As January comes to a close, I find myself drawn to reflection. There’s something about endings that invites us to pause, to look back at the path we’ve walked before stepping forward into what comes next. It’s a moment to celebrate the progress we’ve made, the lessons we’ve learned, and the small joys that carried us through.

This month, I’ve spent a lot of time reconnecting with the roots of my creativity—finding inspiration in simple things, revisiting the threads of connection that shape us, and practicing patience in the quiet moments. Each post, each story, felt like tending a garden, nurturing ideas that might not bloom immediately but will one day.

The Lessons of January

Here are a few lessons January taught me, lessons I hope to carry into the rest of the year:

1. Inspiration is Everywhere
   Whether it’s a steaming loaf of honey bread, a walk through the woods, or the quiet resilience of a garden, the world is full of stories waiting to be noticed.

2. Patience is a Gift
   Growth takes time, whether it’s a seed in the soil or an idea on the page. Trusting the process isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it.

3. Connection Matters
   Stories are threads that weave us together. The more we share—our struggles, our joys, our dreams—the richer the tapestry becomes.

A Month of Gratitude

One of my favorite practices at the end of each month is to write down a few things I’m grateful for. This January, I’m grateful for:

• The moments of stillness that allowed me to recharge.
• The stories that emerged, even on days when the words felt slow.
• The connections with readers, friends, and family who remind me why storytelling matters.

Gratitude has a way of grounding us, reminding us of the beauty in what we have, even as we look toward what’s next.

What Did January Teach You?

As we close the chapter on this first month of the year, I’d love to know what January brought into your life. What lessons did you learn? What moments stood out?

Whether it’s a big accomplishment or a small, quiet joy, I hope you’ll take a moment to reflect—and if you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Looking Ahead

Endings are beginnings in disguise. As we step into February, I’m excited to see where the stories take me next. There’s a whole year ahead, full of blank pages waiting to be filled. And while I can’t see the whole picture yet, I know the seeds planted this month are already starting to grow.

Here’s to the beauty of looking back—and the promise of what’s to come. Let’s keep writing, growing, and connecting, one story at a time.

Every story must end, but not all endings are created equal. Some arrive with a thunderclap, others with a whisper. Some leave us satisfied, while others leave us haunted, turning the final pages over and over in our minds. Endings, more than any other part of the story, carry the weight of everything that came before. They are the echoes that linger, the last impression we carry.

As I reflect on January, I can’t help but think about the endings I’ve written—and the ones I’ve yet to write. Each one is a puzzle piece, a deliberate choice that brings closure but also leaves room for the imagination to roam. Because the best endings don’t just wrap up the story; they expand its reach, ensuring it lives on long after the final word.

The Anatomy of an Ending

Crafting a meaningful ending is both an art and a responsibility. It requires care, precision, and a willingness to leave some threads untied. Here’s how I approach it:

1. Honesty Above All: An ending must feel true to the story. It doesn’t have to be happy or tidy, but it does need to honor the journey that came before it.

2. Echoes of the Beginning: I often revisit themes, imagery, or questions from the opening scenes, creating a sense of symmetry that feels inevitable yet surprising.

3. Lingering Questions: Not every mystery needs solving. Sometimes, the unanswered questions are the ones that linger longest in a reader’s mind, keeping the story alive in their imagination.

4. Emotion First, Resolution Second: People remember how a story made them feel more than they remember the details. I focus on delivering an emotional payoff that resonates, whether it’s joy, sorrow, or a mix of both.

Endings That Stay With Us

Some of my favorite endings are the ones that refuse to let go. The ones that challenge us, unsettle us, or make us rethink everything that came before. Stories like those remind me that endings aren’t just conclusions—they’re invitations. They ask us to reflect, to imagine, and to carry the story with us into the world.

As I write my own endings, I think about the stories that shaped me, the ones that left their mark. I hope that, in some small way, my words can do the same for someone else.

How Do You Like Your Endings?

What makes an ending memorable for you? Do you crave resolution, or do you prefer a touch of ambiguity? Share your favorite endings—books, movies, or even personal stories—in the comments.

As January comes to a close, I’m reminded that every ending is also a beginning. The story might end, but the journey continues. Let’s see where the next chapter takes us.

There’s a certain fear that comes with revisiting old writing. It’s like looking at old photos of yourself—equal parts nostalgia and cringing at questionable choices. But this week, I dusted off a project I hadn’t touched in years, and to my surprise, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected.

