Category: writing life (Page 1 of 21)

Juggling is lesson in art

January 25, 2026 / / 0 Comments

With juggling, you drop a lot of balls. You drop so many, so often, that it stops mattering. You are so bad for so long that your ego dies completely, leaving you free to keep going.

An art practice is a way of moving through life (hat tip: Andy J. Pizza). A juggling practice teaches you that this movement is full of failures, drops, frustrations, and that the only way to get past these failures is to pick up the balls and try again.

Again, and again, and again: This is the lesson of juggling, and the lesson of art-making. Even though I can juggle now without dropping the balls–can juggle one-handed, can switch between one-handed and two-handed, can juggle without stopping for a long time–I still need to practice. I still need to keep going, and I still drop balls every once in awhile. I sometimes have a false start. I sometimes throw too high or too erratically. Sometimes lose the rhythm.

But to juggle means to pick up the balls and try again.

Making art is not a one-and-done. It’s an attempt at continual motion that often involves losing the rhythm, dropping the balls, throwing too high. But the only way to make art is to try again. Moving through life means life happens: failures and frustrations. At some point, we drop the ball so many times, we either give up or die to self, realizing that failure is forward motion, that letting go of our ego (“I’m so bad at this!”) is the only way to keep going.

Yeah, you’re bad at this. This is what juggling teaches when we first begin. You’re bad at this, and yet you keep trying anyway. You WILL fail. The humility that comes from facing this truth and persevering anyway is the engine that drives the juggler and the artist. At some point, we laugh at all of our drops. Even now, when I can juggle without much difficulty, I still sometimes drop a ball. And I laugh it off. I shrug because of course. Of course I dropped a ball. That’s the way it goes.

Those of us who make art would be well-served by this attitude. Of course. Of course I wrote a clunker of a story. Of course I lost the thread in that essay. Of course I couldn’t find the right word and used an almost-right one instead. Of course no one liked that Substack post. Of course I got another rejection letter from that magazine.

Of course. That’s the way it goes.

And the juggler knows you simply bend down, pick up the balls, and start again. Drops happen to everyone. They are as much a part of juggling as keeping all the balls in the air.

The same goes for art.

On Keeping and Not Keeping My Pact

December 2, 2025 / / 0 Comments

In the spirit of Stephen King’s advice to finish a draft in the “length of a season,” I’m trying to finish my children’s adventure fantasy, Shards of Stolen Breath, before January 1, 2026. As such, I made a pact with myself last week to write for seven days, an hour-long chunk each day, to see what I could get accomplished.

I followed several procedures, namely, keeping the writing time flexible (to account for my unpredictable schedules), counting down the hour in twenty-minute chunks (to keep myself more accountable and not get lost in the weeds of distraction), and using the “skeleton scene” method of writing down scene ideas on note cards immediately before writing the draft. I also made a commitment to not focus on the number of words written but on the time spent in the chair.

It’s been seven days (the length of my pact to myself), and I’ve learned a few things about myself, my abilities, my inabilities, and what I need to work on going forward.

First, what worked.

Skeleton scenes were excellent. They gave me a road map but a loose one. When I started each writing session, I had a few previous cards to look at and gather ideas from, but I also had the option to sketch new scene ideas on new cards. Both sets of cards–previous ideas and new ideas–put me at ease and let me know that when the timer starts, I’m not committed to furiously rushing into the manuscript. Instead, I can think a bit, daydream a bit, let my imagination awaken, before writing. Even though I wasn’t focused on word counts, I ended up writing about 1,000 words per hour. This is a great pace for me, and it was almost effortless, which is what I want.

Storytelling should be a flow-state activity, and using the skeleton scenes to spur my imagination put me into that flow state.

The other thing that worked was the twenty-twenty-twenty timer regime. There were a few times when I got off track in my twenty-minute chunks, but the buzzing of the timer reminded me of what I should be doing, and thus, I refocused for the next twenty minutes.

Finally, I think focusing on time and not words helped me feel less anxious. It reduced the pressure and made my writing time feel more like leisure and less like work.

However, the caveat to this is that I couldn’t quite manage to ignore the pressure of writing more words. With a deadline of January 1–and an ability to do basic math–I know how many words I should be writing each week, and the fact that I did NOT manage to hit those words means I’m in danger of not achieving my “length of a season” goal.

