(The Nature and Value of Loneliness for Writers.)

This playbook for my life felt both restrictive and safe. To achieve the ideals of traditional womanhood in evangelical purity culture, I twisted my unruly self into submission, making my body and voice, dreams and ambitions, smaller. This practice may not have fed my creative life, but it did teach me something about working within constraint.

And constraint, as long as there’s still room to breathe, can be exactly what a creative needs.

Take, for example, constraint’s seeming opposite: boundless freedom. I know a bit about that, too. No one’s life can be reduced down to a single narrative, after all. As an amateur writer, it was startling to discover that one of the worst things for my practice and productivity was total freedom. I think of my first summer out of graduate school, a teaching position secure for the fall, and living comfortably (though not well) off of my savings and my husband’s salary. We were renters with no children or pets. Our parents were healthy, occupied, and elsewhere. And my summer days were long stretches filled with few commitments: just me, my notebook, and a pen.

What could I create in those months filled with so much uninterrupted writing time?

As it turns out, not much. Each day, I labored over paragraphs, only to delete them. I tinkered over the structure of individual sentences. What was I writing about? I was bound to discover it in-process. This endeavor felt pure, like I was a true artist. I paused during my mornings to read novels for inspiration. I took long, mid-day runs in hopes that the muse would meet me on the trail. I recovered from those runs on the couch, television on. The day would end, and it would be time to make dinner for my husband who had been hard at work all day. I swallowed shame when I considered how little I had to show after my own day of supposed writing work.

When I began teaching in the fall, I didn’t even have a complete, revised creative piece to show for it. It seemed clear to me then: I was not a writer. I refused to fool myself. If this was how unproductive I was after such an indulgent few months (and truly—I was ashamed at the extent of my own leisure), writing was clearly not the life path for me.

And so, this not-writer threw herself full force into teaching writing. I developed creative prompts and assignments. I scaffolded activities. I mentored students individually. I was quite productive, busy all the time, and even though I would not yet be able to apply it to my own practice, I learned that students produced their strongest work while working within constraints.

Yes—seasoned teachers know this. I never told a student to just write a research paper. I gave them a thematic umbrella. A sample organizational structure. I showed them models, and then I had them really rip those models to pieces. We looked at every stage of a piece of writing. The title—how long is it? The intro—does the writer address the reader? Does the first line make someone laugh or wonder? Is the argument made right up front, or does it take a few paragraphs before it is introduced? And so on—I taught students to deconstruct. Together, we looked at transitions and observed how the writer was moving from one idea to another. And how they kept the reader’s attention and focus along the way.

And then I told my students—okay, class. For homework, go do those things! Follow the constraints you just observed. But, you know, follow them your way. Creatively.

To give my students complete and total freedom would not just have been overwhelming—it would have resulted in poor work. True creativity did not come from totally eschewing constraints, I realized. It came from deconstructing the ones that were present—and then inviting surprise and play within those lines.

Around this same time, I encountered additional constraint in my personal life, too. It wasn’t until my schedule became less free that I found room to move on the page. I gave birth to a baby, and I began incorporating short, 10-minute daily journaling into my morning routine—just to keep my own sanity. And then, I gave birth to another baby. With this additional responsibility, I felt compelled to compose full essays. Then the pandemic happened. Trapped in my home with two toddlers and unstable childcare, my increased constraints resulted in finding the space to write an entire book.

It may seem counterintuitive, but my voice didn’t emerge in the midst of total freedom. I found it as my life became more squeezed, more full of responsibility. Time is slippery, and the creative life is not subject to basic math. Anyone who has ever worked a fixed 9-5 job knows that more time does not equal more productivity.

Of course, there has to be some time. No one can create without a bit of margin. Still, writers need something to rub up against. Friction, tension. Maybe that’s a baby or five. Maybe that’s a bustling medical practice.

Maybe that’s marriage and motherhood.

Most of my writerly obsessions are about the push and pull between freedom and constraint. The constraints of traditional marriage and motherhood could work for me—if I wanted them to—as long as I had room to play. In knowing my expected script—one of helpful submission—I could learn to subvert it, both in my personal life and on the page.

Maybe marriage and motherhood wasn’t a constraint I wanted to impose upon my life. That would be okay—but, I realized as I grew older, that there was no place I could flee to where I would not have to follow some sort of script. In deconstructing my upbringing, I began to see that every societal role included some kind of script. As a teacher, for instance, I followed a script. I worked within the scope of my institution. That involved expectations and rules, hierarchy and submission. It wasn’t like girls in evangelical purity culture were the only ones expected to follow a playbook.

Wouldn’t it be lovely, though, to find a space where I would not be boxed in? At times, I fantasized about total deconstruction. What if I tore it all down? I wanted wide open spaces, fresh air, and room to breathe.

But no enclosure wouldn’t mean absolute freedom. It would simply mean being unhoused. We all know that a home is preferable to none at all—the question was simply, what kind of home did I want to live in?

This is what I learned about myself and creative constraints. It’s not my box that limits me, but the quality of the space inside it. When a place feels imbued with grace and forgiveness, rather than discipline and punishment, art can emerge. This is true no matter the limits a person finds themself up again. Limits, after all, aren’t fundamentally restrictive. Sometimes they can be the very place we go to find tension.

Check out Anna Rollins’ Famished here:

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(How to Tell a Meaningful Story Without Using Words.)

During an eventual re-read of Jung’s book, though, a decade or so later, the following words grabbed me, undoubtedly because I was better prepared to receive them: “In 1918-19 (in Switzerland)…I sketched every morning in a notebook a small circular drawing, a mandala, which seemed to correspond to my inner situation at the time.”