Sure, there were clunky sentences and ideas that didn’t quite land, but there were also moments of genuine creativity and heart. It was a reminder of how far I’ve come as a writer and how much passion I’ve poured into this journey, even in the early days.

Why Revisit Old Work?

Revisiting old projects isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s an opportunity for growth and inspiration. Here’s what I’ve learned from the process:

1. See Your Progress: Comparing my old work to my current writing showed me just how much I’ve grown. It’s easy to focus on what still needs improvement, but looking back is a powerful reminder of how far I’ve come.

2. Find Hidden Gems: There were lines, characters, and concepts I’d completely forgotten about that still have potential. Sometimes, the spark of a new project is hiding in an old draft.

3. Reignite the Passion: Revisiting a story I once loved reminded me why I started writing in the first place. That excitement and curiosity are still there, waiting to be tapped into.

What I Rediscovered

The project I revisited this week was a short story I started years ago. It wasn’t perfect (far from it!), but it had heart. As I read through it, I found myself thinking about how I’d approach it now—with more skill, more perspective, and a lot more confidence.

And maybe that’s the greatest gift of revisiting old work: the chance to breathe new life into something you once thought was finished.

Have You Looked Back Lately?

Whether you’re a writer, artist, or just someone with old journals or sketchbooks tucked away, I challenge you to revisit them. What parts still resonate? What makes you cringe? Most importantly, what can you learn from it?

Sometimes, the best way to move forward is to look back and remember where you started. There’s joy in the journey—and it’s always worth celebrating.

Writing advice is everywhere. “Write every day.” “Show, don’t tell.” “Kill your darlings.” (RIP to all the characters I should have axed but couldn’t.) While some advice is gold, let’s be honest: not all of it fits every writer. I’ve come to realize that the best advice is the stuff that works for you—even if it means ignoring the so-called rules.

This week, as I wrestled with a particularly stubborn scene, I found myself breaking every piece of “good” advice I’d ever heard. And you know what? The world didn’t end. My laptop didn’t explode. My draft didn’t combust. In fact, I might’ve stumbled onto something that works better for me than any writing manual ever could.

Writing Advice I Always Ignore

1. “Write Every Day”
   Who came up with this, and were they okay? Sure, daily writing sounds great in theory, but some days, I just don’t have it in me. Sometimes I need to think, plan, or—let’s be real—binge my favorite show. And that’s okay. Creativity isn’t a factory; it’s a messy, unpredictable thing.

2. “Never Use Adverbs”
   Let me tell you this loudly and unapologetically: I love adverbs. Sometimes, they’re exactly what the sentence needs. Could I rewrite “She said quietly” to something more descriptive? Sure. But does it always matter? Not really. Sometimes, an adverb is perfect.

3. “Outline Everything”
   Outlining is my nemesis. I’ve tried it. I’ve failed at it. I’ve cried about it. These days, I write with the barest skeleton of a plan and let the story surprise me. Is it chaotic? Yes. But it’s my kind of chaos.

What Works for Me

Breaking the rules doesn’t mean throwing structure out the window. It means finding what fuels your creativity instead of stifling it. For me, that looks like:

• Writing in Bursts: Some weeks, I’ll write every day. Other weeks, I won’t touch my draft. I let the rhythm of my creativity guide me.
• Trusting My Instincts: If something feels right—whether it’s an adverb, a random plot twist, or a character that showed up uninvited—I run with it.
• Making Room for Fun: Writing doesn’t have to feel like homework. The best scenes I’ve written came from letting myself play, experiment, and laugh at my own ridiculous ideas.

Advice I’d Actually Give

If I were to give advice to another writer (or even myself), it would be this:

1. Do What Works for You: Forget the rules if they don’t serve you. Write at midnight, use all the adverbs, and keep the characters everyone tells you to kill. It’s your story.
2. Let Yourself Be Messy: First drafts aren’t supposed to be perfect. Let them be wild and weird—you can always clean them up later.
3. Find Your Joy: Writing is hard, yes, but it should also be fun. If you’re not enjoying it, something’s off.

What Advice Do You Ignore?

I know I’m not the only one who has tossed a piece of writing advice out the window. What’s a rule you always break? Or maybe there’s advice you swear by that others can’t stand. Let’s hear it—I’m always curious about how other writers navigate this beautifully messy craft.