Maybe the problem is in setting such a goal in the first place, but I wanted to experiment with writing more urgently (with a little more fire in the belly, so to speak), and the six-week time frame felt appropriately pressured without being too much.

But now, on the other side of seven days, I’m wondering if it is too much. I like the idea of finishing this novel by the end of midwinter, but maybe that’s not possible.

What is the “length of a season” anyway? If I’m following a four-season year, then that’s roughly three months per season. I’ve already written about 10,000 words of Shards, but I have many more words to go. Perhaps I should give myself two months to finish instead of one and some change?

This seven-day pact has definitely taught me that I can comfortably get about 500-600 words written each day–without limiting or straining my other responsibilities–so perhaps my season for Shards needs to extend into January. Even if I were to finish mid-February, that’s still setting me up to begin a new project in the spring and finish it before June.

But in order to do that, I’ll need to bump my words up from 500-600 per day to closer to 1,000.

The other lesson I learned from my pact is that I tend to stall out after 500 words. I never quite made my one-hour chunk any of the days. I’m curious to know why that is and what I might do about it. Is it a matter of needing a break? Splitting up the writing time into two different sessions? Or do I need to find a new tactic to get my spark back and finish the session?

Skeleton scenes worked well for getting me started, but perhaps there is another tactic for pushing me into my second set of 500 words.

Or maybe I need to recommit to focusing on my time in the chair and not bother about words at all.

Or maybe I need to use that second half of BIC (“butt in chair”) time to do other creative work. Maybe it’s time to do a writing exercise or creative daydreaming.

These are questions and experiments for another day (another seven-day pact?).

Now for what didn’t work.

I was not able to keep my pact for two of the seven days. Both Wednesday and Friday were traveling days (to see family for Thanksgiving), and I found myself completely unable to get anything done other than morning pages on those two days. I don’t know if it would’ve helped to schedule my writing time in the morning before departing, but the mornings were busy with packing, so I don’t think so.

Trying to write in the evening after a long day of travel proved too much. I’m not very happy about my failure here, but I did learn that perhaps I’m just not able to do much on a travel day. The stress of traveling is too heavy for creative work.

Going forward, on these kinds of days, I should be content with writer’s notebook time in the morning and focus on other ways to connect with my creativity later in the day. On both traveling days, for instance, we listened to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire while we drove, and that was a good way for me to stay connected to fantasy fiction and be inspired. Perhaps on these sorts of days, that’s all I can ask of myself.

In some ways, despite failing to stick to the pact for all seven days, I’m glad that I had those two “missed” days because they allowed me to see that my creative work is never going to fit perfectly into each day; instead, I can enjoy the creative, imaginative moments that do crop up without worrying too much about perfect adherence to the “plan.”

I certainly wrote a lot this past week, and that’s mostly because of my tactics and commitment to the pact. I also learned about what works and doesn’t work for my creative life, and I’ve got new questions to explore, new experiments to try. (Namely, how to keep my energy and focus going for the full hour.)

I’m not sure how useful this information is to others, but perhaps some of these tactics could help a writer who struggles with critical voice and distractions. Maybe skeleton scenes or the twenty-twenty-twenty timer method could help. Maybe the focus on time in the chair instead of words written could help. Maybe the flexible scheduling (doing it day-of and being open to changing it once the day gets going) could help. In a lot of ways, all of my tactics were designed to take the pressure off. If I feel pressured–if the writing feels like a “job” or an “obligation”–then I shut down. My tactics for this experiment allowed me to feel at ease without sacrificing my commitment to my art and getting the novel written.

I know that I’ll continue to experiment and tweak these tactics as I go. I’m thinking for my next experiment, I’ll do a second seven-day pact but try to address that 500-word lull spot I always run into. Maybe the answer is to try a writing exercise. Step out of the manuscript for a bit and see where it goes. I can always add it into the draft later (if it works out).

Artists need to balance flexibility with commitment and habits. I’m learning every day how I work best, while remaining open to change and flux. Ultimately, the storytelling I did last week was fun, fruitful, and energizing. Couldn’t ask for more from this seven-day commitment!

Pact and Procedures: Shards of Stolen Breath

November 29, 2025 / / 0 Comments

The Pact: For the next seven days, I will work on Shards of Stolen Breath (working title), a fantasy novel for children.

The Procedure: Schedule a one-hour chunk each day and write during that time.

