want to live an abundant, juicy, heart opening, expansive life. And yeah, I’d also like some financial freedom while I’m at it.

I have wanted this for a long time.

And underneath that want, when I sat with it and really looked, here is what I found:

I’m afraid of being judged.

I’m afraid I’m not worthy of it.

I’m afraid that wanting more than what I already have makes me ungrateful. That it makes me selfish. That a person who has a good life — and I do have a good life — has no right to want a different one.

I’m afraid that saying “I want more” out loud will reveal something unflattering about me. That people will think I don’t appreciate what I have. That I’m reaching. That I’m greedy.

And underneath all of that, deeper and older pain than the rest:

I’m not sure I believe that what I want matters.

I grew up understanding my value in particular ways. How I looked. Whether I was a good daughter. Whether I was easy to be around, supportive, accommodating. Whether I made the people near me comfortable. These are not bad things. But, they are not the same as learning that your desires have weight. That what you want for your own life is worth pursuing - even when it costs something, even when it makes other people uncomfortable.

I spent so much of my life in fight or flight, in survival mode. Wanting more felt like a luxury I didn’t deserve. For a long time those beliefs and behaviours kept me safe. I’m realising now that they’re also the things keeping me small. I’ve outgrown them. Yet, I’m still afraid to let them go.

The guilt of wanting more or following the path less travelled is not new to me. It has followed me around for most of my adult life, quiet and insistent: who do you think you are? Isn’t this enough? Is this sensible? (fuck, I hate sensibility)

The answer, if I’m honest, is: my life is wonderful. And it’s not enough. Both things are true at the same time, and I have spent years not letting myself hold both.

What Naming It Actually Does

Here is what Beck says happens when you name the suffering precisely, and what I found to be true: It doesn’t fix it. But it changes its quality.

Before the exercise, my fear was a weather system, something that was just there, atmospheric, hard to argue with because it was hard to locate. After the exercise, I had a list. Specific fears with specific shapes. And specific fears can be looked at, questioned, worked with. Funny enough, just writing them down has made the weight lighter.

I’m afraid of being judged - okay. By whom? For what? Is that fear protecting me from something real, or has it been running so long it’s just a habit?

I’m afraid I’m not worthy - worthy by whose measure? The measure I was handed, or the one I’d actually choose?

I’m afraid that wanting more is ungrateful - is that true? Is it actually impossible to be deeply grateful for your life and also want to grow it? Or is that a story I was taught to keep me from taking up space?

None of these questions have quick answers. But I can ask them now, because I can see the fears clearly. Before I named them, I couldn’t. They were just a general ambient resistance and restlessness, a vague feeling that I should probably want less and settle more.

That general feeling had been quietly steering my life.

Your Fear Is A Map

Suffering increases when we live out of alignment with our authentic self. It’s not always dramatic misalignment. Sometimes it’s just the slow accumulation of small denials; of what you want, what you feel, what you know to be true about yourself, until the life you’re living and the life you actually want are further apart than you realized.

The things we fear most are not random. They cluster around the things that matter most to us; the desires we haven’t given ourselves permission to have, the version of ourselves we’re most afraid to become because we want it too much to risk failing at it.

Which means the fear is information.

I’m afraid of being judged for wanting a creative life. That fear doesn’t mean I should want it less. It means I want it so much that the possibility of losing it — through rejection, through failure, through someone telling me I’m not good enough — feels unbearable.

The fear is not the opposite of the dream. It’s the outline of it.

Beck puts it plainly:

So when I look at my list — judgment, unworthiness, guilt, the terror of taking up space — I’m not just looking at my wounds. I’m looking at a map of everything I actually want.

I want to be seen. I want my work to matter. I want to do work that’s mine. I want to stop making myself small to make other people comfortable.

I’ve named it, now I have to decide what to do with that.

Because unnamed, these fears don’t stay neutral. The fear of judgment becomes a reason not to start, not to publish, not to pitch, not to put the thing out into the world you’ve been dreaming about for years. The guilt of wanting more becomes a ceiling. Self-imposed, often invisible and very effective.

Naming the suffering is how you find the gap between the life you're living and the life you actually want.

What I’m Still Working Through

I don’t have a tidy ending for this.

I did the exercise. I found the fears. I wrote them down, and now I’m sharing them with you, which is itself an act of doing the thing I’m afraid of: putting myself out there, being seen, saying this is what I want and this is what scares me in a public place where people can judge it.

That fear hasn’t gone away. I’m writing this with it still present.

But Beck’s point isn’t that naming the fear makes it disappear. It’s that named suffering is workable. Named suffering is something you can have a conversation with, something you can make conscious decisions about, rather than something that simply runs in the background deciding things for you without your knowledge.

I want to write. I want to help people. I want to work on interesting projects and with interesting people. I want to be paid for creative work that actually means something to me. I want a life that feels like mine, built around what I value, not around what is practical and makes me easy to accommodate.

I am afraid I don’t deserve that but I am saying it out loud anyway. That, as far as I can tell, is where it begins.

If something in this landed for you — if you recognized your own vague suffering in any of this — I’d love to hear what came up. The comment sections is open. So is my inbox. And if you try the exercise yourself, and want a safe space to share. I’m here.

When I was a teenager, I had to travel to school by public transport. The day began with my father dropping me off at the bus stop near his house — where I would catch the first bus of the day and had a thirty-minute journey into Utrecht. But my bus would always arrive just as the train to Leiden was pulling out of the platform. Every time. I’d watch it go, then sit at the station and wait an hour for the next one.

Then a fifty-minute train ride to Leiden Centraal. Folowed by a fifteen-minute bike ride to my tiny international school in the even smaller Oegstgeest. And back again. Every day.

Whenever I tell people about this daily pilgrimage to school, I’m always met with shock and sympathy. It wasn’t always easy and it gobbled up so much of my time I had no time for friends after school, no time for extracurriculars. But what I did have, in enormous quantities, was time with my thoughts as I observed the world.

I watched sunrises and sunsets blur past. I listened to strangers on the phone arguing with their partners, complaining about their bosses, giggling about boys. I read books. I listened to music on my iPod. But mostly I just daydreamed. Four hours a day on trains and buses, watching the Dutch landscape change with the seasons.

It felt like being stuck in purgatory at the time.

But, somewhere in that purgatory, I started writing. Poetry scribbled in notebooks. Stories I made up and never told anyone. Worlds that existed only in the fifty minutes between Utrecht and Leiden. Looking back, I think that’s probably where my love of writing and creativity grew — not in a classroom, or from a book on craft, but in the enforced stillness of a commute I couldn’t escape.

I’ve been thinking about that girl lately. About what she had that I don’t always have now.

We don’t get bored anymore. Not really. The moment stillness threatens to arrive, there’s a phone in our hand and a scroll in motion. I’m as guilty of this as anyone — I reach for my phone in lifts, in queues, in the minute it takes for the kettle to boil. Every gap filled before we even notice it was there.

But there's a counter-movement brewing. Gen Z are calling it rawdogging boredom. The act of sitting through a flight — or a commute, or a wait — with nothing. No phone, no headphones, no podcast. Just you and the window. They treat it like an achievement.

They’re not wrong.

Boredom, it turns out, does something magical. That particular quality of doing-nothing-while-going-somewhere — the window, the landscape, the strangers, the waiting — that’s where ideas came from.

Franz Kafka wrote something I keep coming back to:

“You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”

I think he’s describing exactly what that commute did for me, without me knowing it was happening.

Creativity doesn’t come from input. It comes from the gaps between input — the moments when you stop consuming long enough for something original to surface. The daydream. The stare. The hours on a platform in Utrecht waiting for a train.

These days, I don’t have a four-hour commute anymore. In fact, if I embraced my Dutchness and got on a bike, I could make it to work in under twenty minutes. But I’m a little lazy, and if I’m honest, not much of a cyclist. So I take the tram instead, even though it doubles my commute time.

Sometimes I read but more often than not, I leave my book or phone in my bag and just stare out the window. I let the landscape move, and my thoughts with it.

It’s a small thing. But it’s mine.

The third time I tried The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, I actually finished it.

The first two attempts I won’t dignify with much detail. I know I started them. I know I stopped. I couldn’t tell you exactly where or why, only that at some point the morning pages felt like homework and like most things you’re not ready for yet, they slipped through my fingers without me realising.

This time I started while on holiday in Marrakesh, writing morning pages in a garden while my boyfriend took photos of me in the early light. It felt almost too cinematic for a creative recovery programme. But I showed up on the page every day that week, and the week after, and somehow kept going.

Twelve weeks. Fifteen or sixteen in reality — I lingered where I needed to, repeated weeks that hadn’t finished with me yet. But I made it to the end.

I think the little girl in that photo up there would be thrilled.

The Artist’s Way is structured around recovering things. Each week has a theme — recovering a sense of identity, of possibility, of strength, of faith. Julia Cameron’s premise is that most of us have had our creativity damaged somewhere along the way, and the programme is about quietly, methodically getting it back.