Here’s to Breaking the Rules

The thing about writing is, there are no hard and fast rules. There’s just you, your story, and whatever process gets the words on the page. So ignore the advice that doesn’t work for you, embrace the chaos, and write the way only you can.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to add a few more adverbs to my draft. Quietly. Loudly. Dramatically. (Sorry, writing police—you can’t catch me.)

Patience is one of those virtues that’s easy to admire but hard to practice. In a world that moves faster every day, waiting feels almost unnatural—like time is slipping through our fingers if we’re not constantly in motion. But if I’ve learned anything from writing and life, it’s that the best things often take time.

This week, I was reminded of the quiet strength patience requires. Whether it’s letting bread rise in the kitchen, waiting for spring flowers to bloom, or sitting with a story that doesn’t yet know how it wants to be told, patience asks us to trust the process. And trust, as it turns out, is a form of courage.

The Slow Growth of Ideas

Writing is a craft that demands patience. Not every story reveals itself all at once; some arrive like whispers, too soft to hear clearly at first. One of my favorite stories took years to grow—what started as a single line scribbled in a journal eventually blossomed into an entire world.

In that early line, I had written, “The garden wasn’t hers to keep, but it grew for her all the same.” At the time, I didn’t know who the “her” was or why the garden mattered, but the idea stayed with me. It sat quietly, waiting for the right time to unfold. Years later, it became the heart of a story about resilience, love, and the things we care for even when we think we don’t deserve them.

The Patience of Nature

Nature is the ultimate teacher of patience. Seeds don’t bloom overnight. Rivers carve canyons over centuries. Even the tallest trees started as tiny saplings. This week, I noticed the first signs of crocuses poking through the winter soil, and it struck me how much trust it must take for those flowers to wait beneath the ground, believing their time will come.

That trust inspired a scene I wrote about a character who plants a tree for someone she loves, knowing she might never live to see it reach its full height. It’s a quiet act of hope, a reminder that patience isn’t passive—it’s a choice to believe in what’s yet to come.

Practicing Patience in Life

Patience isn’t just for writers or gardeners—it’s for anyone navigating the slow, uncertain parts of life. It’s for waiting on answers we can’t rush, for working toward goals that take longer than expected, for finding peace in the pauses.

Lately, I’ve been practicing patience with myself, especially on days when I feel like I’m not doing enough or moving fast enough. Instead of rushing forward, I’ve been giving myself permission to pause, to breathe, and to trust that I’m exactly where I need to be.

How Do You Practice Patience?

What’s something in your life that has required patience? A goal, a relationship, a dream you’re still working toward? Or maybe it’s something as simple as waiting for a pie to bake or a sunset to appear.

I’d love to hear about the ways you’ve learned to wait, to trust, and to find strength in the quiet moments.

The Beauty of Slow Growth

Patience isn’t about doing nothing—it’s about believing in the power of slow growth. It’s about nurturing what matters, even when we can’t yet see the results. And it’s about knowing that the most meaningful things in life are worth the wait.

So here’s to patience: the quiet, steady kind that reminds us to pause, to trust, and to keep tending to the seeds we’ve planted. Because when the time is right, they’ll bloom. And the wait will have been worth it.

There’s a moment every storyteller experiences, a whisper in the quiet, a flicker in the dark, when the story chooses you. For me, that moment wasn’t a single event but a lifetime of quiet invitations from the shadows. The myths and legends I grew up with didn’t just entertain—they carved a path. A path that led me here.

I write to explore the spaces others avoid. The cracks where light doesn’t reach. The truths hidden in metaphor and memory. Writing is both a calling and a compulsion, a way to understand the world while challenging it. It’s not always easy, and it’s rarely straightforward, but it’s always worth it.

The Influence of Folklore

Growing up surrounded by tales of banshees, selkies, and fae wasn’t just an introduction to storytelling—it was a way of seeing the world. These weren’t just stories of creatures and curses; they were lessons wrapped in shadows. They taught me to question what I couldn’t see, to listen to the spaces between words, and to trust the power of a well-told lie.

Folklore reminds us that nothing is simple. A hero can have blood on their hands, and a monster can save a life. These contradictions are where I find my inspiration. They’re where the heart of every story lives.

Why Darkness Calls

Dark stories aren’t just about fear. They’re about transformation. They take us to the edge of what we think we know and ask us to step closer, to look again. Darkness reveals. It strips away the façade and leaves us with what’s real: raw, unfiltered, and undeniably human.