(I’m not going to specify a particular time until the day-of. My schedule varies too much to commit to the same time each day. For instance, on Mondays, when we have dinner with my parents, writing after dinner won’t work. Also, on Tuesday of this week I played in an online game of Castles and Crusades after dinner, so that also didn’t work. Wednesday through Friday, due to the holiday and traveling, were not predictable either in the time or the energy department. Etc. etc.

Basically, picking the One True Time each day is hard and ends in failure more often than not. For this experiment, I’m trying the day-of approach to see if that works better.)

More Procedure: Use note cards to write “skeleton scenes” before actually writing.

The idea here (and I can’t remember where I first heard the term “skeleton scene”… this might necessitate a trip to my archives…) is that by sketching out quick impressions or possible details for the scene, I won’t have to stop too long to think them up as I’m writing.

This is, perhaps, a form of “outlining,” but since it’s right before I start adding words to my manuscript, and it’s very much a whatever-comes-to-mind exercise in free association, and it’s not using any parts of my critical voice, therefore it feels much more “creative voice” than not. I don’t have to write the skeleton scenes either. I can simply reread what I wrote yesterday and jump right in.

But skeleton scenes allow a gentler “on-boarding” where I don’t have to feel like the words “matter” yet. I can let ideas come to me (without editorializing) and that makes the first words I type into the manuscript less “precious.” Basically, the fear and resistance is broken down. Skeleton scenes are like stretches before a run.

More Procedure: Set the time for twenty minutes (when I really plan to write for sixty).

Twenty minutes is doable. I can write quite a bit in twenty minutes and it doesn’t seem overwhelming at the start. Also, after twenty minutes, the bell goes off on my Time Timer and I can check in with myself: Have I really been writing, or have I only been “gearing up” to write?

If I’ve only been gearing up, I can get down to brass tacks in the next twenty-minute session and “open the document and stay in the document.”

And after that session, I know I only have to push through one more twenty-minuter and I’ll have met my pact agreement for the day.

If I set the timer for sixty minutes, and I start with some journaling, skeleton scenes (or blogging… heh), the time might quickly get away from me. I’ll feel like I’m writing fiction and adding to the story, but I’m really not.

Twenty-twenty-twenty means I get a little audible check-in every twenty minutes to make sure I’m doing what I want to be doing, which is writing fiction.

More Procedure: Do not, repeat, do not focus on words written (but keep track anyway). I’m not setting a words-per-day quota. This is a time-based pact only.

But I do want to see how many words I can get written in these twenty-minute segments because I’m somewhat hopeful that my procedures here will actually engender MORE words-per-minute than I usually achieve. I don’t know why I think that, but I’m partly doing this experiment to see if my hypothesis is right.

If it is, then perhaps the secret to writing faster and getting into flow-state is buried somewhere within these procedures.

I’ll have more to report when the pact is complete.

“Rule 6: Nothing is a mistake. There’s no win and no fail. There’s only make.”

October 21, 2025 / / 0 Comments

I want to believe this rule. I want to live and make art and teach within the bounds of this rule. Like a mantra, I want this rule to be a constant refrain within me.

But this is a hard teaching.

I want badly to win, whatever that will mean. Maybe it means more readers, or more money, or more accolades. Maybe it means being happy with my output, with the finished product.

Instead, I fail. I don’t get the readers, or the money, or the accolades. I am unhappy with my output, doubting its quality, hating it. The finished product is an embarrassment. A mistake.

But nothing is a mistake. Like Yoda, this rule is saying either make or don’t make. Those are the only two sides to the dichotomy. Those who make, make. Those who don’t make, don’t make.

Winning and failing are not the opposed forces. Making and not-making are the opposed forces.

It’s the fear of mistakes, of wrongness, of failure that keeps us from making.

This is against the Rule.

Failure is an illusion. As are mistakes.

There is only make.

If you make, you are making. If you don’t make, you are not making. This is the only choice. Everything else–everything–is outside of your control. It doesn’t even exist according to the Rule.

“Nothing is a mistake.” That means you can’t possibly make a mistake. Only Nothing is a mistake. Only not-making is a mistake. It’s a mistake because we are called to be makers, to be sub-creators. If we don’t make, if we let Nothing into the world, then we have ceded ground to the mistake. Only by making can we prevent the Nothing.

This is why there’s no win or fail. A different kind of rule would say, “If you make, you win.” But that’s not this rule. This rule isn’t false positivity. It isn’t false praise. The whole concept of winning, of making something that “wins,” is the thing that’s false.