Week after week, the morning pages did what they’re supposed to do: cleared the debris. And what was underneath the debris was a story I’d been telling myself for a long time. A story about struggle. About earning things the hard way. About trauma as identity.

It was true once. I won’t pretend it wasn’t. But at some point the story stopped describing my past and started shaping my future. I kept narrating difficulty as though it were noble, as though ease would mean I hadn’t really earned anything. And, so I kept finding difficulty in life because that’s what you find when that’s the story you’re telling.

I don’t want that story anymore. I’m tired of it.

Not everything that happened across these fifteen weeks was inner work.

My mother was hospitalised in a foreign country. I flew to London on what was supposed to be a rescue mission and wasn’t. I came home carrying a particular kind of guilt that has no clean resolution — the guilt of a daughter who loves her mother and is also exhausted by her, who has spent most of her life trying to escape the gravitational pull of someone else’s drama and keeps getting pulled back in.

Writing went to shit for a couple of weeks. I gave myself permission to let it. I took a break from my WIP manuscript and just let me focus on shorter pieces, essay and essentially anything that peaked my interest.

There was a week I tried to find a writing meetup at a library, couldn’t locate them, and ended up alone in a café in the sun with coffee and a slice of carrot cake and my notebook instead. It was the best artist’s date of the whole programme.

There were oysters in Zeeland. There was a manicure for the first time in six years. There was a fancy hotel bar after work, a glass of wine, strangers to watch.

And on Christmas Eve, in the middle of week three, my boyfriend got down on one knee. I missed my morning pages the next day. I’m hoping Julia Cameron will forgive me.

Week eleven is about recovering a sense of autonomy. Creative independence. Trusting yourself enough to claim what you actually are.

I spent two weeks on it. I could have spent three.

One afternoon, I opened LinkedIn and changed my headline. I added two words: fiction writer.

It sounds like nothing. It felt like everything. Like claiming a territory I hadn’t fully earned yet, or maybe had earned and didn’t believe I had. I sat there for a moment after I clicked save, waiting for someone to notice and call me out.

Nobody did.

That small, slightly naughty act of typing two true words about myself into a text field — that might be the thing I’m proudest of from these fifteen weeks. Not the morning pages count, not the completion. Just that.

Week twelve is about faith. Trusting the process. Letting go of control.

I’m not sure I’ve mastered either. But I finished, and that’s not nothing — this is the third time I’ve tried and the first time I’ve seen it through, which tells me something about where I am now versus where I was before.

What I know is this: I want to keep writing morning pages. I want to keep taking myself on artist’s dates, especially the accidental ones. I want to keep showing up on the page even when — especially when — I’m not in the mood.

The programme ends. The practice doesn’t.

And somewhere between Marrakesh and week twelve, I became someone who calls herself a fiction writer. Not because I finished a book (I’m working on it!). Not because anyone gave me permission.

Just because it’s true.

The little girl I did all of this for already knew that. It just took me a while to catch up with her

There it is. The generational sandwich that defines so many of us trying to make art in 2026.

The Modern Artist’s Impossible Job Description

I want to write fiction. That’s it. That’s the dream.

But apparently, being a writer now means maintaining a newsletter, taking strategic selfies, editing videos, performing dances on TikTok, and somehow still finding time to actually, you know, write. All while working part-time to keep the lights on.

Let me tell you from experience: there aren’t enough hours in the day. The math simply doesn’t work.

After a year and a half of the struggling artist routine, the kind where you’re constantly exhausted, broke, and ironically too drained to create, I made a decision that would have horrified my younger self. I went back to corporate.

Dun Dun Dun… (cue the scary music that seems to play on loop in my head)

The Ladder I Refused to Climb

But here’s the twist: this time, I ignored the ladder entirely.

No more chasing promotions for the sake of “success.” No more defining my worth by my job title. Instead, I had a plan: find the highest-paying, most people-centric job that would challenge me enough to stay engaged but not so much that it would drain my creative energy. My goals is to continue to maximise my salary over next couple of years and then minimise my hours as much as I can.

I landed on HR and Office Management. Unsexy? Maybe. Strategic? Absolutely.

“You Just Didn’t Want It Badly Enough”

Before you say it, let me address the elephant in the room. Yes, I “gave up” on being a full-time artist. No, it doesn’t mean I didn’t want it badly enough.

I wanted it. But not at the cost of:

• My mental health

• My relationships

• My financial security

• My future family

I turn 31 this year. While I’m still “young,” I’m also aware that if I want children (and I do—maybe one, maybe three or maybe I just want a second dog), that window isn’t infinite. And when I have them, I want to be present. I want financial stability. I don’t want to put that kind of stress on a relationship or pass that anxiety onto kids who inevitably pick up on everything.

These are dreams too. They’re just not the ones that make good Instagram stories.

Remembering Why We Create

In my rush to finish my book within a year, land an agent by February, and become a bestselling author by August, I forgot something fundamental: the point of the work is the work itself.

Taking a break from the hustle reminded me that art is born from life and experience. Stories exist to illuminate the truths and wisdom found in the human experience. How can you write about life if you’re too busy hustling to live it?

Leigh Bardugo says that in the age of likes and follows, we've confused the reward of creating with the reward of being praised for creating. I think about that a lot. Because the questions — "how's your writing going, is your book done yet" — are well-meaning, but they're praise-shaped. They're looking for a marker of success. And suddenly you're not writing for the love of it. You're writing to have something to report back. That’s what having a day job gave me back—the freedom to write because I love it, not because I need it to pay rent or prove that I’m success.

Het Blijft Werk (It Remains Work)

Here’s a confession: I’ve never really had to work hard for something. I’ve bullshitted my way into opportunities, fallen upwards, coasted on charm and luck. Given my childhood, I suppose anything short of addiction could be considered falling upwards.

But deep down, all I’ve ever wanted was to be an artist. I was just too scared, insecure, or traumatized to believe I could. So instead of chasing that dream, I chased short-term dopamine hits like travel, attention and distraction. And ocassionally, the fancy title and a job that bored me to death.

Now, finally, I feel like I’ve come home to myself. I’m actively working toward what brings me joy and sets my soul alight. But I’ve learned something crucial: struggle shouldn’t be the price of admission. Hard work, yes. But also play. Joy. Inspiration. Ease.

The Ten-Year Overnight Success

All around us, social media serves up overnight successes like they’re the norm. What we don’t see are the ten years it took to become “overnight.”

I want to be a professional writer. I want this to be my vocation. But I can’t predict or force how that will manifest and I don’t think I want to anymore.

Maybe in ten years, I’ll have written four books that only my family and friends read. Maybe I’ll have bestsellers. Maybe writing will remain, like my journaling, a deeply personal practice that never sees the light of day.

The only way to find out is to stick with it long enough to see.

And with my corporate job covering the bills, I finally have that luxury: time.

What creative dreams are you pursuing alongside your day job? How do you balance ambition with sustainability? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

This weeks post is thanks to a conversation that and I had recently about dating, turning 30th (congrats again Jen!), how it is to feel like you’re running out of time and the illusion of perfection when it comes to a partner.

The Imaginary Man

Before I met Stijn, I had already constructed — and mourned — the perfect partner. Imagined a partner who was emotionally fluent but not fragile. Ambitious but never consumed. Interesting but not exhausting. Deep, but not broody. Secure, but not boring. A fictional composite assembled from past relationships, romantic ideals, and the internet’s ever-evolving definition of “high value.”

And I was exhausted trying to find him.

By then, dating fatigue was real. I was done. Fully, completely, spiritually over it. I had no desire to spend another evening across from a cookie-cutter boy listening to him drone on about ice baths, remote working in Bali, and whatever productivity podcast had most recently rearranged his personality.

I got to the point where I was genuinely happier alone than tolerating drama, ambiguity, and low-effort romance. Which in retrospect is probably the best state of mind to actually be in when dating because you’re coming at it from a place of wholeness rather than searching for someone to complete you.

Regardless, I was ready to delete the apps and to take a break. Stijn was the last match I got. I remember hesitating before swiping right. He was just… too pretty. The kind of pretty that makes you assume “arrogant fuckboy” as a form of self-protection. I was certain he’d be exactly that. But he had a dog in almost every photo. And his bio was one line:

Want to go to a museum?

So I figured, fuck it, and I said yes.

Best case scenario, I’d have fun and worst case, I’d get to look at some art. We skipped the week of chatting and just planned a date. The museum plan fell through (five years later I genuinely can’t remember why), so we pivoted to bouldering at 3pm on a Sunday.

I made zero effort. I showed up in my rattiest gym clothes, mentally prepared to exercise, make polite small talk, and never see him again. I figured, I’d get a workout in and if it sucked I could claim dinner plans and exit gracefully.

To my surprise, it didn’t.