I don’t write about darkness because it’s easy. I write about it because it’s honest. The shadows teach us resilience, courage, and the power of facing what we fear most. Whether it’s a cursed forest or a grieving heart, these stories remind us that we are more capable than we believe.

The Stories I Want to Tell

This year, I want to dig deeper into the roots of my own shadows. To tell stories that challenge, unsettle, and resonate. Stories where the lines between good and evil blur, where the heroes are flawed, and where the monsters reflect our own hidden truths.

I want to write tales that linger, that follow you into your dreams and resurface when you least expect them. Because those are the stories that matter—the ones that leave their mark.

What Draws You to the Shadows?

We all have our reasons for being drawn to the dark, whether as readers or creators. What is it that calls to you? Is it the thrill of the unknown, the beauty of the macabre, or the truths hiding just out of reach? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Writing isn’t just an act of creation—it’s an act of discovery. And in the shadows, there’s always more to find.

Every writer has that scene—the one that feels too big, too emotional, or too vulnerable to tackle. It’s the moment in the story you’ve been building toward, the one that will break your characters and maybe even you in the process. This week, I faced one of those scenes, and let me tell you, it was terrifying.

I stared at the blank page for longer than I’d like to admit. The fear of not doing the moment justice kept my fingers hovering over the keyboard. But eventually, I realized that the only way through it was to write, no matter how messy the first attempt might be.

Why These Scenes Matter

The scenes that scare us as writers are often the ones that resonate most with readers. They’re raw, honest, and unflinching. They push the characters—and us—out of our comfort zones. And while they might be the hardest to write, they’re also the most rewarding.

For me, the scene this week was a confrontation between two characters I love, one that had been building for chapters. It was messy and emotional, with no easy resolution. Writing it felt like peeling back layers of my own emotions, which is probably why it took so much out of me. But once it was on the page, I knew it was worth the struggle.

How to Tackle Tough Scenes

Here’s what helped me face the fear and get the words down:

1. Break It Into Pieces: Instead of trying to write the entire scene in one go, I focused on small chunks—just a single interaction or a few lines of dialogue.

2. Write Without Judgment: The first draft doesn’t have to be perfect. I reminded myself that I could edit later and let the words flow, however clumsy they felt.

3. Tap Into Real Emotions: I drew on personal experiences and memories to bring authenticity to the scene. It was uncomfortable but powerful.

4. Take Breaks: When it got too overwhelming, I stepped away for a while. A quick walk or a cup of tea helped me reset.

The Reward of Vulnerability

When I finished the scene, I felt a mix of exhaustion and relief. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And that’s the beauty of writing—you don’t have to get it right on the first try. The important thing is to show up and be honest with the story.

What Scenes Do You Fear?

For writers, what’s a scene or moment you’ve struggled to write? And for readers, what’s a story moment that felt so raw and real, it stuck with you long after you closed the book?

The scenes we fear most as creators are often the ones that leave the deepest impact. They challenge us, push us, and ultimately remind us why we write in the first place.

Day 24: Overthinking Everything – A Writer’s Superpower

Let’s talk about overthinking. If overthinking were an Olympic sport, I’d have enough gold medals to retire. It’s not just a hobby—it’s a way of life. Should this character turn left or right? Is this metaphor too obvious? Did I use the word “glanced” too many times in this paragraph? (Spoiler alert: I did. And I rewrote it five times.)

This week, I spiraled into the glorious, chaotic vortex of overthinking every single detail of my story. At one point, I spent half an hour debating whether my protagonist should order coffee or tea in a throwaway scene. In the end, I went with tea. Why? Because I’ve already written too many coffee scenes and thought my readers might stage an intervention.

The Joy (and Pain) of Overthinking

Overthinking is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it’s the reason your writing has depth and nuance. On the other hand, it’s why you’re stuck rewording the same sentence for the seventh time at 2 a.m.

Here’s what I’ve realized about overthinking: It’s just your brain caring a little too much. And honestly, isn’t that better than not caring at all? Sure, it slows things down, but it’s also where the magic happens—the tiny details that make your story feel alive.

This Week’s Overthinking Highlights

1. The Case of the Mysterious Hat: Should my character wear a hat to the market? If so, what kind of hat? Does the hat reveal her personality? What does the hat say about her? (I eventually scrapped the hat entirely. RIP, hat.)

2. The Great Beverage Debate: As mentioned, tea won out over coffee after an embarrassingly long internal argument. Did it matter? No. Did I care? Way too much.