Making has nothing to do with winning or losing. Making has to do with making. There is only make or not-make. The win/lose is a paradigm of competition. Making is not a competition. A lot can happen if we make, and a lot can’t happen if we don’t make, but winning or losing are not part of those options.

If we make, we add to the world. We imitate God.

If we don’t make, well, we don’t. We go along with our lives doing other things, I guess, but those things are not making.

Right now, I am making something. These words are my making. They can sometimes feel like a mistake. I can start to worry that I’ve failed. I can yearn for the “win,” the high praise, the big bucks (though this is unlikely to happen for a lowly blog post!). I can fear the failure, but none of this–the wish to win, the fear of failure, the worrying about mistakes–is part of the actual making. The making is me putting words to the page. The making is stringing sentences together into a whole. The making is the act of making, and that really does exist outside of win/lose, success/fail.

I am making right now. Each letter typed is an act of making. Good/bad, win/lose: these are not involved. The only thing that is happening right now is the making.

And when I’m done, I’ll have a choice. To make or not-make. If I choose not-making, if I choose nothing, then, yes, I have made a mistake.

But I wonder if it’s even possible to choose nothing. Every moment is a moment of making if you think about it in the right terms. Every moment involves thoughts and actions. Those are part of making. Making decisions, making breakfast, making a joke, making a smile. We cannot help but make.

So there’s no fear when I sit down at the computer or with my notebook. I’m already doing the making. The making is already happening.

I don’t need to worry about believing in this Rule. Believing in it has nothing to do with it. Winning, failing: those are immaterial. Those are beliefs. Whether they are false or true is outside of this Rule. I don’t need to believe in either of them.

I only need to make. And I’m already making.

Goal Update: October 2025

October 12, 2025 / / 0 Comments

It’s been awhile. I’m going to try and be as upbeat as possible, but the results speak for themselves: I haven’t achieved most of my goals.

And yet! I’ve achieved some, and that ain’t nothing. Failing to success, right? Would I have achieved even these small things if I hadn’t set myself the goals?

Some may argue that yes, I would still have achieved these few things. And perhaps that’s true. Doing small actions every day does tend to add up to bigger things. My students who are writing for five minutes at the beginning of every class are seeing that happen in real-time. Their notebooks are filling up and they can’t quite believe it.

But there’s a part of me that thinks the simple act of articulating the goals helps me understand what my small actions are in service to. For my students, the daily writing added up to a class party (which we just had last week). For me, the daily/regular actions have added up to the completion of a couple of goals and slight progress on a few more. Again: that ain’t nothing.

What This All Means is precisely that it’s good to have some end goals, but it’s also good (better?) to keep plugging away. Achieving the goals isn’t the measurement; doing the small actions is. And not giving up. That’s important too.

Which is all to say that I’m writing this to self-assess, yes, but even more so, I’m writing this to remind myself that I must keep going. Even in a year’s time, I’ve accomplished things. Not much, but some.

And some is better than none.

Finish writing Norse City Limits (urban fantasy novel): I must admit that I’ve dropped the ball on this. I’m in that messy middle part in which I loathe every choice I’ve made thus far and feel utterly unsuited to the task of writing a novel.

I’ve taken a pause, honestly. Partly because I need to go back and reread and take better notes on what’s happened, but also partly because I think I need to do more reading/research. The Idea Well has run a bit dry. Problems of output are problems of input, and my Norse mythology/film noir input has been anemic these days (months?). I need to get back in touch with that part of myself.

The difficulty? I’ve started a few new projects and those are vying for my time. I feel the heat to work on them, whereas NCL has grown a bit cold.

I was worried about this, especially over the summer, when the novel was really stalled, but I’ve since made peace with it. This feels like how I work. I’m a multi-book reader, and I’m seeing how I’m really a multi-book writer too. It’s not the most efficient way of doing things, and maybe I need to retrain myself to write with white-lightning heat to finish a novel in a month or two or something, but for now, it seems that my process is more meandering.

It’s not like I haven’t been writing.

Maybe not as many words per week as I’d like, but I’m still writing. I’m finishing stories, I’m starting new stories, I’m writing Substack posts, and blog posts. I’m writing almost every day. Maybe not consumable words, but words that could turn into something later (I use my notebook/morning pages writing for ideas all the time).