After about an hour of climbing we were both over it, but neither of us wanted the date to end. So we went for a drink.

This is the moment I knew I’d miscalculated.

Because this beautiful, funny man had brought a change of clothes and emerged looking like he was headed to a campaign shoot, while I looked like something a cat had dragged across asphalt. I was convinced he wouldn’t want to see me again.

But the conversation just flowed.

I remember laughing. I remember not wanting the evening to end. When he suggested dinner at his place, my answer was immediate. I did add that while I was happy to come over, I had no intention of sleeping with him. (Probably more a note to myself than him. I imagine he was thinking, okay… sure lady, whatever you say.) I eventually and reluctantly made my way home at 1am.

All I knew at the end of that night was that I wanted to see him again. And every day since, all I’ve known is that I want to hang out with him again tomorrow.

Five years in

Five years in, we’ve had our ups and downs. And for a while, I kept comparing him to that imaginary man and the polished, frictionless version of love I thought I was supposed to find. The moment I stopped doing that and let go of the illusion of perfection — something shifted. That’s when our relationship really blossomed.

Real love is less cinematic than we expect. It’s quieter. It’s more ordinary. It asks you to choose the person in front of you instead of the fantasy in your head. You learn to accept and love the parts of each other that drive you slightly insane.

Do I understand why he is adamant about having an open door policy when it comes to the loo? Definitely not.

And, do I always enjoy it when Stijn stops a song halfway through to ask if I hear 0.2 seconds of a beat sampled from some obscure track from the 60s? Also, no..

But I love that he knows it. I love that he stores that information somewhere in his brain. I love how deeply and sincerely he cares about music. I hope that someday our kids inherit his passion and that our home is always filled with love and music.

Let’s be clear: I am not exactly a walk in the park. I’m messy, I’m emotional and I need to be in bed by 9pm or I get cranky. It’s possible I’m just cranky in general. And yet, he loves me as I am, not as he hoped I would be. He doesn’t try to fix me. He doesn’t try to solve my problems or reshape me into something palatable. And I don’t need him to.

More than anything, he’s my friend. A steady presence walking beside me while I navigate life. And I hope I am the same for him. All I know is this: At the end of every day, I look forward to hanging out with him again tomorrow.

If we’re lucky, that will last the rest of our lives. And if it doesn’t, I’ll be grateful for however long it does.

A nice dress, some shoes, lipstick, jewellery, and undergarments. These are the things I need to gather. Squaring my shoulders, I enter the room. Deep breaths, in and out. In and out.

A king-sized bed takes up most of the room, its covers faded, a side table on either end. The left is bare while the other is crammed with an overflowing ashtray, earrings, a pack of Lucky Strikes, several strips of medication, and a small bottle of nail polish that lies on its side, a half dried blood-red smear seeping from the opening. I take another steadying breath. In and out. The smell still lingers and it makes me nauseous. Still, I move closer, grab the earrings, and put them in the front pocket of my jeans.

To the right is a window, and underneath it, a small desk and stool. I move toward them and raise the yellowing blinds to reveal a neglected garden. Opening the window fully, I lean my hands on the desk and stick my head and shoulders out, taking several breaths. The air is cool and crisp. It smells of rain. Below, overgrown weeds cover the pathway, and whatever was in the raised planters on either side of it is long dead. At the far back, there is a swing set with no swing. When was the last time I brought the kids over to visit?

The wood feels smooth under my hands, unblemished. The desk is made of solid mahogany with curved legs that sweep down to ball-and-claw feet. It’s elegant, expensive, and dated. On it lies a small vanity mirror. If I move the mirror a couple of inches to the left, it will reveal a burn mark on the wood. I don’t touch it. Instead, I take a seat on the small stool and open the top drawer. It is littered with pens, various powders, lipsticks, tiny bottles of liquor, and a faded photo of a woman with a toddler on her lap. Both are smiling stiffly. Grabbing lipsticks at random, I uncap and discard two before I find one that is nearly empty. This one, I hold on to.

I turn towards the opposite wall where the closet is located. This too is mahogany. The few dresses in it hang limply, the life sucked out of them. Black, grey, black with white flowers, black again and burgundy. They smell of her perfume. I close my eyes and breathe. In and out. I brush my fingers against them and stop at the deep burgundy lace. The fabric has become delicate, it reminds me of a withered rose. I drop my hand. Perhaps I am not strong enough to do this.

Since my teenage years, I’ve scribbled in Moleskine notebooks. Poetry sometimes. Short stories occasionally. Grocery lists, more often than I’d like to admit. I carried those notebooks everywhere — onto a one-way flight to Australia at nineteen, into a members-only poker club in India, back to Australia again. When the books were full, I wrote on napkins and on the margins of boarding passes. Tiny traces of myself, scattered across continents. Pen to paper was how I processed the world, even when I didn’t know that’s what I was doing.

For those of you who don’t know me: my name is Tamara. I’m thirty, living in Amsterdam with my boyfriend and our dog Kira. And when I look back over the last three decades, I see a girl who spent a lot of time in survival mode. Someone who drifted because drifting felt safer than standing still.

But writing followed me everywhere. It was the one thing I never fully lost.

— ✦ —

When I moved back to the Netherlands after COVID, something in me dimmed. I lost my spark. Everything felt heavy and directionless. And when I finally rediscovered the joy of writing — really rediscovered it, the way you find something you’d forgotten you’d lost — it felt like sunlight breaking through.

So in my excitement, I ran to share it.

I told people I wanted to write a book. I told them I was working on one. I told them this was finally the thing I wanted to do with my life. I said it out loud, repeatedly, to anyone who would listen.

And honestly? I kind of wish I had waited.

Here’s what nobody tells you about sharing a creative dream too early: it stops being yours the moment other people know about it. Not because they mean any harm, infact most people have been wonderful and supportive. But the questions–

“How’s your writing going?” “Is your book done yet?”

—drive me up a wall.

Because the short answers are: It’s going. And no, the book is definitely not done yet. The longer answer is messier.

The longer answer is messier. Those questions, however kindly meant, also do something insidious.They turn your private creative life into a performance you owe other people. Suddenly you’re not writing for the love of it. You’re writing to have something to report back.

Early creativity needs protecting. It’s fragile in the way that new things are fragile — not weak, just unfinished. Not ready to be held up to the light yet. I hadn’t built enough muscle in the craft before I handed my fragile creative self to the world. I hadn’t given myself enough time to experiment, fail quietly, and figure out my voice before involving everyone else in the process.

We live in a time when building in public is treated almost like a commandment. Share your process. Share early. Share often. And there’s beauty in that — there’s community in it, accountability, a kind of radical honesty I genuinely admire. But sometimes I fantasise about the other version. The one where I quietly wrote a whole book in the shadows and then one day emerged like:

Hello world, surprise. I made a thing.

Instead, I’m here battling self-imposed deadlines, perfectionism, and the nagging desire for the book to be fantastic straight out of the gate. And while I may occasionally be delusional, I’m not that delusional.

— ✦ —

The outside pressure does force me to show up on the page because I’ll be damned if I become the person who said she was writing a book and never finished it. So it’s not entirely without value. But I wish I’d given my creative self more room to be a beginner. More room to be bad before being better.

The real lesson isn’t that I should have kept it a secret. It’s that I need to treat my creative self with more gentleness going forward. To give my work space to be messy. To let the spark be small before expecting it to become a bonfire.

Right now, I’m deep in developmental edits. It’s slow going and some days the process feels like trying to untangle a necklace chain with frozen fingers. But I’m learning to love the creation phase. To appreciate the discomfort, the uncertainty, the tiny breakthroughs that only you know about because no one else is watching.

I’m still learning. Still growing. Still becoming the writer I want to be.

And that’s okay.

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With a crash, I woke to broken dreams.

Remnants of sleep slipped through my fingers,

Tangled in sleeves I had yet to grow into.

And the oak beneath my feet that was once steady and solid,

groaned under the weight of knowing.

A creak from the fourth step announcing

My descent to reality.

In the heart of our home, the predator prowled

while she cowered in the kitchen corner.

The sharp bite of Famous Grouse

mixing with iron, to burn my nose.

Was it the tears, springing unbidden, that washed away my innocence?

As I watched his hands dance with a passion born from possession

Her face, a kaleidoscope of colours

An artwork of his making

The man I would no longer call dad

And my mother.

I recently watched ‘s TED talk about the art of discomfort, and she said something that hit me right in the chest. She talked about the necessity of writing through the suck. About making space for something even when it’s uncomfortable. About continuing to create even when you doubt every word.

And honestly? It was the reminder I needed.

The reason I’m writing this piece right now is because the last couple of months have been a lot. Maybe you’ve felt it too, the heaviness, the overwhelm, the sense that life is sprinting ahead while you’re just trying to keep your feet under you. And as we creep toward the end of the year, everyone starts talking about plans for next year, goals, fresh starts, new routines.

