The past few days have been busy at the writing desk! Have I gotten any actual writing done on any current WIPs since Christmas Eve? No. Do I have any regrets about that? Also no. What did happen was a relaxed, fun, joyful holiday spent with family, followed by the pure excitement of my author copies arriving the day after Christmas (a full week earlier than anticipated).

Now, I thought everything felt real once I uploaded my final manuscript files for publication on December 8th—but holding my book in my hands? This is next-level real.The support I’ve received from family and friends over the past few months, since I first announced Sketch’s completion and my intention to share it with the world, has been overwhelming (I still have moments each day where I’m overcome with emotion as I respond to messages). And now autographing books leaves me simultaneously proud, verklempt, and feeling surreal.

Six months ago, I was full of equal measures of self-doubt and self-loathing, and now suddenly here I am, closing the year with my finished book in my hands.

The best thing about all of this? Something has shifted in me.

Even if Sketch doesn’t sell any more copies than to my friends and family—and even those sales I am eternally grateful for—I feel empowered. Despite the small bit of writer’s block I recently shook off, I know what I am capable of now. After years of breaking that same promise to myself—the promise that this would be the year I would finally finish it—I finally did it. And now I know I am capable of more.

This past week, I applied and was accepted to graduate school to be a therapist (something I’ve wanted to do for 10+ years but always talked myself out of). I wrote a full chapter on one of my current WIPs (Christmas Eve morning, no less!). I wrote a new piece—a short-short for a Writer’s Digest writing contest (more on that below). And I got a head start on my New Year’s resolution by deleting TikTok off my phone and out of my life.

2026 will be the year of less doom scrolling, distraction, and brain rot—and more reading, writing, and connection.

Deleting TikTok and disavowing short-form video in general did exactly what I hoped. That very first night, once I was done with work, to-dos, and prepping for the next day—the time of evening I would normally tell myself I “deserved” to zone out to dog videos for a while because I was intellectually and emotionally drained (I do a lot of talking and have a lot of heavy conversations in my 9–5 job)—there was no TikTok. Only an empty spot on my phone screen where the app used to live, and a promise I’d made to myself in the back of my mind to, for the love of God, READ something. ANYTHING, when I had the urge to “zone out.”

So I did something I hadn’t done in years: I opened my current issue of Writer’s Digest.

Now, I’ve been subscribed to WD for probably 10 years, on and off—but up until now, I never felt worthy of it. Even during periods of my life when I was actively working on the book, I still felt I wasn’t a “real writer” because I’d been at it so long, it had been through so many drafts, and it still wasn’t done. And during periods when I was avoiding writing altogether, the mere sight of a new WD issue in the mail would fill me with self-revulsion.

I would toss it into one of my various baskets of back-issue magazines around the house and back away slowly, as if, if I looked at it too long, the author on that month’s cover would glare back at me accusingly.

So anyway—this past Friday, I read the whole thing, cover to cover.

There were some great articles in there, and I’ll save this one in my pile of back issues not out of avoidance, but to actually reference later. But the thing that had me up until 1:30 a.m. Friday night, typing away furiously on my phone, was the image/writing prompt below.

Every month, WD has a different writing contest based on various prompts, and I have never even considered trying—let alone finishing a piece and entering the contest. At least, not until now.

I don’t know if I’ll be recognized for it in any way, and honestly, I don’t care. It was a fun little piece to write, and I’m happy to share it with you, Dear Reader. 🙂 Thanks for reading. If any of this felt familiar—if you’ve ever loved a thing but doubted your right to it—you’re not alone. I hope you keep making the thing, even on the days you feel like giving up.

(The contest/challenge is to write a short story of no more than 650 words based on the image attached. Find my story, titled Still Life, below. Check it out here if you’d like to play along: https://www.writersdigest.com/your-story-140)

Morgan scanned the dense crowd of fellow attendees, looking for a familiar face. She hated stuff like this. More than anything, she just wanted to be on her couch eating her Friday-night ritualistic girl dinner—her snack plate of various cheeses, seed crackers, and hot honey hummus with a huge pile of pickles—wearing her sweats, watching the newest season of Housewives, and snuggling with Leo, her emotional support cat.

But her sister, the lovely yet perpetually professionally untethered Annabelle, had landed an amazing artist client and completely planned the pop-up lakeside art installation from top to bottom. Morgan knew better than to be anything less than supportive. So she’d shown up—early, in heels, for Christ’s sake.

And now what?

She’d assumed there would be a peppering of mutual family and friends in the throng of wannabe gallery-goers. Annabelle’s various careers throughout the years always seemed to flourish early on, thanks to the support of their circle, who—like Morgan—went out of their way to lift her sister up, as if selling a $200 Cutco knife to Morgan’s college roommate would be the thing to catapult Annabelle’s success.

But not only did Morgan not see anyone she knew in the crowd—whose faces were lit just enough by the futuristic, two-story-tall glowing canvases lining the edge of the raised platform, despite the near-dark of the recently set summer sun—she didn’t even see Annabelle.

Her sister had bragged for weeks about the work that had gone into this night. She was proud of it. Surely she was here somewhere, ensuring things were going smoothly.

Morgan started toward the far end, stepping closer to the oversized backlit canvases, craning her neck to take each one in fully as she approached. It really was a cool venue. If nothing else, Annabelle had good taste. The sky was streaked in amber and gold along the horizon, reflecting across the still water of Lake Michigan.

Morgan spotted Annabelle’s silhouette in front of the last canvas on the platform’s opposite side. She started in that direction, then slowed her pace, puzzled. Why was Annabelle standing so still, so close to the canvas?

As Morgan grew closer, she reached out to touch her sister’s shoulder—but her fingers brushed the smooth finish of paint and varnish.

Morgan yanked her hand away, curling her fingers into a fist as she stared at the back of the figure. She let out a nervous laugh of disbelief. The dimensions of the female form were so detailed it had fooled her into thinking her sister was standing in front of it. She swore she could still smell Annabelle’s perfume in the air.

Morgan started to turn away just as a subtle movement caught her eye.

She froze.

There it was again—the unmistakable rise and fall of a shoulder as Annabelle took a breath.