I’m trying really hard to stop making demands on my Creative Voice. Instead of saying, “I must write this next chapter of __________,” I sit down at the computer, open a few documents (again, intuitively without deliberate thought), and I start cycling back through a story or start with a fresh page and new words, and I let the Creative Voice do its thing.

In fact, that’s precisely how I started this blog post. I let myself start writing what I felt like I needed to start writing, and an update on my writing goals is where Creative Voice led me.

It takes a great deal of trust in this process to operate like this, but I’m trying to trust it.

A bit like my insight on “inventing the process”: I need to stop prescribing the word count (or the work that “must” be done) and simply do what my Creative Voice wants to do. A story doesn’t have to be x-number of words long. I need to stop even thinking about stories as being “short,” “novella,” “novel,” etc. before I start writing them.

Maybe that’s the trouble with NCL? Maybe I committed to “a novel,” before I really had any idea what my Creative Voice wanted to do with this particular character in this particular world.

Well, anyway, I’m almost 50,000 words into the thing, so it must be something longer than a short story. What that thing is, though, I’m not sure yet. Maybe my idea that it must be 100,000 words long or whatever is getting in my way. Or maybe it’s shaping up to be 200k words or more… I certainly have enough story threads going and no idea how to weave them to a satisfying conclusion… It could end up being a door-stopper!

I’m somewhat tempted to throw a bunch of words out. Partly because I feel like certain choices bug me and I don’t like where they led me, but at the time, I didn’t have the courage to go back and redraft from those (seeming?) missteps. Do I have the courage now? Or is this just a way to avoid finishing?

I don’t think it’s a way to avoid finishing. I think it’s my intuition telling me that maybe I need to trust my gut and not keep putting lipstick on a pig.

Maybe I need to do that process reassessment after all and write with lightning heat…

What would that look like?

New Goal: Write an epic fantasy for middle grade readers/my kids (a novel about dragons): This came about because I wanted something for my kids to enjoy that went a little deeper than the dragon books they were bringing home from the library/Scholastic book fair.

I wanted them to have something like I had as a kid, a fantasy series that was epic and archetypal that also didn’t feel watered down. I’m a bit inspired by Katherine Rundell’s thoughts on children’s books and her novel The Explorer in particular, which we listened to as a family on audiobook.

This new dragon fantasy is partly why NCL is on hold.

As I’m typing all this out, I’m thinking I need to heed my own insights about writing one thing with lightning heat… I started this novel (working title: Shards of Stolen Breath) over the summer, and now it’s October and I’m only on Chapter 5. Maybe I need to write with white-heat and finish it as quickly as possible. My boy Thoreau always said, “Write while the heat’s in you.” Don’t let the fire die (hello, dragon pun, I see you).

What does it look like, for me, to write with white-heat?

Does it look like finishing a chapter a day? Write for thirty days, you got yourself thirty chapters. But what if Creative Voice doesn’t want to write a chapter a day? What if she wants to work on that other story that’s been brewing over here for a bit?

Okay, well, I just got done saying I wouldn’t boss my Creative Voice around, but I also wonder if Creative Voice would want to work on Shards every day if I actually, you know, thought about Shards every day. If I wrote about it in my morning pages, and took notes on it throughout the day, and dreamed about it at night.

I have a problem with daydreaming. I’m not doing it enough. I’m crowding out my thoughts with worries and a million other things. I need to schedule some daydream time.

Like, deliberately sit down (or go for a walk) and think about the story. Think about Shards.

I’ll admit that I’ve always been intrigued by guys like Moorcock (and Sanderson too) who can write something in a few days/months. Sanderson has spoken about this before. Write the novel as fast as you can, before the fire dies.

I like systems. I’m tempted to make this system for myself. The daydream about something, write it as quickly as possible, don’t let the fire die. Keep daydreaming so the fire stays stoked. (I swear I’m not writing all these dragon/fire puns on purpose.)

Isn’t it funny how writing all this out has led to insights? I hope they’re insights.

Finish writing Ysbaddaden and the Game of Chess (second book in Merlin series): Similar to NCL, this one is on hold. Perhaps it’ll be faster to redraft from word one on this as well. I’m tempted, mightily tempted to redraft from word one both NCL and Ysbaddaden.

Do I have the courage to try it? Enough of a fool?

Finish a short story set in my sword and sorcery world: Not yet.

Finish a short story about a mother who learns a terrible secret about her son: Not yet.