This struck me as revelatory. The notion that some minutes of drawing weren’t mere diversion but, rather, the mapping of an interior state—a method for making visible something within—landed with me like a punch. Or, rather, an incitement: I, too, I considered, might be able to create something like the mysterious designs that had so fixated Jung. I added “Take up mandala drawing” to my register of future endeavors, where it remained, unacted upon, for the next three decades.

Well past midway into that long interim, and after deciding to try my hand at writing fiction, I was pleased and surprised to become an author of middle-grade novels. When my first book, Winterhouse, was published by Macmillan in 2018, it felt like something of a miracle. I’m a lifelong bookworm and a devoted appreciator of stories, but it took many years for me to gain any facility putting tales together myself. With Winterhouse, a run of six novels (and counting, I hope) initiated, and I felt some measure of confidence and contentment with my path forward as a writer.

In the spring of 2022, however, mired in both personal and professional stasis, and finding myself struggling to focus on several levels, my writing routine began to suffer. As part of an attempt to regain some balance, I returned to Jung, his elaborations on mandalas in particular. “(T)he mandala…is…the self, the wholeness of the personality, which if all goes well is harmonious,” I read, and, “(T)he mandala is the center… everything points toward the center. This insight gave me stability, and gradually my inner peace returned.”

These words made great practical sense to me; and, in that mysterious way in which, out of the many whims a person entertains, certain ones become realized, I was moved to action. I visited a nearby art store, purchased a sketchbook and some markers, and, soon after, sat at my desk and began to draw a mandala.

My method from the start was unplanned and uninformed. Out of a sense that I didn’t want to mimic someone else’s process or follow a series of steps already laid out, I deliberately avoided reading anything about drawing mandalas or watching any videos about technique. I simply drew concentric circles with a compass, measured angles with a protractor, and allowed my imagination to work itself out with freehand pencil and pen designs upon the grid I’d made. Almost immediately, I became absorbed in the effort. Before long, I was spending an hour or more daily on my drawings.

I came to understand very quickly something of the need the endeavor was satisfying in me. Rather than yet another practice anchored in language—that is, rather than writing or reading or speaking—I was engaged in a sort of a verbal embargo, a creative effort absent words. Much to my surprise, and without composing a single sentence, I was crafting small works of art informed intuitively by balance and harmony. I began to realize, as well, that something about the effort carried over to my writing—“coherence” might be the best way of describing it. Lastly, and without insisting too much on this, I sensed a pulling-together inside me, some of the stability or inner peace Jung indicated, perhaps.

Musicians, dancers, and artists who engage in graphic or plastic arts may find my epiphanies beyond obvious. For me, though, accustomed to words, words, and more words, the discoveries were enormous, and the mandalas I drew—and continue to draw—brought me tremendous satisfaction and pleasure. To be clear, my mandalas are not, I confess, the type of spontaneous emanations or diagrams of the psyche that Jung described. Rather, they became aids for focus, a means of quieting my thoughts, a tranquil near-meditation, maybe, and so not exactly the sort of soul atlas I’d once imagined. Still, I’m certain they brought a roundedness to my writing, and I’m positive that working on them eased some of my more anxious moments.

A coda. When my editor at Little, Brown, Christy Ottaviano, noticed some of the online posts I’d made about my mandalas, she offered the brilliant suggestion that I ought to consider working them into the book I was writing at the time, The World-Famous Nine. I arranged my story so that my main character, 11-year-old Zander Olinga, was a budding artist who enjoyed drawing mandalas, a facet of his personality that seemed to work well.

Ultimately, Christy incorporated a few of my mandalas as actual illustrations in the book, and they also appeared as a design above each chapter heading, a motif repeated in my most recent novel, The Shadow of the World-Famous Nine. It’s safe to say I never thought I would see my own artwork in one of my novels. Safe to say, too, I’m beyond glad I took up the practice of drawing mandalas.

Check out Ben Guterson’s The Shadow of the World-Famous Nine here:

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(The Case for Creating When the World Is on Fire.)

But what about all the other weekends of the year? I always think about that. I’ve returned from writers’ events and retreats filled with enthusiasm and motivation to write every day, submit everywhere, and live a writer’s dream life.

Except actual life usually brings me back to reality.

I am a parent. I am an employee. I am a spouse. I do not own all of my time. This past fall, I spent three to four nights a week at little league practices and games. I also taught five sections of composition at a local university. I held workshops at my local library. I suffered through a kitchen remodel which pushed us from our home into a hotel room more than once. I became the primary parent when my husband had to travel for his job. This is not a brag about how “busy” I was, but a description of a life. My life has many, many disruptions.

And when things get incredibly busy, it is hard not to turn into an angsty teen who’s not allowed to spend all their time with their high school sweetheart. In order to avoid it, I have to make sure I am setting up boundaries while remaining flexible.

Making the Time to Be Creative

Here is my list of tips for organizing my life so the angsty teen doesn’t take over.