There’s this one idea I want to poke at today:

The fantasy that sometime later will be the “perfect” time to create.

You know the version:
I’ll write after work calms down.
I’ll write after the holidays.
I’ll write after life stops being chaotic.

But what if that perfect time never arrives?
What if it’s never not chaotic?

Often there’s a quiet voice that shows up right when you open the document. The belief that the draft should be better than it is. The feeling that you should be a different version of yourself before you deserve to write. The sudden interest in rearranging the furniture.

Before we talk about pushing past barriers to writing, we have to start with the real question:

Why aren’t you creating?

And I don’t ask this with judgment. I ask it with curiosity. With kindness. And, with a hand on your shoulder because most of the barriers aren’t about skill or time; they’re about discomfort. Writing often feels bad before it feels good. It’s messy. It’s uncertain. It’s vulnerable. And finishing something requires leaning into discomfort instead of turning away from it. That’s the hard stuff. And if you’re struggling with it, you’re not alone.

In almost every case, the answer falls into two categories:

• External barriers — the world is on fire

• Internal barriers — the fire is inside your brain (doubt, fear, conflict)

And because we’re writers, let’s think of these the way we’d think about a character trying to achieve a goal.

Ask yourself:

• Are you struggling with your environment?

• Is there information you need to keep going?

• Do you feel like you lack the skills you need?

• Are other priorities pulling you away?

If these sound familiar, it’s because we’re about to talk about the MICE Quotient and how it maps onto your actual life.

Quick explanation:
The MICE Quotient breaks stories into four conflict types—Milieu, Inquiry, Character, and Event. We’re borrowing that framework to diagnose real-life writing barriers. If you want a deeper dive into the MICE Quotient, I’ve written a full post about it here:

Real life is messy, everything happens at once. Fiction simplifies; life does not. But, if you can identify which “story problem” you’re facing, you can choose the right solution instead of fighting the wrong battle.

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Inquiry: Internal Barriers That Come From Not Knowing Something

Sometimes the reason you can’t write is because you don’t know something.

Not “I don’t know how to write a book” but:

• I don’t know what happens next.

• I don’t know enough about this topic.

• I don’t know what my character wants in this scene.

This is an Inquiry problem—a gap in information.

1. If you don’t know what happens next

This is not a sign that you need a full outline.
Try this instead:

Write a list of 20 possibilities.

Twenty things your character might try, twenty goals they might have, twenty things that could go wrong. Some will be ridiculous. Some will be unusable. That’s fine. You’re not choosing, you’re generating.

This is simply a prompt to get your brain engaged with the story again.

Try rereading as a springboard

If you do know what happens next but still can’t move forward, you might’ve drifted off track.

A quick reread gets the voice, tone, and momentum back in your head. It drowns out the noise of life. It reconnects you to where you left off, especially if it’s been days or weeks since your last session.

This is also where “breadcrumbs” help: jot down the next action or goal in 7–10 words before you stop writing.

2. If you don’t know enough about something

Great news: this is a research question, not a moral failing.

Write a bullet-point list of what you’re missing:

• medieval courtyard architecture

• how naval trade works

• how cheese is dried and preserved

Then ask:
Which of these matter to the plot and which are just decorative texture?

Ignore the decorative stuff until later. Research only the things that change the outcome of a scene. And beware the research rabbit hole. You know the one:

You start looking up medieval harbour systems
…and four hours later you’re deep into the history of gin and tonic.

This is why the bullet list matters, it tells you when you’re done.

Remember:
All the data in the world is just data unless you’re asking the right questions.

Character: Internal Barriers That Come From… You

This is the big one. The uncomfortable one. Character problems are internal conflicts. They are the contradictions inside you. There are four axes of self that get tangled up:

1. Ability – “I’m not capable of writing this.”

2. Role – “My other responsibilities matter more.”

3. Relationships – “My loyalty to others outweighs my loyalty to myself.”

4. Status – “What if I fail? What if I look foolish?”

There’s a lot of overlap. For example:

• I’m not capable of writing this,
  → but maybe I would be if I took a class.
  → but I can’t afford that or I’m scared to be bad at something.

Or:

• I’d love to go on a writing retreat,
  → but I have to take care of my family.

These aren’t simple problems but they are solvable once you name them.

Ability: “I’m not good enough.”

Ask: Which part do you feel incapable of writing?

A fight scene?
Dialogue?
Bantery conversation? (Witty banter is genuinely hard.)

Once you isolate the weak spot, you can:

• address it directly

• write messy versions and iterate

• give yourself extra passes to revise

• treat it as a skill, not a flaw

As says:

“Art is iterative, and art worth consuming happens in revision.”

Role: “My other tasks take priority.”

Yes, your day job matters.
Your kids matter.
Your responsibilities matter.

But you are also one of your responsibilities. When you have two roles in conflict, and the question becomes:

How can you adjust the tasks in one role to make space for the role of writer?

It might mean sacrificing something. (Do you really need two hours of Netflix every night? No judgment—I am also guilty.)

Relationships: “I’m responsible for everyone except myself.”

This one is brutal because it feels noble. If you are spending all your time supporting others, you will eventually be too depleted to support anyone, including yourself. You are valuable. Your creative needs are not selfish. They are sacred. Have conversations with your people. Tell them what matters to you. Ask for help finding time. You’re not a bad person for wanting an hour to write.

Status: “I feel powerless.”

Status is about power—money, time, confidence, significance. It’s slippery and emotional. Here’s the truth: Writing costs a lot emotionally and almost nothing practically. It costs energy, vulnerability, and brainpower. But at the end of the day, it’s just words on a screen. If you get them wrong, you change them. They’re cheap.

You have enormous creative power: You can make worlds in your head and plant them in someone else’s mind. And doing that successfully is alchemy. The fear is: “If someone doesn’t love it, I lose status.” But that’s just a story your brain is telling you. Your status doesn’t actually drop because someone doesn’t vibe with a draft. And if someone makes you feel small? That’s the wrong person to show your work to, especially early on. Find people who can hold space for your vulnerability.

External Barriers

Now let’s zoom out.

Internal barriers are about who you are.
External barriers are about the world around you.

Milieu: Your Environment

Sometimes the space you’re writing in is the problem. Run through your senses:

• Sight: Is there clutter? Is your desk a disaster zone? Are you staring directly at a TV, a window, a pile of laundry silently judging you?

• Sound: Is it too loud? Too quiet? Is your neighbor mowing the lawn for the third time today?

• Touch: Are you uncomfortable? Slouching? Cold? Restless?

• Scent/Taste: Are you hungry? Dehydrated? Is the room stale? Are you trying to write before your second cup of coffee (a rookie mistake)?

Sometimes writer’s block is just… your body yelling for attention. Sometimes you don’t need discipline, you need a snack. And figuring out why your environment isn’t supporting you is essential because otherwise you’ll force a solution that doesn’t solve the actual problem. These things matter more than we admit.

Events: Interruptions, Time, and the Larger World

Event problems are when life barges in:

• the world being on fire

• responsibilities

• your job

• family interruptions

• too much noise

• too little time

• the sheer pull of everything that isn’t writing

It’s the outside world barging into your creative bubble. You have two choices here:

1. Change the status quo, or

2. Learn to create within the status quo.

Both are valid.

Sometimes writing requires reordering your life. If your job leaves you no energy to write, maybe a different job is part of your creative path. If you feel pulled toward activism or community work, it’s okay to choose that for a season. If your responsibilities are overwhelming, it’s okay to step back from writing while you stabilise. The key is making it a choice, not a passive slide into frustration and resentment.

When life can’t be rearranged, you adapt.

• Shorter writing sessions

• Writing on commutes

• Fifteen-minute bursts

• Early mornings or late nights

• Ditching the “perfect conditions” fantasy

And, if your life is filled with interruptions? You may need to retrain the people around you, gently but firmly.

Here’s a lifesaver for chaotic environments:

The Breadcrumb Trick

When you get interrupted mid-scene, write down 7–10 words describing the next thing your character is about to do. A tiny note to future you. When you return, you can drop right back in without having to reconstruct the entire moment.

Final Thoughts and The Real Reason This All Matters

Barriers to writing aren’t moral failings and there’s no moral high ground in writing through obstacles. There’s no gold star for suffering. And there’s no shame in stepping back when life is too much.

The point isn’t to power through every barrier. The point is to identify the barrier so you can make a real decision about it

Are you not writing because of discomfort?
Because of chaos?
Because of fear?
Because of circumstances?
Because of the world?
Because of the season you’re in?

At the end of the day, they’re just problems and problems can be defined, understood, and solved. If you can identify whether your barrier is Milieu, Inquiry, Character, or Event, then you can stop fighting yourself and start making choices that actually move you forward.

Your writing is worth that effort. You are worth that effort.