Finish a short story set in my Children of Valesh universe: Not yet.

New Goal: Finish a short story set in my magical music academy world: Not yet, but almost! I started a story called “Bronwyn Harper” a little while back and I’m getting close to finishing it. Between this story and Shards, I’ve been writing steadily. I also finished a random short story about a dragon egg and submitted that to Writers of the Future, so I need to remember that I haven’t been idle simply because I haven’t finished one of my big novels.

Publish my short story collection: Yes, I did it!

This was a big goal for me in 2025, and I’m happy to report that I met it. A bright spot for sure. It took me longer than I’d hoped, but the key thing is that I did it.

Finish a novella in my City of Ashes series: Not yet. Maybe never? This was a thing my Creative Writing students challenged me to do, but I’m not loving it. Time will tell.

Blog every day: I am not blogging every day, but I am still blogging. I like that this is a place I can continue to return to. I still aspire to blog every day, but it’s okay if I don’t.

Send out Substack newsletter every two weeks: Not yet, but I’m getting better. I’m prioritizing it a bit more. I’m looking through my notebook each week with an eye toward what can go on the Substack, and I’m loosening up my internal “rules” for what I should write about. The topics and essays are a little more wide-ranging, and I find this suits my personality and writing goals better.

Play more role-playing games with my kids, my husband, family, and friends: This is happening and I couldn’t be happier! I just played a one-on-one session of Caverns of Thracia with my eight-year-old son the other day, and it was glorious. And now that my Dolmenwood stuff has arrived, I’m ready to start up campaigns with family and friends. As a family, we’ve been playing Mausritter, Hero Kids, and DnD 5e.

I’m also playing in a regular Shadowdark game, and I’m running Thracia as an open table at a FLGS.

This has been an unqualified success.

Create some RPG modules for Norse City Limits and Merlin’s Last Magic: Not yet.

Make a “Saturday Morning” zine series and publish an issue every month: Not yet.

Make other zines: Not yet.

Read more books with my kids (Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Half-Magic, James and the Giant Peach, the Hobbit, the Silver Chair, Horse and His Boy, Magician’s Nephew, Last Battle, more Little House books, How to Train Your Dragon series, Harry Potter): I was doing this, and then we stalled, and now I’m ready to make this a priority again.

I think we need to force our kids a bit on these. They are sometimes reluctant to listen to these older books, but we think it’ll be good for them. First up, NIMH and A Horse and His Boy, then a retry with The Hobbit.

Start naalbinding again (finish the hat I started for my son and make another one for my other son): Ugh, not yet. I want to prioritize this. My son’s head will be too big if I don’t finish soon!

Practice my cartooning/comics drawing (for the zines): Hmm… a bit? Not much, though. Need to do more daily drawing.

Start a podcast: This is a new goal, but I have an idea I’m excited about and which I think my readers will really like. New goal for 2026 is to actually record the episodes and maybe even launch.

Write essays, poems, and fiction that will serve as models for my students next school year: Not much, and I’m wondering if I want to keep this as a goal. I’m not saying I never do this, but I don’t think I need to set it as a goal for myself. I can write things as needed and dictated by the students I have each year. But making it a personal goal feels like an unnecessary step. I’ll do the work if I need to as part of my day job; no need to “focus” on it here.

Bonus achievement: The dragon egg story I wrote on a whim and submitted to WotF. I was using a writing prompt, thinking it would just be an exercise, and then it turned into a whole story. Just goes to show that “practice” for writers can turn into real work (as is true for nearly all artists). Who knows if it’s any good, but I had fun writing it.

Shifting Season

October 9, 2025 / / 0 Comments

I love fall, and I hate it.

I love the weather, but I hate that I can’t always enjoy it.

Fall is busy. It’s the new school year, it’s making lunches again, it’s three birthdays in our family, it’s letters of recommendation and summer homework that needs grading. It’s always getting started on the wrong foot. It’s crisp mornings and warm afternoons, and evenings that start earlier. My walks shift from mornings to after dinner.

Fall is a shifting season.

I like the idea of fall. I hate the reality of it.

I wish my falls could be like what we see in commercials. The cozy apple orchard, pumpkins, sweateriness, the hot tea and reading under blankets, the hay rides and bonfires. I literally went to a hay ride and bonfire a week ago, and still, I cannot enjoy it. I cannot let go of all the ways my summer life has been upended, and how I haven’t yet adjusted.