• I write in the margins. I write in smaller increments when I can instead of waiting for long stretches of writing time. Sometimes I can only get 15 or 20 minutes to scribble something down. Sometimes I will have my lunch delivered and write on my lunch hour. When my kids were smaller, I had an hour between when my shift ended and my daycare closed down for the night. I would either linger in my office or find a coffee shop to make the most of that hour.
• I turn off push notifications. Push notifications are designed to make you stop what you are doing and pay attention to them. When I turn those off, I don’t have anyone pulling my attention. If that doesn’t work, I turn on Do Not Disturb. I only go into my apps to see if I have notifications when I take my breaks, two or three times a day.
• I do not check or answer emails after 5 pm. Especially university work emails. My job as an instructor is not so important that I need to check in when I am not on the clock. My students can wait. My boss can phone me. My coworkers can text me. Additionally, I don’t make decisions after 5 pm. If a designer sends me an image of cover art, I cannot sign off on it until the next day. If someone emails me about an interview, I don’t agree until the next day. No decisions until I have had at least one good sleep.
• I don’t volunteer. For anything. Ever. In the few instances that I have volunteered, it was usually from some place of guilt—a “good mom” would volunteer at their kids’ school. I would always have some moment where I would see the other volunteers and how eager they were to be a part of the event or even lead an event, and thought, “Wow. There are many more qualified people than me who want to be here.” I write a check instead. I don’t feel guilty about it either.
• I schedule writing time with others. I’ll meet with a writing friend at a local coffee shop, library, or classroom, so we can both work on our projects in pleasant silence. I’ve also set up write-ins on campus in the library and announced to students that it was a place where they could work on a project. It’s like when children parallel play and it’s incredibly productive because setting the meeting creates accountability. I’ve known other writers to do this over Zoom.
• I always keep my writing materials with me. Like a mobile writing station. I keep a journal, tablet with keyboard, and a collection of pens, highlighters, and Post-Its in a messenger bag that I take with me when I leave my house in the morning. If I’m running errands, I can stop off at a place with coffee and WiFi and sketch out scenes. My youngest child has told me that he actually loves what he calls coffee-shop days. We get snacks and while I write, he plays Roblox. Everyone wins.
• One night a week, I take the night off. Every Friday night, my husband is in charge of handling all of our children’s needs. Food, entertainment, questions, tasks, demands, these are all his responsibility on Friday nights. I get to do whatever I want. I have held process parties and typing parties where I work on edits while I munch on a cheese tray. But honestly the real gift is I don’t worry about not having time for myself, because I know that I am getting Friday night all to myself to rest, to recharge, to find inspiration unfettered by others.
• I ring the bell. At a writers conference recently, some individuals on a panel said they wanted a bell to hang outside of their writing space that they could ring at the end of a productive day. I love this idea and even asked my husband if he would be okay with me installing a cowbell outside of my writing space. He was not okay with it. However, there are many different ways to celebrate a good writing day. For a while, I would mark my writing days on my calendar with a silver star sticker—the same from elementary school days of yore. It doesn’t matter if I write all day, only on my lunch break, or 15 minutes to journal, I will still get a star.

Anything that moves the needle closer to a goal counts. And while many enthusiastically start a project with vim and verve thinking they will knock it all out in six months, they often forget that once you set a goal in motion, everything will step in the path of completing that project. And that’s when people give up. Don’t give up. Instead, adjust the expectation that the universe will open up hours and hours of time. It won’t, but the small increments will add up. 

Check out Brandi Bradley’s Pretty Girls Get Away With Murder here:

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(Meeting Writing Goals When Life Falls Apart.)

I hear you. Let me change your mind.

I am a writer and a creative coach. I work with thousands and thousands of artists and support them as they create. I receive dozens of DMs a week from writers and creatives who can’t create because they think the world is too messed up to be playing around on the piano.

Let me introduce you to an artist you might know: world famous, incredibly talented, author Sally Rooney. Sally didn’t send me a DM, but she did speak to the Irish Times.

She said, “I’ve given my life to writing novels. I don’t know whether they are good, but even if they’re really good, they’re not going to save the planet. Maybe I ought to be spending my time doing something more productive.”

Sally has sold millions of books, and she’s personally changed my life with the beauty of her prose, but apparently, it doesn’t matter how much impact you’re having: Artists everywhere are seriously worried that their creativity is an indulgence in this day and age. I have spoken to hundreds of artists who say they can’t write the books they want to write; they couldn’t possibly make the art they yearn to make, they morally shouldn’t take their writing seriously—because art is frivolous, and there are real-world problems that need fixing!

The narrative that art is decoration, a luxury, a selfish indulgence is rife, and it is wrong. We are sold a narrative that we have to be in STEM to be making a difference or we need a job as a politician in order to make the world a better place. If we aren’t making policy or finding the cure in a lab, we are useless. Spending our time being creative, writing our poems, telling our stories, all these things are being sidelined as something ‘not for these times.’

But we need your art now more than ever before.

Why the world needs you to write

Because when you create, you thrive.

The more intense the news cycle is, the more we feel like the world is falling apart, and the more we need art to help center us, calm us, and heal us. This isn’t just a nice idea. We now have lots of peer-reviewed research that looks at the tangible, significant ways creativity impacts our physical and mental health. The conclusion to these studies? Making art is just as important as exercise, sleep, or meditation. 

Turning to art is not a waste of time. It is the missing pillar in taking care of our health. It is the missing pillar in self-development. It is the missing pillar in living a meaningful life. Even in a world on fire, it matters how YOU are doing. Creating art will change YOUR life. Lean into it.

Making art gives us agency and purpose.

Art is a lifeboat in uncertain times. We read the news, we go to work, we feed ourselves, we scroll on Instagram, and we see pain, injustice, and anger everywhere. And so we stare into space and feel entirely hopeless, useless, out of control. There is nothing to do. Everything seems so pointless. ‘Guess I’ll just numb myself and keep scrolling,’ we say. 

But creativity brings us back to the feeling of purpose, intention, and control. When we write, we become the gods of our own realms. We are not lost at sea anymore, we are doing something, making something. We are in charge. Human beings are instinctive creators. We are made to make. Sit back on your throne and realize that you are here to tell stories, to write, and to communicate. Fill your life with the creative process and watch how much meaning and purpose flood in.

Making art and writing your books reclaims your most valuable resource: Attention.

Big tech wants your attention 24/7. It’s their business model. They don’t want you creating art. In a world that tries to usurp and monopolize your attention, the only way to get some agency back is to become a creator. 

(April Poem-A-Day Challenge.)

Creating is an act of rebellion against a world that wants you entirely stuck to your phone. Writing a poem isn’t just a nice thing to do with your time; it’s revolutionary. It’s taking back what’s been stolen from you—your time, your energy, your attention.

Making art is activism. 

