Writing Myself Back Into the Light
How leaning into darker stories helped me rediscover my creative light
The year 2020 found lots of different ways to crush my soul and with it, my creativity. A particularly dark winter meant I was still singing the Seasonal Affective Disorder blues when COVID-19 showed up in Washington State. Then everything shut down and my morning ritual of sipping tea and writing words in a quiet house disappeared. Suddenly there were three extra people at home all day long. Noisy, hungry, talkative people. Even with my office door shut and the fan churning out white noise, their energy threw me off my creative game.
Primed for a creative crisis
I was primed for a creative crisis already, to be honest. A beloved writing project didn’t get picked up over this past winter — the culmination of a couple of years of disappointment — just as my writing partner got the book deal of a lifetime (which I continue to celebrate with my whole heart). So many conflicting emotions swirled in my brain as we headed into spring and one message kept coming up for me: Wouldn’t I be happier if I just quit writing?
I run a thriving book coaching business (What is a book coach?). My husband and I spend our free time guiding our two amazing teenagers toward adulthood. And my anxiety is such that the constant stream of rejection that’s part of the writing life not only stings but can send me spiraling into depression. I wasn’t sure I needed that in my life, especially in a year of pandemics and human rights violations that brought tears to my eyes nearly every day. For the first time in nearly twenty years of writing — and against every piece of writing advice I’ve ever given — I considered quitting.
Over the next few weeks, I talked to my therapist, my friends, my husband. Of course, they all supported me as I struggled. I stopped writing for nearly two months this spring. Instead, I planted my garden, started a Victory Garden 2020 group on Facebook, and focused on my coaching clients. I put aside the dream. And I slept peacefully through each night for what felt like the first time in ages.
The itch to create
As spring led into summer, the sun came back to the Pacific Northwest. It would be a lie to say I didn’t enjoy the lightness of not having a word count goal to hit or a story to submit as I dug in the dirt, as I spent my time on other things. But it didn’t last. The sleep renewed me. My broken heart began to heal. By midsummer, I was feeling the itch to create.
But I knew it would have to be a new story. Revising something I’d already written felt too encumbered with baggage and disappointment. I started plotting a new novel. This story was light and fun and full of so many of my loves — nerdy science and garden lore, family mysteries and multi-generational bonds — but once I got through the outline, I struggled to write it. The voice just wasn’t there.
Then I got a note that changed everything. A friend was putting together an anthology highlighting emerging voices with ties to the Pacific Northwest and a contributor had backed out at the last minute. I could submit something to replace it, but I needed to be fast.
I took the weekend to think about it, but by the end of the first night, I had the spark of an idea. Instead of light and sweet and loving like my novel, this story was undeniably dark. All my fears about the world, about the state of the environment, about human cruelty and loss, poured onto the page in prose and verse alike.
Trying something new…and dark
My mom said an early draft was “sad” and my husband said he didn’t get it. I kept going anyway. The writing pals that kept checking in on me and balanced their feedback with equal parts critique and cheerleading, treating me like the fledgling bird I was in that moment.
Somehow, pouring all that darkness out on the paper let me feel the light again. The feeling of muse-inspired flow that had evaded me for months came back in fits and starts and I savored every moment of its presence. Quitting was no longer an option.

That was the tightest deadline I’ve ever pulled off — racing through drafting, developmental edits, line edits, copyedits, and proofs in a little over a month. And instead of stressing me out, it energized me. Between drafts, I poked a bit at the happy book, but each day that passed confirmed that for now, that story would remain an outline in the drafts folder.
Meanwhile, a different story was bubbling up inside me. One that came to me during the height of the Kavanaugh hearings. One that I was terrified to write. It was too angry. Too personal. Too full of pain. Too close to my heart. How could I trust the world with this story when it had rejected my other beloveds?
Finding my flow
I started to write. And this time, I kept at it. Flow became a daily companion, a long-lost friend I had missed like oxygen, like sunlight. Greedy, I grasped at it, soaked it up, and celebrated when I didn’t scare it away with the force of my need.
I don’t know what 2021 will hold for me or this story. That golden, gloried “YES” that will transform this manuscript into a published book continues to be beyond my control. What I can control is my focus, my intention, my craft. But I’m not writing for anyone else’s yes, not anymore. I’m writing for my own. And as we head into another dark winter, that knowledge is like the warm spring sun on my upturned face.