Fall shifts us from summer to winter, and on some level, I love that shift. I really like winter! I really like summer too, but most of all, I like how I get to enjoy both, and I like the shift from one to the next. I adore seasons.

But the other shift in fall–the harder shift–is the shift into all this busy-ness. It should be the opposite–shifting from summer to winter should be a shift FROM busy TO restful. Instead, the shift is seismic. I lose my balance. I falter.

Spring shifts us too, but that’s a springboard shift. A leap into summer. A welcome shift where the end of the school year is in sight.

I love fall, but I also hate it. I resent it, I suppose. I resent that what I wish it could be is not what it is.

The shift is happening TO me, not the other way around. If I could do the shifting, if I could be in control, then the turn from summer to winter would be beautiful.

But I’m not in control. The shift is happening TO me. I am buffeted about and pulled in a thousand directions. I am the leaf that falls and gets blown hither and yon.

Just as I was thinking all this, an email from Cal Newport hit my inbox in which he mentions the Gen Z trend to “lock in” for the remainder of 2025. This “locking in” is about focusing hard for the next three months to finish 2025 strong and get something done that doesn’t involve doomscrolling or wasting time on TikTok.

Newport then links to his Youtube video where he lays out a plan for using the last four months of the year to “reinvent your life.”

Shifts.

Gen Z’s locking in, Newport’s reinvention plan–these are ways of shifting, of taking control of fall and using the season to move into something better. The shift of fall means change, but Newport’s idea is that this change can be positive.

Would it be possible for me to use fall for my own shift? To stop the winds of autumn from blowing me about like a stray brown?

I am not sure.

I like the idea of taking charge, of shifting things in the right direction instead of being shifted into chaos. But how does one take control of the shift when so much is outside my control?

Perhaps this is just September. Perhaps no matter who controls the shift–me or the world–there will be discomfort. There will be chaos.

It is a shift after all. And I can’t help that it’s a shift into more–more responsibilities, more work, more things on my plate. I can fight the shift, cry about the shift, accept the shift, or ride the shift. I can take more control, but I can’t stop the onrush of birthdays and lunches and grading and earlier mornings. Some things are inevitable. The seasons change.

And I do like the changing of seasons.

I like fall.

There’s a certain glow to the sunlight in September, in early October. There’s a lovely dryness right now, where it’s warm but I can still wear a long-sleeved shirt, and the sun is bright but not intense. There’s a gentleness to the weather. A mildness.

A strange contrast to the hectic day-to-day of tasks and responsibilities.

Maybe I don’t have to like all the chaos and busyness of fall, but I can still enjoy the crisp mornings and the fresh apples and the hay rides. Maybe I can reinvent myself too. Maybe Newport and the Gen Zers are on to something. Fall may be busy, and it may be an uncomfortable shift, but perhaps it doesn’t have to be a meaningless one. Perhaps I can wrest back a little control, shift things in subtle ways.

Maybe fall is just the shift I need to reaffirm my desires and my goals.

If everything is in tumult these days, why not use that unsettling to unsettle some of my complacency, some of my resignation?

What meaning can I find in all this?

Perhaps I need to reaffirm my desires. Perhaps all this shifting (which I find so uncomfortable) is a sign that I’m not in the right place, that something is off. Perhaps I need to recommit to a writing career; perhaps I need to remember what’s important and what’s peripheral; perhaps I need to dream a bit bigger and not give in to despair.

Maybe that’s the challenge of fall. As the weather cools and the days darken, as work piles up and up and up, the challenge is to not let it overwhelm you. The shift is happening beneath your feet and in the air and on your To Do list, but that shift doesn’t have to bury you.

Instead, weathering the shift is a kind of victory. Winter may be a time for rest and healing, but we feel that rest more deeply when we’ve gone through the wringer. The shifting of fall may be troublesome at times, but it can shake loose old ways of thinking; it can challenge us deeply, but facing those challenges can make us stronger.

I’m still annoyed by all the busyness of fall, but now I can sense that there’s an invitation happening too. I am invited to see the tumult as a crucible, as a shaking loose. I can shed old ways and discover new ones. I can let old frameworks die and resurrect deeper desires. I can also stumble and fall. That will happen too.

But it’s right there in the name. Fall.

In some ways it’s inevitable that this season will challenge me.

And yet, despite the challenges, I always manage to make it through.

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