The reason art is as important as activism is because art is activism. Creatives captain culture. We move the needle in how our world thinks and acts, and how we treat one another. Art, books, and your words are powerful forces for shaping people, encouraging empathy, provoking humanity, and demanding connection. Policy and politics don’t make people think deeply or move people emotionally—art does.

Click to continue.

Making art centers humanity in a world of ever-increasing AI. 

As AI starts to encroach on our everyday lives, it’s becoming more important than ever to champion human creativity. It would be very easy to give it all up now. “AI can do it better, so what’s the point of me doing it?” 

But there’s never been a greater need for your human voice—your gloriously imperfect human art. The thing that’s going to differentiate us from our robot overlords is the vulnerability we can infuse within our art. Lean into your imperfections and write human stories. We need your fallible art. Humans consume art to connect with their humanity; we need art made by our own kind.

Creativity creates your legacy. 

Let me appeal to your ego for a moment. Will you be remembered because you consumed a lot of media about how bad the world is right now, and you felt really terrible about it? Or will you be remembered because of that fantasy novel you wrote that your great-great-great-great-grandchild still reads? Because you wrote poems and published them, and people were moved by them? Because you started a YouTube where you review books and you recommended a novel that changed someone’s life? Because you were vulnerable and sung in front of people, and it inspired others to be vulnerable too? 

When you create, and share your creations, you leave a trail of your magic. You leave this hurting world with something beautiful.

Why the world needs art

Let’s go back to that burning world for a moment. Yes, the fires are real. But art is not kindling for these flames; it’s water. It cools, it heals, it gives us hope. It reminds us of what is worth fighting for. When you create, you’re not ignoring the fire—you’re building the tools to withstand it. You’re reminding the world what life is about. Art has always been the light in the darkest times. 

(7 Ways Writing Heals Us.)

Think of the cave paintings of our ancestors, etched in the dim glow of firelight, or the music that carried oppressed people through impossible struggles. Those creations may not have solved every problem, but they gave us the strength to keep trying, they gave us connection and meaning and hope.

I’ll leave you with this: What will your legacy be? Will you let the world’s flames consume you, or will you add your treasures to the world? Your art is the antidote to someone else’s despair; don’t keep that to yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bestseller, a community play, or a simple poem you wrote for your child. It all matters.

The world needs your art. Now more than ever. Stop messing around and make something. 

Check out Amie McNee’s We Need Your Art here:

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I am in the first year of my MFA and I am writing, for the first time, for a professional audience. I am writing hard. My style is cramped. I am trying to mold myself into who I think my graduate program wants me to be. I am composing a bunch of complex sentences with maze-like structures, which are almost impossible to read.

(7 Ways Writing Heals Us—Even After Terrible Trauma.)

I am using pretentious language because I think elevated diction will make me a better writer. Concrete, one-syllable words become abstract, flowery words because I think my writing needs to be more complicated. Because I believe only when writing is complicated it is worthy. I edit everything I write to death. I am a people pleaser who is more focused on what others think of me than what I think of myself.

Around this time, I had recognized a relationship between trauma and my own writing process. One that I desperately needed to free myself from. So I started to reflect on my creative practice and gradually shifted my approach.

Step 1: Understand your trauma

They say awareness is the first step. After reflection, I realized that most of my trauma that interfered with my creative expression was not a result of major personal catastrophe, but a product of my socialization in the world.

First, my identity had a huge impact on my creative expression. My gender shaped my relationship to language. In real life, I am constantly cracking jokes—I love to laugh and make others laugh. But, in my writing process, I was afraid to use humor on the page. I was also afraid to write about sex from a female point of view because most of the desire I had seen on the page had been male centered. I was afraid to write about things that were disgusting because I was afraid of what people might think of me. Sex, humor, horror—none of these were creative spaces I saw available to me as a woman. This meant I had a shame-based writing practice, afraid to trespass upon taboo spaces. In other words, I was afraid to be myself.

Second, my years of education had conditioned me to suppress my creativity. Years of being a student in school teaches you, intentionally or unintentionally, that you need to deliver the correct answer. I had been assessed primarily through multiple choice questions from my early years right until high school. The fright of delivering the wrong answer had transferred itself to my artistic process. This made me feel like there was a right and wrong way to write, and that I needed to mold myself into what authority figures wanted me to be.

Lastly, personal traumas in my life resulted a high-strung writing process. This resulted in a specific relationship to language, one based on rigidity and control. As humans, we can try to tame and restrict language to try to counteract the fact that our lives are out of our control. But the truth was: Controlling language was not going to solve my grief, nor did it undo any of the harshness of what happened.

Step 2: Say yes

In the wise words of the beginning of Taylor Swift’s Grammy-winning album Folklore, she says in the lyrics to “The One:”

I’m doing good, I’m on some new shit

Been saying yes instead of no

In her documentary on the making of this album, she talked about how signing with her new record label resulted in greater levels of creative freedom. In short, she was saying yes to herself, creatively, instead of saying no.

I, too, had to learn how to say yes to myself.

What does this mean, exactly? It means never denying or stifling your creative impulses. Let me give you this example: When I was writing, I would often nip my best ideas in the bud. I would say no to myself. Practically, this meant not writing out the word, sentence, or passage I have felt impelled to write.

This used to happen all the time. It was often rationalized by a practical reason of why I should not write the thing I wanted to write: not the right time to use this information; the joke I had in mind was too inappropriate; the character wouldn’t say this; the idea was too crazy or too perverted, and I worried it would weird people out. As it turns out, I was saying no to a lot of my best ideas.

True creativity is deeply irrational, and often in the moment, it does not make sense why a writer might have an impulse to put something down. But by limiting the nonsense from my work, I was depriving my writing of a vital spark it needed.