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I recently watched a lesson by Mary Robinette Kowal on writing short stories, and she spoke about an organisational theory called the MICE Quotient — and it really resonated.

Turns out, you can explain almost every story both fiction or nonfiction through a fairly simple structural lens. So let’s look at it through fiction first.

The Four Story Elements

Stories are made of four basic elements, mixed in different proportions:

• Milieu

• Inquiry

• Character

• Event

These elements help determine where a story starts and stops, and the kinds of conflicts your characters face.

Milieu

Milieu stories are driven by place.
They begin when a character enters a place and end when they exit.

Think Gulliver’s Travels, The Wizard of Oz, Harry Potter — classic Milieu stories.

Knowing where the Milieu story ends also tells you what kinds of conflict belong in the middle. Your job as the writer is to figure out what your character needs to do… and then systematically deny them the solution.

Conflicts aren’t just “things that go wrong.”
They’re obstacles that stop your character from reaching their goal.

In a Milieu story, that means keeping your character from exiting because the story ends when they do. they struggle to survive, to navigate, to find the way home.

Inquiry

Inquiry stories are driven by questions.
They begin when your character has a question and end when they find the answer.

These are mysteries like Sherlock Holmes, Poirot, Knives Out.

To sustain tension, keep your character from finding the answer: lie to them, mislead them, send them down dead ends (that’s what red herrings are for). Everything in the story conspires to keep them in the dark.

Character

Character stories are driven by angst.
They begin when a character is unhappy with themselves and end when they’ve come to a new understanding.

These are your coming-of-age stories, your romances, your transformations.

Note: character stories don’t end when the character becomes “happy.” They end when a character comes to a new understanding about themselves. These kinds of stories are very much about a character who is trying to change and the end is whether or not the character has succeeding in that change and whether or not the change makes them happy.

Conflicts that stop them from changing are things like: not letting them break out of their role, filling them with self loathing, have the change backfire. Every attempt to redefine themselves backfires, until something finally shifts.

Event

Event stories are driven by action.
They begin when the status quo is disrupted and end when it’s restored (or replaced by a new one). Anything that involves the disruption of the characters normal.

Think The Day After Tomorrow, Deep Impact, Die Hard.

Your conflicts should stop the character from restoring order. That means fight scenes, chase scenes, explosions — anything that keeps chaos alive. They try to set things right but it has unintended consequences.

Just be mean. That’s your job..

Internal vs External Conflict

It’s easy to confuse Character and Event stories.
The difference is simple:

• Character stories are internal.

• Event stories are external.

But in practice, you rarely see a story with only one thread. Single-thread stories are often… a bit dull. Most stories weave several threads together.

Multi-Threaded Stories (or, the Russian Doll Effect)

Think of it like nesting code or Matryoshka dolls.

If you start with a Milieu story and then open an Inquiry thread, you have to close the Inquiry thread before you close the Milieu one.
Otherwise, you’ll have unfinished business — the kind that makes endings feel awkward or repetitive, like a story that “ends again and again.”

A Concrete Example: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

Let’s take a look at how this works in practice.

At first glance, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone seems like a Milieu story —
it begins when Harry enters the magical world (Platform 9¾ → Hogwarts) and ends when he leaves it (back to Privet Drive).

But I would argue that its first and foremost a Character story.

<c> (character thread opened)

The story truly begins when Harry is miserable in the cupboard under the stairs.
The reader’s first question isn’t “what is this world?”
It’s “who is this boy, and why is he treated this way?”

His longing to belong, to matter, to be seen is the first real thread, that’s the story’s heart.

<m> (milieu thread opened)

When Hagrid says, “You’re a wizard, Harry,”
we open the Milieu layer: the magical world.

Hogwarts promises belonging — but it’s full of new obstacles: strange rules, rivalries, mysteries.
Everything challenges Harry’s sense of place.

<i> (inquiry thread opened)

Once he’s established in that world, the mystery begins. This thread begins when the trio first suspects something strange is happening — the three-headed dog, Snape’s odd behavior and ends when they uncover the truth in the final confrontation. They’re constantly trying to answer the question: What is the Stone and who’s after it? It closes when the truth is revealed in the final confrontation.

All the conflicts here keep them from getting the answer: misinformation, red herrings, sneaking around, breaking rules.

<e> (event thread opened)

Then there’s the external chaos:
the troll, the Quidditch matches, the final series of challenges.

Each event disrupts the world and tests whether the trio can set things right.

Closing the Loops

Now, when we “close” the story, Rowling does it in the reverse order of the threads opened:

1. </e> (event) – Voldemort defeated, Stone destroyed.

2. </i> (inquiry) – Mystery solved, Dumbledore explains why the stone revealed itself to harry.

3. </m> (milieu) – Harry leaves Hogwarts.

4. </c> (character> – Harry understands himself better.

In the final scene Harry heads home with the knowledge that Hogwarts is waiting for him — isn’t just the close of the Milieu, it’s also the resolution of his Character arc. He’s no longer the unloved boy in the cupboard. He belongs somewhere.

That’s why the ending feels satisfying. Even though the world remains mysterious, the story feels whole because every loop that opened got closed. Like nesting code or those Russian dolls everything slots neatly back into place.

The MICE Quotient and Story Length

The MICE quotient doesn’t just tell you where a story starts and stops, it also helps you control length.

Every major MICE thread you add has the potential to make your story half again as long.

Why? Because you have to keep returning to it.

Take the Inquiry thread in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Once the question of what the Philosopher’s Stone is — and who’s after it — enters the story, it has to be returned to again and again. Every clue, every red herring, every new piece of information demands space and momentum. Without that mystery, the story could have stayed focused on Harry finding his place at Hogwarts — a tighter Milieu-and-Character arc. But because the Inquiry thread runs all the way through, the story naturally stretches longer, weaving between school life, friendship, and the puzzle at the heart of it all.

The Fractal Nature of MICE

The MICE quotient is fractal.
You’ll see its pattern not just in the story as a whole, but in chapters, scenes, even single moments.

Take the Forbidden Forest detention scene. That’s a perfect little Milieu scene. It begins when the characters enter the forest, and it ends when they leave it. Everything that happens in between — the darkness, the fear, the centaurs, the glimpse of Voldemort — all of it keeps them trapped inside the space and heightens the conflict of being there. It’s a miniature reflection of the larger story structure, echoing the same rhythm: enter, face the unknown, emerge changed.

So you can have these minor things within a scene but you can also have appear for a moment then go away again. If a character has a question and then the question is answered, that is a tiny tiny inquiry thread and it exists often just for that moment. And if you don’t answer it? Some times readers will get frustrated unless you make it clear that it is a design element.

Do You Have to Answer Every Thread?

Which brings us to the question:

Do you have to answer all the major story threads?

No, but you do need to understand what happens when you don’t.

When a reader picks up a story, they’re making a quiet deal with you. They’ve signed on because they want to see something resolved — the question answered, the mystery solved, the change completed. So if you get to the end and leave a major thread hanging, especially one that’s been there since the beginning, it’s going to leave them feeling unresolved or unsatisfied.

That’s not always a bad thing. You can absolutely end without answering a major question. Leaving a big thread open creates a cliffhanger, the kind that makes readers say, “I need the next book right now.”

Another option is to introduce a new thread right at the end. That gives the reader closure for what they’ve just experienced, while still pulling them forward. It’s the balance between closure and curiosity. Answer one question fully, then open the door to the next one.

When Do You Want to Leave a Thread Unanswered?

Sometimes, though, you actually want the reader to keep thinking about a question.

This often happens when the story raises a bigger moral or emotional dilemma, especially in Character stories. Questions that don’t have one clear answer. It’s the kind of question that lingers:

What would you have done?
How would you handle this?

When you go this route, the trick to leaving the reader satisfied is to take them right up to the moment where they have everything they need to answer the question and then, let them answer it themselves.

In a Milieu story, that might mean taking a character all the way to the threshold — the point where they could leave — and then leaving it up to the reader to decide whether they do.

Sometimes you want to leave things open because life itself is messy. Not everything wraps up neatly. That can work beautifully in novels where readers are prepared for complexity and ambiguity. Short fiction, though, plays by different rules: readers are used to filling in the gaps, and often the unanswered question is the emotional punch to the gut.

When it works, it’s powerful. When it doesn’t, it just feels unfinished. If you’re going to leave a thread open, make sure you know why. And know which question you want to leave echoing in your reader’s mind. This takes control and trust both in your story, and in your reader.

The Heart of It

The MICE Quotient isn’t just a structure tool, it’s a way of understanding why and when stories feel whole. It helps you see what promises you’re making to your reader, and how to keep (or intentionally break) them.

Whether you’re writing a sprawling novel or a 1,000-word short story, knowing which threads you’ve opened and when to close them. It gives you control over your story’s emotional rhythm. Because that’s what readers are responding to, even if they can’t name it: that sense that something has completed its natural arc and that the story (and author) knows what it’s doing.