3. The Perfect First Line: I rewrote the first line of a scene twelve times before realizing the third version was the best. Lesson learned: trust your instincts.

How to Tame the Overthinking Beast

Overthinking can be productive—if you know when to stop. Here’s how I manage (or try to manage) my overthinking spirals:

1. Set a Timer: Give yourself five minutes to obsess over the small stuff, then move on. If it’s still bothering you later, you can come back to it.
2. Get a Second Opinion: Sometimes, another writer or friend can tell you whether you’re being brilliant or bonkers.
3. Write It Anyway: Even if it feels wrong, just put it down. You can always fix it later. (And by “later,” I mean during your next overthinking session.)

What Do You Overthink?

I know I’m not the only one who’s spent an hour debating a single word choice. What’s your overthinking kryptonite? Characters? Plot twists? Whether the sunset should be orange or gold? Let’s commiserate in the comments—it’s cheaper than therapy.

Overthinking Isn’t Always Bad

Here’s the thing: overthinking is part of what makes us great storytellers. It means we care. It means we’re invested. And yes, it means we sometimes spend way too much time on things no one else will notice—but isn’t that kind of the point?

So here’s to overthinking. To caring too much. To questioning every comma and pondering every cup of tea. Because at the end of the day, those tiny, overthought details are what make our stories unforgettable.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go reword this post’s last paragraph for the fifth time. (Or maybe the sixth.)

Stories are, at their core, threads. They weave us together, binding one life to another, one moment to the next. They remind us that no matter how different we seem, we are all part of the same tapestry. And while the patterns might vary, the fabric of connection remains.

This week, I’ve been reflecting on the threads in my own life—the people, places, and memories that have shaped me. Some are as strong as steel, others as delicate as spider silk, but each one tells a story. And isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? To find the threads that hold us together, to follow them until we understand where we’ve been and where we’re going.

The People Who Shape Us

Every story I write is, in some way, influenced by the people I’ve known. The laughter of an old friend, the wisdom of a mentor, the kindness of a stranger—these are the threads that find their way into my characters.

One of my favorite characters was inspired by my grandfather, a man whose quiet strength and endless patience taught me more than I ever realized at the time. In my story, he became a lighthouse keeper, standing watch through storms and still nights, a beacon of hope for those lost at sea. Writing him into the story felt like preserving a piece of him, a way to keep his thread woven into my life.

Places That Speak

The places we’ve lived, visited, or even dreamed of leave their mark, too. For me, it’s the small-town streets where I grew up, the fields of wildflowers that seemed endless in my childhood, and the creaky floorboards of my grandmother’s house. These places don’t just exist in my memories—they breathe life into the worlds I create.

In my current project, the setting is a quilt shop tucked into a quiet corner of a bustling city. The shop itself feels alive, its shelves lined with bolts of fabric in every color imaginable. The idea came from a real place I visited once—a tiny shop run by a woman who seemed to know the story behind every stitch. It’s a place that stayed with me, its thread woven tightly into my imagination.

Memories as Stories

Memories, too, are threads, though some fade faster than others. A favorite memory of mine is sitting on the porch swing with my mom, a cup of tea in hand, as we watched a summer storm roll in. We didn’t talk much; we didn’t need to. The storm told its own story, and we were just part of the audience.

That memory has found its way into more than one story of mine. It’s a reminder of the quiet moments, the ones that seem insignificant at the time but later reveal themselves as some of the most important threads in the tapestry.

What Threads Do You See?

Take a moment to think about the threads in your own life. Who has shaped you? What places have left their mark? What memories do you carry? These are the stories that define us, even if we don’t always see them.

I’d love to hear about the threads you’ve noticed recently—the ones that feel strong, the ones that feel fragile, and the ones that you’re just beginning to follow.

Weaving the Stories Together

As writers, readers, and simply as humans, we are all part of a larger story. Every thread we share, every connection we make, adds to the richness of that tapestry.

The beauty of these threads is that they’re never truly lost. Even if they fray, even if they seem to disappear, they’ve already shaped the fabric of who we are. And as long as we keep weaving, the story continues.

There’s something timeless about mythical creatures. They’ve prowled the edges of our imagination for centuries, slipping between fact and fiction, haunting our dreams and shaping our fears. From dragons guarding hoards of gold to selkies shedding their skins, these beings hold the power to reveal not only the mysteries of the world but also the secrets we keep within ourselves.