I had to learn to say yes. I had to learn to let it flow out, however stupid or weird it was, however bad then idea may turn out to be—I had to trust myself to play, roam, and discover. I had to trust that I would find the flaws when I revised, and that I could use the act of writing to indulge all my instincts, good and bad.

In short, I needed to write towards my inner child, and neglect the concerns of an adult mind. My adult mind knew it needed to write a book to get a job. My adult mind was worried about what people might think or say about my hybrid novel, which used sentence fragments to create a unique voice. There were a bunch of fear-driven reasons to say no, both personally and professionally, to the things I wanted to write.

To write well, I needed to speak with my inner child, who had no social conditioning, lacked life experience, and wrote with total ease. To say yes, I needed to become a kid again.

Anne Lamott articulated this well in her well-known craft essay, “Shitty First Drafts,” from her book Bird by Bird. In this essay, she encourages you to give yourself permission to write badly. “The first draft is the child’s draft,” she writes, “where you let it all romp out.”

Allowing your inner child to take part in the writing process is similar to saying yes. It encourages the writer to forget about adult concerns. A child lacks socialization: They have no fear when it comes to expressing themselves.

Step 3: Write towards your fear

In some weird logic of the universe, I realized the very words I needed to express were often the ones I was afraid to write. For example, my book, The Flat Woman, is powered by elements of horror and disgust. But as a young writer, I was scared to write disgusting things on the page, worrying somebody would make a judgement about me.

Mary Shelley published Frankenstein anonymously for a similar reason: She feared her children would be taken away. This points to the vulnerability of female-identifying authors across history who historically lacked the insulation of male privilege.

And as I began to consciously write into my areas of fear, I realized that terror was actually a great barometer of something worthy, interesting, or powerful to say.

So I came to this conclusion: If I was afraid to write something, I should not repress it, I should actually write into that space bigger and harder than anywhere else.

In expressing what we’re afraid to express, our truest selves can emerge. Success as an artist can be defined as an act of self-authenticity. If you get into the practice of articulating your fears, you can train yourself to have a better artistic process, even if the substance of your fears does turns out to be useless.

Step 4. Write with the body

We think of writing as a mental process, but we often forget it is physical one, too. Your hands are the instrument of your creativity, after all, and ultimately, your fingers are the tools a writer uses to express themselves. For me, I had to remember the writing process happens with the body as well as the mind. Focusing on the physical feeling of the keys beneath my fingers helped me let go of control. Lots of style elements can be palpably felt when you type: Rhythm, for instance, is a very physical experience. Paying attention to the rhythms and the texture of the language helped me experience writing as a process of self-hypnosis.

Self-hypnosis allowed my subconscious to dominate my artistic process. Jack Spicer encouraged poets to think of themselves as a radio receiving a signal from outside of them. I found the idea of this helpful: to think about transmitting a source of inspiration from outside of me as opposed to writing from my own mind. So I started to let my hands transmit the inspiration as opposed to writing it. What is the difference between writing and transmission? Transmitting is something we allow to happen with our bodies, whereas writing felt like an activity I controlled with my mind. Transmission with my hands allowed me to receive the radio signal, which is another way to say creative inspiration.

A lot of writers say their best work feels like it comes from somewhere else, somewhere beyond them. This can only happen when we relinquish control and let our fingers dictate where the poem, story, or essay wants to go. Oftentimes, when we let go, our subconscious takes over. Sometimes, the things our subconscious produces are surprising, disturbing, or unusual—but they are usually interesting. Our subconscious has a lot to teach us, if only we let the right one in.

Step 5: Write the thing

It took me about seven years, but I eventually finished my first book, The Flat Woman. This would not have been possible without an intensely disciplined practice. Every morning of the week, I carved out an hour or two to write. In the context of my regular practice, I slowly and gradually made changes to my process. None of these changes came over night, but were the product of a slow, methodical expulsion of bad habits.

To say yes, I had to put in effort and pay attention to what I wanted to say. By becoming aware of the ways in which I restricted myself, I trained myself to give myself permission. I transformed my writing from a rigid practice into a free-flowing hobby. In this state of hyper concentration, hours and days of the week evaporated. Writing, which was once a stressful process, became a really relaxing hobby—a process where I hypnotized myself into forgetting my hobby was also my career.

There were developments in my life that helped: I fell in love and got married. I bought a house and got promoted. Everything that helped make me happier in my personal life helped me have a more grounded and focused relationship to my art.

What started out as a poetry manuscript of approximately 13,000 words, its language preened and pruned to oblivion, became a 27,000-word short novel called The Flat Woman. In the end, it was nearly double its original length. There are probably some who will still say it’s too short, too fragmented, too absurd, but I don’t care.

In the seven years I spent writing it, I learned how to say yes, which is another way to say letting go. When I let go, what finally came out was weird, funny, and unapologetically feminine—all of the things I had been afraid to let myself be in the beginning. 

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(25 Common Writing Mistakes Writers Make—and How to Fix Them.)

I write thrillers. Although my books sit firmly in the commercial, page-turning category of fast and easy reading—every one of my stories is rooted in the familiar. If you want to engage readers, they need to relate to what you are writing about along with the ups and downs your characters are experiencing.

However, writing about what you know requires a careful balance. Here’s a guide to the dos and don’ts of writing what you know.

The Dos: Harnessing the Power of Personal Experience

Do Use Personal Insights and Emotions

Even though your work is fiction, being conscious of your own emotions, observations, and insights and threading them through your work can add depth to your characters and themes. Think about your own experiences of joy, loss, love, or failure. How did you feel in those moments? What did you learn from them?

When I wrote Good Girls Die Last, I was (like many women at the time) struggling with the injustices and fear that came with the Sarah Everard murder inquiry. By channeling those emotions into my thriller, alongside my own experiences as a woman in my 20s working in London and suffering at the hands of misogynistic micro-aggressions, I was able to create scenarios and characters that—although fictitious—felt very real to the reader.