Once you start noticing these patterns, you’ll see them everywhere, in books, in films and even in conversations.

So try it:
Take a story you love and break it down into its MICE threads.
Notice where each one opens and closes.
Then look at your own work.
What promises have you made to your reader and which ones are still waiting to be fulfilled?

That’s where your story lives.
.

I only recently started chasing this dream of becoming a professional novelist.

When I was younger, I wanted to be an author. I wanted a life filled with the notebooks, the stories, the quiet kind of magic that lives in words but I thought that if I couldn’t write the next Great Gatsby or To Kill a Mockingbird, then my art wasn’t worth creating. If it wasn’t literary and profound, then what was the point?

So, like a lot of people, I set that dream aside and focused on adulting — on careers, bills, and figuring out life. Although in my case, I often found I was not very good at the adulting part.

Everyone around me seemed to be doing the sensible thing. Building stable careers, climbing ladders and collecting promotions. I kept hearing that work is just work, that it doesn’t have to be more than that. But I’ve never really believed that. I think you can find a career — creative or not — that you’re passionate about, one that makes your heart soar. The kind of work that doesn’t just pay the bills, but makes you feel alive while doing it.

The Voice That Wouldn’t Go Away

And maybe that’s why, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, that quiet knowing never went away. The one that whispers, you’re meant for more than this.

I kept job-hopping, chasing the next shiny new thing, hoping it would quiet that voice. It never did.

So I decided to try my luck at writing again.

In the first six months, I took two creative writing courses, hoping they’d spark something; a story, a style, a sense of direction. I didn’t know what kind of writer I wanted to be yet.

But I did know one thing: I’ve always loved fantasy. As a child and even now, those stories were home. So, I figured why not start there?

Still, nothing came.

Not until one class assignment.

The Spark: Maggie

I had recently watched King Arthur: Legend of the Sword, and one of the minor characters caught my attention, a noblewoman named Maggie. In the movie, she’s a courtier in the traitor king’s court, outwardly loyal but secretly passing information to the resistance. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

What makes someone like that risk everything, their position and their safety for a dream of resistance?

When I sat down to write my assignment, the words just came. I was only supposed to write two pages. I ended up writing ten.

And I remember sitting back, reading those pages, and thinking:
I think I’ve found my story.

The First Draft (and the Doubt)

So I kept going.

I took that little spark of a scene and tried to build a whole novel around it, sticking close to the movie’s inspiration but telling everything from Maggie’s perspective.

It worked. Sort of. I got to 70,000 words — my first full draft ever.

It was the first time I’d ever finished something that big, and it felt incredible. Until it didn’t.

Because when I read through that first draft… I found myself getting bored.

The story felt too familiar basically Hamlet meets King Arthur.
The magic system was muddy.
The promise, progress, and payoff didn’t quite line up.

And worst of all, I didn’t love it. Not the characters, not the world.

The Question I Keep Asking

So here I am, sitting with this draft that taught me so much and wondering: What now?

Do I keep pushing through, give myself a deadline, finish it no matter what, and call it done?

Or do I thank this story for what it gave me. That it for everything it taught me about structure, character, and persistence and let it rest, at least for now?

Part of me feels like putting it away would be failure.
I’ve told people I’m writing a book and to go back and say, “I didn’t finish it,” feels like admitting defeat.

But another part of me wonders if finishing it just to finish it would be the real failure.

Maybe the braver thing is to say: This isn’t the story I want to tell anymore.

Maybe This Is the Work

The more I think about it, the more I realise that this is part of becoming a writer.

It’s not just about finishing one book. It’s about learning to listen to your instincts, your curiosity, your joy. The first story doesn’t have to be the one that changes your life. Sometimes, it’s just the one that changes your direction.

Maybe Maggie was never meant to be the story I tell the world.
Maybe she was just the one that got me to sit down and start.

And maybe that’s enough.

The Messy Middle

I don’t have a tidy answer yet, I’m still somewhere in the middle of this. But I’m starting to believe that not every unfinished thing is a failure.

Some things are just stepping stones and other things just need time.

Maybe it’s okay to set something aside for a while and give yourself the space to grow, to learn, to live a little so that when you return to it, you can see it with clearer eyes.

Maybe this isn’t about letting go at all, but about allowing myself to come back to the story when I’m ready, with new tools, new questions, and a deeper understanding of what I want to say.

And maybe that’s part of the process too.

I used to think setting goals was about discipline and that if I was serious enough or organised enough or wanted it badly enough, I would just…do the thing. And if I didn’t do it, then clearly the problem was me.

Spoiler: that is not how my brain works.

Maybe yours doesn’t either. Maybe you want to write or finish something or build something, but every time you make a plan it feels like you’re trying to follow someone else’s blueprint for life. And then overwhelm hits, and procrastination shows up wearing its “this totally counts as productivity” disguise, and suddenly you’re deep-cleaning a drawer you didn’t even know existed instead of doing the thing you meant to do.

So this week, I want to talk about realistic goals that work with your brain and your life instead of against it. We’re going to start small, like tiny-tiny, and work from there.

There are a couple of baked in assumptions here:

1. You want to set a goal

2. You know how your brain works

How Does Your Brain Work?

A goal that is right for someone else and may sound right and shiny for you may be the wrong goal for you. Before we get started on the goals, let’s take a minute to use character tools to examine ourselves - I am after all, a writer.

Objective vs. Super-Objective

First the thing you need to figure out is what you actually want. In fiction, characters have:

• Super-objective — their overarching drive, the big internal thing they’re trying to feed or protect

• Objective — the concrete goal right in front of them

This works in real life, too. The reason this works is because writing and writing stories is about breaking up the way the real world works into pieces that we can then give to a character and the reason it feels satisfying when we watch a character go through it is because it is something that feels satisfying in real life. But having said that there are several ways for this to fail and that is where the reasonable goals come in.

A “reasonable goal” = a concrete objective that is measurable and within your control. Such as:

“Finish a novel”

“Take a workshop”

“Post once a week on Substack”

Things that are not concrete measurable results that are not within your control are things like:

“Become a better writer”

Better how? By what metric? That needs definition because “better” could mean anything - confidence, technique, publishing credits, dialogue skills. Once you define it (“learn dialogue tools”), it becomes measurable. You need something that you can measure, that is in your control and that has a concrete result.”

Understanding Your Super-Objective

Your super-objective is the engine behind your goals. It’s usually tied to one of three core needs:

• Safety

• Connection

• Empowerment

And yes, this sounds a lot like trauma therapy…

It is a useful metric to help you think about something that can be a fulfilling goal for yourself. Frequently what we are trying to do is feed or protect one of these. We’re trying to make ourselves feel safe, connected or empowered.

Safety goals

• Paying rent

• Leaving a harmful situation

• Or even taking risks — sometimes risk-taking is an attempt to build tolerance and feel safer on the inside

Connection goals

• Marriage

• Spending time with loved ones

• Building community

Empowerment goals

• Learning dialogue by taking a writing workshop

• Going to the gym

• Walking away from what doesn’t serve you

None of these are right or wrong. What you should be thinking about is if the things you are reading are resonating and also evaluating any goals you’ve had in the past and times in your life that you’ve felt good about because those are probably times in your life you’ve fed one of these potential super objectives.

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Who Do You Want to Be?

Write down five adjectives to describe the future you.

Not the perfect you — just the directional you. If you want to share them in the comments you are welcome to (I’d love to hear from you) but you don’t have to.

I would like to be someone who is capable of being generous, someone who has freedom in my life. I would like to be someone who builds others up. And while I have elements of that in my life now, I want more of that. If I were going to write five adjectives to describe me now, it would include things like stuck or fearful.

And from an external point of view that may not make sense and it doesn’t have to. But from an internal point of view; I’m working a job that I’m not passionate about while I build this dream of becoming a professional writer and I’m struggling with editing my novel for example. There’s a lot of things that can make me feel boxed in and this future version of myself is someone who doesn’t feel that way. This helps me set goals because I know that’s what I am aiming for.

Five adjectives that describe the future me are:

• Secure

• Curious

• Generous

• Free

• Strong

Some of these I already have pieces of. Some feel farther away. That’s fine. For now, the goal is just to hold those in your mind. You may find that the adjectives you’ve come up with are not correct and that you’re just auditioning them and you’re going to change them as you go forward.

Creating the Roadmap

You’ve kind of got an idea of what your super objectives are and now you’re are going to set objectives that are going to feed or protect that super objective. And each of those are also going to hopefully get you closer to being this ideal version that you are aiming for because just jumping to that ideal version immediately is not reasonable.

We’ll use a three-part structure to pair your super-objective with practical goals:

1. Big Goal

2. Milestones

3. Immediate small-step objective
   

Big goal

This is something definable, actionable, and in your control. My current big goal is: finish and start querying my novel. Not reasonable as a single step — but definable. within my control and 100% doable.

