I shared in my last post that I’ve been struggling with writer’s block over the past few weeks. I’m clawing my way out of that hole little by little, thanks to writing exercises, journaling, and consciously trying to let go of the need to find the perfect words. Rough drafts are rough for a reason, right?

I’ve also been reading more. In the final throes of finishing Sketch, I’d gotten out of the habit of reading for pleasure, instead spending all of my “free” time rereading my own work and editing it until my eyes bled some days. Over the past couple of weeks, I finished three books: first, a Christmas–themed book club read, One Big Happy Family by Susan Mallery (very cozy and cute, even if it did give me a mild inferiority complex about not going hard enough on Christmas in my own life—why, oh why, don’t we drink more cocoa and build more snowmen… oh right, we live in Florida).Then, because I am apparently mentally unhinged, I read a horror novel called Seed by Ania Ahlborn. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it at first, but I can’t stop thinking about the nightmarish ending, so it clearly made an impression.

After that, I moved on to contemporary fiction—because yes, my reading tastes really are that erratic—with Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. This book came out several years ago, and I somehow missed it then. I’m not usually one to follow hype around books or media, or at least it takes me a while to give in, but Eleanor’s story was so exceptionally written, so painfully beautiful, that the first thing I did when I finished it (besides cry) was immediately look up what else Ms. Honeyman had written. I then mourned the fact that this was her only published work, followed by several hours of berating myself, because no matter how many books I write, my writing will never come close to hers.

Which is probably why I got out of the habit of reading for pleasure in the first place.

When I sat down with my coffee and laptop this Christmas Eve morning—a moment that would normally lead to trying to get a few hundred, or if I’m lucky a few thousand, words down on my current WIP—I still felt that same familiar, icky imposter-syndrome feeling. The one that kept Sage’s story hidden from the world for so many years. Writing—especially fiction, written with the intention that someone else might someday read it—is the ultimate act of vulnerability. And sometimes it feels like just one more slap of mud on the walls of the writer’s block hole.

But I also know this feeling—this mood, this phase, whatever you want to call it—is a passing one. I’ll take the fear and inferiority and self-doubt stirred up by reading Eleanor’s story and roll it around inside my brain and psyche like a pinball. Eventually, the lights will go off, the noise will quiet, and I’ll find a way to turn it into something that looks a lot like inspiration.

And maybe that’s what finding peace looks like for me right now—showing up anyway, trusting the process, and allowing the words to be imperfect until they’re ready to become something more.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! Whether you celebrate the holidays or not, I hope this season brings you some peace—whatever that looks like for you.

Oh, speaking of peace—and on a totally non-writing-adjacent, very personal note—we spent Christmas Eve-Eve last night watching our son propose to our soon-to-be daughter-in-law, surrounded by beautiful lights and so much love it felt impossible to contain. My heart is full.