Do Draw From Your Knowledge and Expertise

If you have expertise in a particular field, such as medicine, law, or technology, use it to enrich your writing. It’s no coincidence that many lawyers have gone on to write brilliant crime novels (for example authors Imrad Mahmood and Harriet Tyce are barristers, and John Grisham is a lawyer). 

Writing what you know means incorporating elements of your knowledge in a way that adds realism. That doesn’t mean that if you’ve never arranged flowers before you can’t have a character in your book who is a florist, but if that profession is a pivotal part of the plot readers will be able to tell whether the book has been written with prior knowledge. 

This is why many of my characters work in marketing, PR, or other professions I’m familiar with. I doubt I will ever write a book featuring an astronaut as space isn’t a huge passion of mine, plus that profession would involve a huge amount of research which I’m likely to get very wrong.

Do Use Your Own Observations of People and the World

Even if you aren’t writing about your own life, the people and events around you can provide an endless source of inspiration. Good writers are nosy—you will find us sitting in cafes, on trains, on a park bench listening and watching. 

Observing how others interact, understanding their motivations, and reflecting on the societal issues affecting your world can help create compelling characters and settings. Nothing takes you out of a story that you are reading faster than unrealistic dialogue or reactions.

Do Explore Universal Themes Through Personal Lenses

Writing what you know doesn’t necessarily mean limiting yourself to writing about your exact experiences, but your story will have a lot more depth if you are familiar with what your character is going through.

My latest thriller, While My Baby Sleeps, tackles postpartum sleep deprivation. Following the birth of my two daughters, I spent four years struggling with lack of sleep to the point of having to seek medical help. Those were some of the most harrowing years of my life. Exploring the lack of help and understanding I received during that time inspired me to create a thriller where the protagonist is so confused and exhausted she can’t be sure if she’s the one who murdered her neighbor.

I’d like to think that my own experiences add a lot more depth and poignancy to the book than an experience I had merely researched.

Do Use Realistic Settings and Details

Most of my books are set in London, and there’s a reason for that—it’s the city I was born and raised in, and a place very close to my heart. One of the most effective ways to write what you know is to use real-life settings that you’re familiar with.

Good Girls Die Last is set over 24-hours following one woman traveling through London on foot during a heatwave…while a killer is on the loose. The sights, sounds, and even the smell of London in the summer is very unique and not something you can simply Google. Using your own evocative memories of a place will help readers feel transported to a world that’s vivid and authentic.

The Don’ts: Avoiding the Pitfalls of Over-Reliance on Your Own Experience

Don’t Limit Yourself to Only What You’ve Personally Experienced

While drawing from personal experience is important, limiting yourself solely to your own life can narrow your creative possibilities. It would all get rather boring if every single one of a writer’s books was a reflection of their life (not to mention limiting for historical, fantasy, and horror authors)!

Good fiction and writing often involve imagining the experiences of others—especially those with perspectives and backgrounds different from your own. Don’t shy away from researching and imagining experiences that are outside your own reality, as well as working with those who have lived experiences to add credibility and authenticity.

Don’t Overload Readers with Exposition

We all know how exciting it is to write about what we know and love, but don’t fall into the trap of including too much insider knowledge when writing about something you know well. I once read a manuscript where the author described a car in explicit detail. He was, predictably, a car fanatic—yet the book was a thriller. 

The problem with adding more detail than necessary is that readers will file away everything you’re telling them, and if the make and model of a car and the workings of its engine is not integral to the plot you will lose reader interest.

Don’t Assume Your Experience Is Universally Shared

Just because something feels true to you doesn’t mean it will resonate with everyone. Be mindful of the assumptions you make about your audience’s familiarity with or understanding of your experiences or you may alienate them. Readers should not be able to see you or your opinions between the words…not unless you are writing a memoir or nonfiction.

Don’t Use Your Writing as Therapy

This is the hardest thing to tackle as a writer. Although it may feel healing to connect with readers who are struggling with the same things you are, remember your story is about your characters and not you.

While writing My Daughter’s Revenge, I was very conscious of where I began, and the main character, Jules, ended. Although I too am a mother in my mid-40s with a teenage daughter, and a lot of Jules’ frustrations and concerns mirrored my own, my relationship with my teens and husband are nothing like hers.

Protect Your Mental Health

Writing about things you know adds depth and nuance to fiction, likewise it can help you untangle feelings and past experiences. But with that comes complications. Although it may feel cathartic to explore big themes in your writing, in order to write well you will find yourself experiencing some of the emotions your protagonists are feeling. Although you may think this will be cathartic and healing, oftentimes it can be triggering and will access repressed memories you will then have to manage.

Writing While My Baby Sleeps was much harder for me than I anticipated. Instead of bringing me closure, it actually transported me back to a time I had worked hard to forget. So protect your mental health and, unless you are prepared, try not to fly too close to the sun!

Writing what you know is about drawing from your own experiences, emotions, and insights to create stories that feel authentic and engaging. By tapping into what’s true for you, you can create characters, settings, and plots that resonate deeply with readers. However, it’s essential to avoid turning your books into therapy or limiting yourself to themes, characters or settings that are all the same. Make space for imagination, empathy, and research. When done thoughtfully, writing what you know can lead to powerful, memorable storytelling that connects with readers on a human level.

Check out Natali Simmonds’ While My Baby Sleeps here:

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The first TV vanished when I was seven. My father, a neurologist who’d recently discovered Orthodox Judaism, decided one day that the flickering box in our living room was doing more harm than good. Just like that—poof—it was gone. No committee meetings, no family vote. Just a sticky note (God, that sticky note still haunts my dreams) with some handwritten happy crappy about the great outdoors, natural curiosity, and a life worth living.

(The Two Kinds of Artistic Doubt.)