Milestones

What are the in-between steps? Write 5 steps between you and the goal?

For example - complete a novel (and lets pretend you haven’t written a single word).

1. Idea

2. Plan

3. Write

4. Edit

5. Submit

Sounds simple right? Not really.. This is not a reasonable goal at this point because this is so big and abstract. It’s a destination without a road. Where we start to get something more reasonable is by looking at the immediate small scale objectives.

Right now, I’m not at the idea stage. My current milestone = Edit

And editing is its own mountain. It’s one thing to write freely, to pour the story out, but editing asks you to hold the whole thing in your head and also be deeply inside one sentence at a time and that is a strange and heavy place to stand. It is work that often makes you suddenly interested in reorganizing your pantry or researching high-end olive oil brands or deciding that now is the perfect time to dust the baseboards..

So how do I get from “Edit” to the smallest task?

I break it down the same way. I don’t say “edit the novel” because that’s a recipe for staring at my laptop like it personally offended me. Instead I say things like:

• Read-through & assess

• Structural edits / rewrites

• Scene-by-scene revision

• Line edits

• Polish & consistency pass

Immediate small-step objective

What’s the smallest thing you can do next?

For “Idea,” it might be: Open a brainstorming document.

For my current “Edit” stage, the very first micro-steps are:

• Open the manuscript

• Decide where notes will go

• Create a doc titled “Revision Notes”

• Skim chapter one and jot down gut reactions (no editing yet)

That’s it. Small, doable, momentum-building.

Scheduling Your Goals

One of the problems that a lot of us run into when we set goals is that it sounds great until you have to intersect that goal with your actual life. So lets intersect your goal with real life.

Ask:

• How long will it take? (Double it — something always pops up.)

• When will you do it?

I write ~1,000 words/hour on a great day. In reality? Life interrupts — boyfriend, dog, research rabbit holes. So I double the time estimate.

If I think a chapter will take 3 hours, I plan for 6.

And if you don’t hit the full word count? It still counts as progress. It’s still reasonable.

You can also flip it:

How much time can I afford?

Maybe you have 10 hours. Great — schedule those. If it takes less, bonus time for something else.

When You Get Stuck

Sometimes what happens is you thought the goal was clear. You were excited. But then: nothing…

This isn’t failure — it’s a sign the task needs to shrink. Break down that milestone down into even smaller goals.

Ask yourself:

• What can I do this week?

• Today?

• Right now?

Find the smallest step that moves you forward. Small steps is how things get done.

Will This Path Work for You?

Some people need hard deadlines. I do — otherwise I procrastinate forever. Someone with severe anxiety might collapse under that pressure.

Be honest with yourself about what works.

What Are Your Priorities

Lets go back to that future self you were thinking about earlier. What priorities does that future self have?

For example, the version of my future self has freedom to have a day completely off if and when I want to. In order to do that though, I’m going to have to set boundaries which means I can start setting boundaries now (small ones) in order to have days that are completely off now.

In other words, what is the thing that gets you excited? The thing that you work for and that pulls you forward. What is that super objective that you are feeding. Are you fed by challenges or are you fed by rewards? Are you fed by praise? What is going to help move you forward towards your goal?

External Barriers

You’re also going to think about what are the things that get in the way. Where are your resources limited? Are they limited with time, with money, with quiet? Here are a couple of examples of external barriers.

• Money

• Quiet Space

• Caregiving Responsibilities

• Time

What boundaries would your future self set in order to protect those limited resources? Can you set those boundaries now? Or a smaller version of them?

Internal Barriers

Where does your brain get in the way? For example, my executive function is sometimes in real short supply. Or is it energy? Doubt? Or more accurately the resource would be (lack of) faith. What’s the thing that makes you go “Nope, not today.”

• Executive function

• Energy

• Doubt

• Perfectionism

When we are talking about the path to your goal, you’ll need to figure out ways to work about your barriers. These are just things to work with, not against. Plan around them.

Exercise

If you’re feeling inspired, feel free to complete the exercise below.

Fill this in:

What:
Barrier:
Action:
When:
Milestone achieved:

My example:

What: Finish my novel
Barrier: Time to focus
Action: Block writing time on calendar
When: Right after writing this
Milestone: Complete notes on next chapter

Tiny steps. A brain that is a friend, not an enemy.

I know the goal.
I know the steps I need to take to get there.

But it’s the in-between moments that occasionally trip me up.

I’m currently writing my first novel and when I’m in the flow, when the words come easily and the world I’m building feels as real as my own, I can almost touch it. The goal feels close enough to taste. I’m in what people like to call “the vortex” or in the flow — that sweet spot of creation where time dissolves and purpose hums through your veins.

But then there are the other days. The ones where I fall so completely out of that vortex that I can’t even see its edges. On those days, the weight of my current reality presses in. I worry about money as I work part-time in hospitality to make ends meet. I worry that I’m falling behind when I look at my peers. I worry that my partner and I won’t be able to afford the kind of future we dream about. And yes, I worry that my eggs are quietly shrivelling up while I chase stories that may never make a cent.

I try to take comfort in the idea that nothing is permanent, that these feelings will pass but when I’m in them, I feel them fully.

And quite frankly, it sucks.

It sucks to field questions about when my book will be done (my goal is January 2026, but I’ve learned that art flows through you, not from you).

It sucks to turn down yet another social invitation because it’s not in the budget.

It sucks to get messages from recruiters offering cushy salaries and fancy titles — a life that would, on paper, make more sense — and still know, deep down, that saying no is the only choice that feels right.

People talk about “taking a leap of faith” when pursuing a dream. But faith, I’m learning, isn’t a dramatic leap into the unknown, it’s the quiet decision to keep moving forward. It’s about showing up even when you don’t feel inspired. It’s trusting that the small, consistent steps will lead somewhere, even when the finish line is still hidden behind fog. For me, my leap of faith has been a slow, faithful trudge.

Step by step. Day by day. Scene by scene.

So, I keep showing up. Even on the days when the words won’t come. Even when I feel behind, unseen, or unsure. Because despite the uncertainty, despite the doubt and the fear and the spreadsheets that don’t quite add up, I know this is something I have to pursue. Not because it’s easy or certain or even smart, but because the pull toward it feels truer than anything else. Because when I imagine not doing it, not trying, not finishing — that’s the thought that really terrifies me.

For anyone else out there trudging toward something that feels impossibly far away — I see you.

Keep going. The vortex will return.

Recently, I watched a lecture on structure by Mary Robinette Kowal that cut through the noise in a way that felt both practical and grounding. Instead of focusing on character arcs or prescribed beats, it offered five tools we can actively control as writers. Together, they spell PILOT:

• Pace

• Intent

• Lens

• Order

• Tension

Structure isn’t about rigid formulas, it’s about tools you can actually use.

What struck me most is that these aren’t abstract rules. They’re levers you can actually pull to shape a reader’s experience. Characters and events matter, of course, but it’s how we present them through these principles that gives a story its power.

Pace

Pace isn’t just about how long a scene is, or how many words are on a page. It’s about rhythm, the breathlessness of a chase scene versus the stillness of a quiet conversation.

We control pace with sentence length, punctuation, paragraph breaks, and contrast. Short, clipped sentences, tight paragraphs, and lots of white space speed things up. Longer sentences, layered description, and lingering moments of reflection slow things down. It’s not about fast or slow being better, it’s about choosing the right rhythm for the scene.

In my own draft, I saw this clearly during a battle sequence. The fight dragged on and felt dull until I cut my sentences down to fragments: blows, movements, sounds. Instead of trying to describe everything, I zoomed in and focused on a couple of vivid details. Suddenly, the scene felt alive. On the other hand, when my protagonist Maggie reflects on a loss, the writing needed room to breathe. Long sentences, careful imagery, space to sit in the grief.

Pace is less about word count, more about rhythm.

Intent

Every scene needs a reason to exist. That doesn’t always mean moving the plot forward but it could be revealing character, building atmosphere, or planting a question in the reader’s mind.

When a scene feels flat, I ask: Why is this here? What work is it doing?

This was a big lesson for me. In my first draft, I had a chapter where Maggie wandered through the city. I loved writing the description; the crooked streets, the graffiti, the way dragon-lore lingers in alleyways. But when I looked at it later, the scene had no intent. It didn’t push the story or deepen character. It was just indulgence.

If a scene has no intent, it has no reason to exist.

Intent doesn’t kill creativity, it sharpens it. It’s also what gives us confidence as writers: if you know why you’re telling a scene, you’re less likely to get lost inside it.

Lens

Lens is all about perspective. Who is telling the story? Who are we experiencing it through? And maybe most importantly, who are we telling it to?

Change the lens and you change the meaning. Imagine the same event written from the perspective of a terrified child, a jaded soldier, or an outsider looking in. Each will land completely differently, even if the facts don’t change.