But mythical creatures aren’t confined to ancient legends. They thrive in the stories we tell today, reimagined and redefined to reflect modern fears, hopes, and desires. This week, I’ve been exploring the ways these creatures continue to evolve in my own writing—and why they remain so vital to our storytelling.

The Creatures That Haunt Us

Every culture has its monsters, its guardians, its in-betweens. They’re not just relics of old beliefs—they’re mirrors of who we are. Take the banshee, for example: a harbinger of death, yes, but also a reflection of grief’s raw, keening wail. Or the phoenix, a creature that burns itself to ashes only to rise again—a metaphor for resilience, transformation, and the cyclical nature of life.

When I write about these beings, I’m not just borrowing from folklore. I’m asking questions:

• What do these creatures represent today?
• How do they challenge or comfort us?
• What truths do they force us to confront?

Breathing New Life Into Old Legends

One of my current projects centers on a creature rarely explored in modern tales: the Cù Sìth, a spectral hound from Scottish mythology. Known for its emerald-green fur and eerie howl, the Cù Sìth is said to foretell death. But what if there’s more to its story? What if it’s not just a harbinger, but a guide—one that walks the line between this world and the next, helping souls find their way?

This reimagining gives the creature agency, depth, and a purpose that goes beyond its traditional role. It’s not about rewriting the myth; it’s about uncovering the layers beneath it.

Why Mythical Creatures Endure

Mythical creatures endure because they adapt. They shape-shift to fit our fears, our dreams, and our changing world. A dragon in a medieval legend might represent greed, but a dragon in a modern story could symbolize environmental destruction or the power of the natural world. The context changes, but the core remains.

When I write about these beings, I want them to feel alive—not as relics of a forgotten past, but as forces that still walk among us. After all, who’s to say they’ve ever left?

What Creatures Speak to You?

Do you have a favorite mythical creature? One that fascinates you, terrifies you, or feels like it belongs in your own story? Share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know which beings haunt your imagination.

Because at the end of the day, mythical creatures aren’t just stories—they’re bridges to the unknown, reminders of our humanity, and proof that the line between reality and magic is thinner than we think.

Writing the first draft of a story is often romanticized as the most important part of the process. But if I’m being honest, the real magic happens in the rewrite. That’s where the raw, messy ideas get refined, the characters find their true voices, and the plot threads come together in ways I didn’t see coming during the first draft.

This week, I dove back into a project I haven’t touched in months. At first, it was overwhelming. The draft was riddled with clunky sentences, plot holes, and a few moments where I honestly couldn’t remember what I was thinking. But as I worked through it, piece by piece, I started to remember why I fell in love with the story in the first place.

What Rewriting Has Taught Me

Rewriting is about more than just fixing mistakes. It’s an opportunity to dig deeper, to uncover layers in your story you didn’t realize were there. Here are a few things I’ve learned through the process:

1. Let It Sit: Giving a draft time to breathe before revisiting it allows me to see it with fresh eyes. What felt like a brilliant idea in the moment might need some serious rethinking.

2. Start Big, Then Go Small: I tackle structural issues first—major plot points, pacing, and character arcs. Once those are solid, I zoom in on the details: dialogue tweaks, sensory descriptions, and trimming unnecessary words.

3. Kill Your Darlings: It’s never easy to cut a line or scene you love, but if it doesn’t serve the story, it has to go. I save those bits in a separate document—sometimes they find a home in another project.

4. Celebrate the Progress: Rewriting can feel like a slog, but every improvement, no matter how small, brings the story closer to what I envisioned.

A Story Worth Rewriting

The draft I worked on this week wasn’t perfect when I started, and it still isn’t perfect now. But it’s closer. It’s stronger. And most importantly, it’s a story I can’t wait to share when it’s ready.

They say multitasking is a myth, and honestly, after this week, I believe them. I like to think I’m pretty good at juggling—words on the screen, coffee in hand, maybe a podcast playing in the background. But then I decided to make toast while brainstorming dialogue, and let’s just say the smoke detector got more attention than my characters.

This week’s lesson? Sometimes you have to let one ball drop before everything comes crashing down. (RIP, toast. You deserved better.)

Why Multitasking Isn’t Magic

Here’s the thing about multitasking: it sounds impressive, but it’s really just code for “doing several things badly at once.” Writing while checking emails, scrolling social media, and keeping an eye on the toaster might feel productive, but in reality, it’s chaos disguised as efficiency.

This week, I tried to multitask my way through a tricky scene. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. The result? Half-baked dialogue, a confusing subplot, and a kitchen that still smells like burnt bread.

