I’ve been writing nonstop for over three months.
When I finished polishing half of my PSJ Book 3, I hit a kind of emotional saturation I didn’t know how to name at first. Suddenly, I couldn’t access the same emotional register I had when I was writing Book 2. And because of that, I couldn’t bring myself to publish chapters that were already finished.
I felt… lost.
And underneath that, I was scared.
If I couldn’t feel the emotions anymore — the ones that are supposed to seep through the chapters — would my readers feel them either?
For a while, my world tilted. Writing was what carried me through dark days. Writing made me feel alive again. And then one day, I was just… numb.
That fear crept in quietly:
What if I can’t feel anymore?
What if the instinct that’s always guided me is gone?
What happens if writing stops — and what do I do then?
I’m not an experienced writer by any formal measure. I’ve always relied on instinct. On emotion. On the belief that stories should feel real, human — full of joy, sorrow, hope, fear. I write to feel. I write to survive.
So when I couldn’t feel anything, I panicked.
Instead of forcing it, I did something different. With my eyes closed, I stepped away from the PSJ story for a moment and picked up another one I’d been sitting on for months.
Slowly, something shifted.
I started to feel again.
And this time, I decided to change one thing:
If a chapter feels right now, I publish it now. I don’t hoard it. I don’t overanalyze it later. I trust the moment it came from.
So here I am — publishing a new book.
No rigid outline.
No clear ending yet.
Just instinct. The same way I’ve always written.
Maybe this is what listening to yourself looks like.
Maybe this is what moving forward feels like.
Either way, I’m here. And I’m writing again.