I think about this constantly in my draft. When I write scenes through my FMC Maggie’s point of view, they’re sharp and suspicious. She notices tone shifts, coded words, small betrayals. But when Ellowen is the lens, everything feels different: softer, more trusting, sometimes painfully naive.

The lens reshapes the emotional truth of the moment.

Order

Life is continuous, but stories are framed; we decide where to begin, what to reveal, and when to reveal it.

Change the order, and you change the meaning. Think about how mystery novels withhold key facts until the final act. Or how a story told out of order (flashbacks or intercut timelines) creates a different emotional experience than one told chronologically.

Order is the principle I struggle with most. I’m constantly asking: Do I show this now, or hold it back? Too early, and the story lost mystery. Too late, and readers might feel cheated. I went back and forth until I realised the placement of specific reveals wasn’t about the fact itself but it was about how much tension I wanted in the scenes leading up to it.

Order isn’t just about chronology. It’s about managing emotional payoff.

Tension

Tension is what keeps readers turning pages, but it doesn’t always mean conflict. A story can have no battles at all and still thrum with tension through anticipation, suspense, or unanswered questions.

It’s in the hush before a confession. The pause before a door opens. The unspoken question hanging between two characters. The way we lean forward when we sense something is coming but don’t yet know what.

In my novel, some of the most gripping moments weren’t sword fights, but conversations where the truth hovers just out of reach, when a character senses danger without being able to name it or the question hanging between two characters that neither will say aloud. That tension, that fragile not knowing, can be every bit as powerful as swords clashing.

Readers don’t need constant conflict — they need reasons to keep turning pages.

Why This Excites Me

As someone who just finished a messy first draft, this framework was a relief. It reminded me that structure doesn’t have to mean rigid formulas or beat sheets. Instead, it’s about tools I can actually use.

The next time I hit a flat scene as I work through the revision process, instead of panicking, I’ll run through these five questions:

• If a chapter feels slow, I’ll check the pace.

• If a scene feels pointless, I’ll revisit the intent.

• If the emotion feels off, maybe it’s the wrong lens.

• If a twist falls flat, the order might need rethinking.

• And if I’m bored while reading my own work, I’ll ask where the tension went.

It’s not about fixing everything at once. It’s about knowing which lever to pull when the story falters.

For You

If you’re revising a draft (or just starting one), try running your scenes through this PILOT framework. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing fantasy, romance, or literary fiction, these five levers are universal.

And if you’re anything like me, you’ll find that the more you practice pulling them, the more natural storytelling starts to feel.

I’d love to know: which of these five do you find the hardest to manage? For me, it’s definitely order.

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The hardest part of writing my first draft was simply this: making sure I sat down every day and did the work.

It sounds simple. But it wasn’t.

Showing Up Anyway

Some mornings I was tired, or stressed, or convinced the scene I was about to write was going to be terrible. Some nights I’d stare at the blinking cursor, every sentence coming out stilted, and want to throw the whole thing away.

It wasn’t glamorous, and it rarely felt like inspiration was striking. More often it felt like trudging through mud.

What surprised me was that the biggest battle wasn’t with my story — it was with myself. With the voice in my head that whispered: This isn’t good enough. You’re wasting your time.

That voice was tempting. I wanted to go back, polish the early chapters, make them shine. I wanted to escape the discomfort of writing scenes that didn’t feel right.

But I knew if I gave in to that, I might never reach the end.

Setting a Deadline

To keep myself on track, I set a clear deadline. I knew most writers draft anywhere from 500 to 1,000 words in an hour. So I gave myself a minimum of two hours a day on weekdays and four hours on weekends.

It was an aggressive schedule to balance with work, relationships, and a social life but I was obsessed.

I fully understand this kind of routine isn’t realistic for everyone. Life looks different for each of us. For me, it was about learning what I could handle, and giving myself the best possible chance of actually finishing.

Having that deadline meant I couldn’t just “wait for inspiration.” It forced me to sit down, open the document, and chip away at the story whether I felt like it or not.

Keeping Momentum

The other rule I set for myself was this: no revising until the draft was done.

That was hard for me. I love tweaking sentences, smoothing out paragraphs, perfecting details. But I realized that if I kept circling back, I’d stall out completely.

Instead, I forced myself to keep moving forward, even when what I wrote felt clunky or thin. I tried to remind myself constantly: the process of trial and error includes error. None of the missteps, the wrong turns, the clumsy scenes was wasted effort. It was all part of moving forward. A first draft isn’t the final book but rather clay I can shape later.

Some days that meant writing scenes I knew I’d eventually delete. Some days it meant leaving brackets like [insert description later] just to keep the words flowing.

Momentum mattered more than perfection.

Tracking Progress

What kept me going and honestly saved me was a word count tracker.

Every time I added a new chunk of words, I’d update the tracker and watch the bar inch forward toward my 80,000-word goal.

It sounds simple, but seeing my progress visualized gave me something tangible to hold onto on the days when the writing itself felt bad. Even if I only wrote 500 words, the line crept upward. It reminded me that small steps were still steps.

Slowly, almost invisibly, the numbers added up. It also helped that my ever-patient and supportive boyfriend would ask me every day what percentage I was at.

What I Learned

Finishing a first draft taught me that writing isn’t just about inspiration or talent — it’s about persistence. It’s about showing up, day after day, even when you don’t feel like it.

Brandon Sanderson puts it best:

That line helped shift my perspective. Even if what I was writing felt unfinished or unpublishable, the hours weren’t wasted. They were shaping me; my skills, my resilience and my understanding of the craft. That growth is the real reward.

Some days I wrote fast, and the words poured out. Other days I scraped together a few sentences. But they all counted.

In the end, my first draft was painfully messy but it was done. And that mattered more than anything else.

Because you can’t revise a blank page.

For You

If you’re struggling with your own draft, here’s what helped me:

• Set a deadline you can realistically stick to. It doesn’t have to look like mine, but give yourself a finish line.

• Sit down every day, even for 20 minutes. Consistency beats intensity.

• Don’t revise yet. Let the draft be messy — it’s supposed to be.

• Track your progress. Whether it’s a word count bar, a calendar, or a simple checklist, make the invisible work visible.

And remember: the hardest part isn’t writing the perfect sentence. The hardest part is not giving up before you reach the end. Writing a novel is a long road, but you don’t have to walk it perfectly. You just have to keep walking.

So here’s to messy first drafts, stubborn persistence, and progress that’s slow but steady.

If you’re in the trenches too, I’d love to hear: what’s been the hardest part of writing your draft?

Hi, I’m Tamara.

I am a writer, but first and always, I am a reader. From an early age, books claimed me completely; I would be transported into their worlds, breathless to know what awaited on the next page, desperate to see if the heroes would succeed despite seemingly insurmountable odds.

As soon as I would finish a book, I would knock on the door of my fathers office, and ask if he had something else for me to read. We’d walk together into the living room, where wall-to-wall shelves towered over me, equal parts treasure trove and mystery. I’d watch impatiently as his hand drifted along the spines, weighing one book against another until he plucked out the perfect next choice.

In those moments, I felt like I had my own personal library, and dedicated librarian. That sense of wonder and love for stories that my father gifted me has never left me, and it’s what pulled me toward writing stories of my own.

For the past five months, I’ve been holed up writing the first draft of my fantasy novel. It’s messy, way too long in some places, painfully thin in others but it’s done. And if you’ve ever tried to write a book, you know that’s both a triumph and just the beginning.

I’m taking a short breather before diving into the second draft. But while I rest, I’ve been thinking about how much I’ve learned in the process; about storytelling, discipline, doubt, and the strange magic of trying to bring a world to life on the page. The lessons other writers have shared about their own processes have been invaluable to me, and I want to pay that forward by sharing what I’m learning in real time.

What you’ll find here:

• Writing lessons in real time — the things I’m learning about character, plot, worldbuilding, and revision, and who I’m learning them from.

• Reflections from the trenches — honest accounts of what it feels like to wrestle with drafts, self-doubt, and deadlines.

• Curated resources — the podcasts, craft books, and other writers who are teaching me along the way.

Think of this as a space where we figure it out together. A mix of journal, craft notes, and resource hub.

If you’re:

• Writing your own novel (or dreaming about it).

• Fascinated by the process of how stories are built.

• Looking for honest reflections rather than “perfect” advice…

…then you’ll hopefully feel at home here.

What’s next?

I’ll be sharing new posts twice a month to start, with topics like:

• 3 Things Writing a First Draft Taught Me About Writing and Storytelling

• The Hardest Part of Writing Fantasy (and How I’m Trying to Solve It)

• How to use Micro-Tension to pull your readers along

Writing is often painted as a solitary thing, but it doesn’t have to be. My hope is that this newsletter becomes a little corner of connection and a reminder that we’re all stumbling our way forward, draft by draft, scene by scene.

Thanks for being here at the beginning. I can’t wait to see where this goes.

— Tamara