The Myth of Productivity

We’ve all been there—thinking that doing all the things at once is the key to success. But here’s the truth: creativity thrives on focus, not chaos. Trying to write while managing a dozen distractions is like trying to cook a five-course meal in a microwave. Sure, something might come out okay, but is it really your best work?

This week, I decided to test a revolutionary new concept: doing one thing at a time. It felt weird at first (who knew writing without also reorganizing my desk would be so effective?), but the results were undeniable. I actually finished a scene—and it didn’t smell like smoke.

Tips for Taming the Multitasking Beast

If you, too, struggle with multitasking madness, here are a few strategies I’ve learned:

1. Prioritize, Don’t Panic: Not everything has to be done right now. Pick one task, focus on it, and let the rest wait.
2. Set Boundaries: Give yourself dedicated time to write, free from distractions. Yes, that means no scrolling through memes until the words are on the page.
3. Take Breaks: Productivity isn’t about working nonstop. It’s about knowing when to step away, recharge, and come back stronger.

What’s Your Multitasking Mishap?

I know I’m not the only one who’s tried to do too much at once and failed spectacularly. Have you ever burned dinner while answering emails? Missed a deadline because you were caught up in a podcast? Let’s commiserate in the comments—it’s always better to laugh about it together.

One Thing at a Time

If this week taught me anything, it’s that slowing down isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. Focusing on one thing at a time doesn’t just make you more productive; it makes the work better, the process less stressful, and the toast far less flammable.

So here’s to single-tasking: the underrated skill we all need. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a toaster to clean and a scene to revise—one at a time, of course. Wish me luck (and maybe send snacks).

There’s something timeless about stepping into nature. It’s where we feel most connected, not just to the world around us, but to the stories we carry within. A winding forest trail, the crash of waves against the shore, or even the rustle of leaves in a quiet garden—all of it whispers of tales waiting to be uncovered.

This week, I’ve been thinking about how nature influences the stories I write. It’s not just a backdrop or a setting; it’s a character in its own right. Nature shapes us, reflects us, and challenges us. It reminds us of the cycles we’re all part of, the roots we share, and the resilience we need to grow.

Listening to the Landscape

One of my favorite writing rituals is taking a notebook on a walk through the woods. There’s something about the rhythm of my steps that untangles thoughts, allowing ideas to flow more freely. The forest becomes a collaborator, offering details I wouldn’t have thought to include—a gnarled tree root, a feather caught in the underbrush, or the way sunlight dapples the ground through the canopy.

Recently, I’ve been working on a story set in a small coastal village. Much of the inspiration came from a single visit to a rocky shoreline last fall. The way the waves crashed against the rocks, the salt hanging heavy in the air, and the call of distant seabirds—it all planted seeds for a scene where my protagonist finds solace by the sea after a great loss.

Nature as a Mirror

Nature doesn’t just inspire; it reflects. The quiet stillness of a snowy morning might echo a character’s isolation, while a sudden storm could mirror their inner turmoil. It’s no coincidence that so many of my favorite stories use the natural world as both setting and symbol.

In my own work, I try to capture this interplay. A scene in a garden isn’t just about the flowers—it’s about growth, seasons, and the care it takes to nurture something fragile. A river isn’t just a river; it’s a journey, a constant reminder that life is always moving forward.

Finding Stories in Small Moments

Some of the most powerful stories in nature come from the smallest details. A spider weaving its web, a bird singing at dawn, or the way frost patterns form on a windowpane. These moments remind us to slow down and look closer, to find beauty in what might otherwise go unnoticed.

This week, I paused during a walk to watch a squirrel burying an acorn. It was such a simple, fleeting thing, but it struck me as a perfect metaphor for hope—the act of planting something now, with the trust that it will grow into something meaningful later. That moment found its way into a scene I wrote the next day, grounding the character’s journey in something real and universal.

Where Do You Find Nature in Your Stories?

Do you have a favorite spot that inspires you? A place where the natural world speaks to you in ways you can’t quite explain? Maybe it’s a quiet park bench, a stretch of sandy beach, or even just the view from your kitchen window.

I’d love to hear about the landscapes that shape your stories or bring you peace. What details stand out? What lessons does nature offer you?

Letting Nature Lead

As writers, we often try to shape the world with our words. But sometimes, it’s worth letting the world shape us instead. Nature has a way of showing us what’s important, grounding us in what’s real, and reminding us of the stories that have always been there, waiting to be told.