I lost my mind, naturally. Did what any reasonable kid would do: threw myself on the floor, screamed until my throat was raw, and put my fist through a wall. Several walls, if we’re being honest. The holes stayed there for years, little pockmarks of rebellion.

But here’s the thing about kids—they adapt. They have to. Nature doesn’t give them much choice in the matter. So I started taking my bike to the public library, sneaking Stephen King novels with their covers torn off, hiding in corners where the librarians couldn’t catch me reading about possessed cars and undead pets. Those books became my TV, my movies, my video games all rolled into one.

Fast forward 30 years. I’m standing in my own living room, staring at a different TV, watching my three kids zombie-walking to the couch each morning just to stare at its blank screen. The same screen that was slowly eating away at their imagination, their creativity, their ability to think in more than 10-second TikTok intervals. Ten seconds? Who am I fooling?

So I did what any reasonable parent would do—I channeled my old man. Out went the TV, in came an elaborate IKEA art station that would make Bob Ross weep with joy. And wouldn’t you know it? History has a sick sense of humor. My kids? They punched holes in the exact same spots I had all those years ago. Different house, same story.

But then something magical happened. Just like I had decades before, they adapted. Started painting. Reading. Writing their own stories. Found their way to boredom’s secret garden, where creativity blooms in the spaces between digital distractions.

This journey—from TV-less kid to TV-banishing parent—shaped more than just my entertainment habits. It shaped my storytelling. My debut novel, Georgie Summers and the Scribes of Scatterplot, just went to press with 20,000 hardcover copies. That’s not a typo, friends. Twenty thousand books, after four years of writing, two years of editing, and another year to find an agent.

The story follows young Georgie into a hidden realm where Scribes record humanity’s memories. Without these Scribes, people would forget everything—lose their minds completely. Sound familiar? We’re already halfway there, watching our kids lose their capacity for deep thought one “screen time” minute at a time.

You want to know what scares me more than any horror novel I ever snuck past those librarians? We’re raising a generation of kids who’ve never known true boredom. Never felt that maddening itch of an empty afternoon that can only be scratched by creating something new. Instead, we’re serving them digital candy every time they whimper, then wondering why they can’t stomach a full meal of imagination.

In my book, the villain—a terrifying fellow with bugs crawling out of his neck—wants to destroy all memories. But aren’t we already doing that? Every time we cave and hand over the iPad, every time we choose peace over persistence, we’re erasing our kids’ ability to create their own entertainment, their own stories, their own memories.

We’re not just parents anymore; we’re memory keepers. Every time we say no to the easy fix of screen time, we’re preserving something precious: our children’s capacity for wonder, for creativity, for deep thought. It’s harder than handing them a phone. It means weathering tantrums, patching holes in walls, setting up art stations that might go unused for weeks.

But trust me—as someone who’s lived both sides of this story—it’s worth it. Because somewhere between the thrown remotes and the torn book covers, between the punched walls and the painted masterpieces, our kids might just find what I found: their own stories, waiting to be told.

Check out Isaac Rudansky’s Georgie Summers & the Scribes of Scatterplot here:

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The Trap of Perfectionism

For writers, trying to be perfect can feel like a never-ending battle. Drafts get thrown away before they’re finished, and ideas are tossed aside as “not good enough” before they even have a chance. This pressure to be perfect can take away the joy of writing and make it feel like hard work instead of a fun, creative activity.

(How to Cope With the Ups and Downs of the Creative Process.)

This struggle often comes from fear—fear of being judged, fear of failing, or fear of not creating something that will blow readers away. While it’s natural to want to create something meaningful, perfectionism can turn that goal into an impossible standard, slowing progress and hurting confidence.

For writers, perfectionism and impostor syndrome can go hand in hand, creating a cycle of self-doubt and fear. Perfectionism pushes writers to set impossible standards, hindering progress, and stealing joy, while impostor syndrome makes them feel unworthy of success, even when their skills and achievements prove otherwise.

How Perfectionism Hinders Progress

1. Procrastination: Writers may need more time to start or complete projects, feeling unprepared to meet their unrealistic expectations.
2. Overediting: Constant tinkering with sentences, words, or paragraphs can turn a draft into a forever work-in-progress.
3. Self-Doubt: Perfectionism amplifies insecurities, causing writers to question their talent or worthiness to create.
4. Burnout: The relentless pursuit of flawlessness drains mental and emotional energy, leaving writers exhausted and uninspired, enter the term,“writers block” here.

Tips to Overcome Perfectionism in Writing

Redefine Success

Shift the focus from being perfect to making progress. Celebrate completing every chapter, as each step brings you closer to a finished piece.

Edit as You Go for a Better First Draft

First drafts don’t need to be perfect, but editing as you write can help organize your ideas and make your work clearer. Fixing small things, like wording or structure, as you go can make the draft feel more complete right away. This mix of writing and editing can save time when it’s time to revise later.

Set Realistic Goals

Break larger projects into manageable pieces. Setting achievable goals, such as writing for 30 minutes daily or completing a chapter each week, helps maintain momentum and builds confidence.

Develop a Growth Mindset

View mistakes and imperfections as opportunities to learn and improve. Remind yourself that every successful writer started with imperfect drafts.

Get Helpful Feedback

Share your work with people you trust who can give kind and helpful advice. Positive, constructive feedback can help improve your writing without discouraging you.

How to Maintain Balance

Perfectionism often takes a toll on mental health, leading to anxiety, stress, or feelings of inadequacy. Here are strategies to maintain balance:

• Practice Self-Compassion: Speak to yourself with the kindness you would offer a friend. Acknowledge that imperfections are part of being human.
• Celebrate Wins: Recognize and reward yourself for milestones, big or small. Positive reinforcement can motivate continued progress.

Now, Let Go of Perfection…

So dive in, scribble that messy draft, laugh at the typos, and remember: Every masterpiece begins as a rough draft filled with potential!