So take a walk. Breathe deeply. Look closely. The stories you’re searching for might already be there, written in the wind, the water, and the leaves beneath your feet.

Atmosphere isn’t just the backdrop of a story—it’s the heartbeat. In dark fiction, it’s the whisper in the trees, the chill that crawls up your spine, the sense that something unseen is watching. Atmosphere draws readers into the shadows, makes them linger in the unknown, and leaves them haunted long after the final page.

This week, I’ve been revisiting one of my favorite techniques: layering atmosphere into a story. It’s not just about what you describe; it’s about what you don’t say. The shadows in the corner of a room, the faint sound of footsteps on a deserted path—it’s the gaps in the picture that let the reader’s imagination run wild.

The Elements of Atmosphere

To create an atmosphere that lingers, you have to weave it into every part of the story. Here’s how I approach it:

1. Setting as a Character
   Every place has a personality. A forgotten graveyard, a crumbling castle, a forest heavy with mist—each carries its own energy. I don’t just describe what a setting looks like; I ask what it feels like. Is it suffocating? Inviting? Eerie?

2. Senses Beyond Sight
   Vision dominates our descriptions, but atmosphere lives in the other senses. The rustle of leaves, the metallic tang of fear, the cold touch of fog wrapping around your skin—these details make the scene visceral.

3. Subtle Foreshadowing
   Atmosphere thrives on anticipation. I drop small hints—a creaking floorboard, a flicker of movement at the edge of vision—that suggest something is coming. The key is to let the reader’s mind do the heavy lifting.

4. Let Silence Speak
   Sometimes, what you leave unsaid is the most powerful. A pause in dialogue, a moment of stillness, or a lack of explanation can fill the air with tension. Silence lets the shadows breathe.

A Scene in the Shadows

In one of my current projects, there’s a scene where a character enters an ancient, abandoned chapel. The details are sparse: warped wood, cold air, the faint scent of ash. But it’s the shadows that steal the show. They move when they shouldn’t, stretch too long across the floor, and seem to whisper when no one else is there.

The scene doesn’t reveal much plot, but it doesn’t need to. It sets the tone, hints at the danger ahead, and leaves both the character and the reader uneasy.

How Atmosphere Shapes Us

Dark fiction thrives on the unknown, and atmosphere is its greatest tool. It’s what makes the reader lean closer, their heart racing, eager to see what’s just out of sight. It’s the tension in the quiet, the beauty in the macabre.

What stories or scenes have drawn you into their atmosphere and refused to let go? I’d love to hear what lingers with you—whether it’s a book, a movie, or a moment in your own life.

Because in the end, it’s the atmosphere that stays with us. It’s not just what happens; it’s how it feels.

We’ve all been there: inspiration strikes, but it’s at the absolute worst moment. Maybe you’re in the shower, driving, or lying in bed, just about to fall asleep. For me, it happened this week while grocery shopping. One minute, I was debating the merits of organic spinach versus regular, and the next, a fully-formed scene popped into my head.

Of course, I didn’t have a notebook handy, so I ended up awkwardly typing fragments into my phone’s notes app while avoiding a runaway cart. The result? A messy but promising idea that might just make it into my next book.

Capturing Ideas on the Go

Moments like this remind me that inspiration doesn’t wait for a convenient time. Over the years, I’ve found a few ways to make sure I don’t lose those sparks of creativity:

1. Always Have a Notebook: A small notebook in my bag has saved many ideas from slipping away. Bonus points if it has a pen loop, so I’m not digging through my purse for a pen.

2. Embrace Technology: When a notebook isn’t practical, my phone’s notes app is my best friend. Voice memos are great, too, especially when I’m driving.

3. Write in Code: Sometimes I just jot down keywords or phrases to jog my memory later. “Spinach aisle scene” was enough for me to flesh out the idea when I got home.

The Magic of Inconvenient Inspiration

As frustrating as it can be, there’s something magical about those unexpected bursts of creativity. They remind me that writing isn’t just a job or a skill—it’s part of how I see the world. Everything, even something as mundane as a grocery run, has the potential to spark a story.

How Do You Handle Sudden Inspiration?

Do you have a favorite method for capturing ideas on the go? Or have you ever had a moment where you lost an idea because you couldn’t write it down fast enough? I’d love to hear how you handle those inconvenient strikes of brilliance.

Inspiration might not always come when we’re ready, but it’s always worth chasing.