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(6 Tips for Writing a Compelling First Sentence.)

Writing can be emotionally taxing, whether it’s the frustration of not finding enough paid projects or the stress of juggling too many at once. But don’t worry—you’re not alone, and there are simple ways to manage the ups and downs of the creative process.

How to Make the Most of Writing Highs

Writing can be exhilarating when everything clicks and you’re in the zone. The ideas flow, the words come easily, and you feel unstoppable. You might land a big assignment or finish a piece you’re incredibly proud of. It’s quite a rush!

Ride the Wave

When you feel inspired, embrace it, don’t hold back. To take advantage of that creative energy, try to write as much as possible during these moments.

Celebrate Every Win

Take a moment to enjoy your achievements, whether you’ve completed a challenging project, hit a word count goal, or landed a new assignment. Celebrating keeps you motivated.

Store Some Inspiration

Keep a notebook or digital file of ideas that come to you during these times. These can be useful when you’re not feeling as inspired; they will pick you up.

Typical Lows Writers Face

On the flip side, there are those not-so-glamorous days. The ideas won’t come, deadlines feel overwhelming, or worse—you’re not finding enough paying assignments. It’s easy to feel stuck, discouraged, or even question your decision to write in the first place.

Dry Spells

Finding paid assignments or freelance gigs can be disheartening, especially if the struggle lasts for weeks or months.

Creative Block

Feeling like you can’t write a single sentence that makes sense or is worth keeping.

Overwhelm

Too many projects and insufficient time to finish them lead to stress and burnout.

Tips for Managing the Emotional Lows

Like the highs, the lows are part of a writer’s journey. The key is to find ways to manage these tough moments without letting them derail your progress.

Take Breaks

It’s okay to step away from the keyboard. Whether it’s a walk, a hobby, or just a breather, sometimes you need space to refresh your mind.

Set Realistic Goals

Don’t try to do everything at once. Break projects into smaller tasks so you can feel a sense of accomplishment as you complete them.

Reach Out for Support (Find your tribe)

Connect with other writers who understand what you’re going through. Whether it’s an online writing group or a local in-person group, talking to others can help you feel less alone.

Remember Why You Started

Reflect on why you love writing. Keep a list of reasons or past successes to remind yourself of your passion on the tough days.

How to Manage the Balancing Act

Sometimes, the emotional toll comes from having too much on your plate (I speak from experience). You land a bunch of assignments, and suddenly, you’re racing to meet deadlines with little time to breathe. On the other hand, not having enough work can leave you feeling anxious about money or your career progress.

Time Management

Create a writing schedule that works for you. Break your day into chunks, and allocate specific writing, editing, and break times.

Learn to Say No

If you’re juggling several projects, turning down new work is okay. Saying no now means you can do better on what’s already in front of you.

Be Proactive

During slow periods, use the extra time to pitch new ideas, network with potential clients, or work on personal projects. Staying proactive can help combat the anxiety of waiting for the next job.

Embrace the Journey

Writing is a journey with many twists and turns—you’re not alone. Take a deep breath, keep writing, keep dreaming, and take it one word and breath at a time.

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(20 Best Songs for Writers and About Writing.)

Occasionally I try to face a project head-on: After all, I’m a serious professional and an adult, for crying out loud! But as I stare at the blank screen with its infernal blinking cursor, or the terrifying white canvas, my bravado shrivels under the heat of the Argus glare.

That’s when I usually give up and have a nap.

Since napping all day isn’t great for mental health, I’ve had to figure out ways to go in the backdoor of creativity, quietly, tiptoeing, so as not to wake the giant.

My biggest trick is to create a soundtrack for a project, even if I’ve only got a rough idea of what it will be. As I jot notes and stuff them hurriedly in a project folder before Argus can see them, I start getting an idea for scenes, for the plot, for characters, and gather soundtracks that fit what I’m after.

Projects can be on the back burner to simmer, gathering notes and soundtracks, for years. My soon-to-be-released young adult novel, The Great & the Small, (2nd edition, Sept. 2024), simmered for 10 years before I began writing. When starting the first edition (published in 2017), I had no idea where to begin. It was, and is, a complex story of interweaving narratives between a colony of rats, authoritarianism, and a troubled human girl.

Argus was having a field day.

Part of what got me off the starting blocks was finding amazing soundtracks to keep me focused. Songs like “Indoctrination,” by Delerium, with the haunting vocals of Kiran Ahluwalia. For a scene where a squad of rats race through duct work on their way to investigate a “Killing Chamber,” a cancer research lab, I played “Beauty in Your Eyes,” by Deep Forest, so many times I expected my dogs to start singing it.

For the second edition, I was finally ready to add in my own dark edges and experiences with buried trauma, through the eyes of the teenaged human protagonist, Ananda. I really needed songs that got me into the space of being able to see through her eyes, as it was tapping into some very old stuff for me, and Argus was on high alert like a sharpshooter in a gun tower. The songs came: “Pilgrimage,” by Conjure One and Rhys Fulber, “Spring Arrives,” by Azam Ali, “Moksha,” by Vas, “Squaric,” by Martin Gauffin, with the overall theme song of the 2nd edition being “Concussion,” by Nihoni.

You would think with the effort I have to put in to get around my monstrous inner critic, that I would give up and knit doilies. For one thing, I can’t knit. For another, the JOY I feel when the planets align, when Argus is finally sleeping, and I am FLYING, watching my characters live, breathe, and move, as my story takes shape under my hands…that JOY is addictive. That’s why I push through and do it anyway. Because when it works, it really works.

And I’m happy to report that as I keep working through my old inner stuff, Argus is becoming less watchful. A few of those hundred eyes have closed. I will keep writing, painting, and flying, until Argus snores.

Check out A.T. Balsara’s The Great & the Small here:

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