©ESR 2026

People assume writers are disciplined.

Some writers probably are.

Hemingway was known for his routines. There are plenty of writers who wake up at the same time every day, sit down, and produce consistent, structured work like clockwork.

I am not one of them.

Right now, I’m juggling a manuscript, a preservation project, and this blog. If anyone thinks I’m doing all three with perfect discipline, I genuinely appreciate the vote of confidence.

But the reality is, I’m not.

I’m working on the blog at the moment because I need to post something. Before that, I spent the last month deep in editing a manuscript, which turned into something much bigger than I expected. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized I now have a preservation project on my hands as well.

That’s not discipline.

That’s shifting focus to whatever currently needs attention.

I also have ADD, which adds another layer to all of this. I can be in the middle of transcribing a thought—usually while driving, because that’s when my brain seems to work best—and then something completely unrelated will pull my attention away.

If I pass a food truck and someone is standing outside in a unicorn costume, any illusion of discipline is gone.

Completely.

I try to be disciplined. I value structure. I understand why it matters.

But trying to be disciplined and actually being disciplined are two very different things.

And most of the time, writing looks a lot less like routine…

and a lot more like catching thoughts before they disappear.

People assume writers love attention.

I’ve been a wallflower for most of my life.

I don’t want to be the center of attention, and I definitely don’t write with that goal in mind. In fact, putting a spotlight on me will get me to shut down faster than I can come up with a clever analogy for it.

Writing, for me, isn’t about being seen.

It’s about being clear.

I write because I need to. Because it brings me a sense of calm. Because the more thoughts I can move out of my head and onto a page, the quieter everything becomes.

And I share what I write not for attention, but for perspective.

It’s the only perspective I have—my own—and no one else sees the world in quite the same way. That feels worth sharing, even if it only reaches a small handful of people.

Right now, that’s exactly what it is.

A few readers. A few consistent ones. And honestly, that feels like enough.

Sometimes I think about what it would be like if something I wrote ever went viral.

And the honest answer?

I would have no idea what to do with that.

At all.

Because this—this is where I’m comfortable.

Sitting in my room, on my bed, with a cat purring next to me. A C-drama playing quietly in the background while I read subtitles. Dictating thoughts as they come, without performance or pressure.

There’s nothing about this that’s designed for attention.

And that’s exactly why it works for me.

People assume inspiration shows up fully formed.

Let me make one thing very clear.

There is no angel Gabriel of creativity descending from the sky and delivering me a complete, polished idea.

That’s not how this works.

Inspiration, for me, comes in fragments.

I could be sitting in a restaurant, overhearing pieces of two completely unrelated conversations, and my brain will stitch them together into something that feels like it might matter. Or I’ll be out driving, already halfway lost in thought, when something small catches my attention.

That’s usually how it starts.

I remember being on a road trip once, passing one of those green highway signs for a small town. The name sounded almost like “macaw,” like the bird, though it was spelled differently. At the same time, my mind had already been wandering—thinking about movement, about cars on the road looking like ants from far enough away.

And then it clicked.

A phrase formed: the ants march on to macaw.

I had no idea what it meant.

But I knew it was something.

So I pulled out my phone and wrote it down. Not because it was a finished idea, but because it felt like a breadcrumb—something I would lose if I didn’t capture it in that exact moment.

That single line eventually became part of something much larger. A poem series about progress, about systems, about stepping off the engine and choosing something different.

But none of that existed at the beginning.

It started as a fragment.

That’s how inspiration works for me.

It’s not a finished cake placed neatly on the table. It’s crumbs. Pieces. Small, disconnected moments that don’t make sense on their own. Over time, I gather enough of them to shape something new.

If anything, it’s closer to making a cake pop.

You start with something whole, break it down into pieces, mix it together, reshape it, and only then does it become something recognizable.

I don’t always know where the “cake” is.

I just know when I’ve found a crumb worth keeping.

And I’ve learned to trust that if I collect enough of those moments, something meaningful will eventually take shape.

So no, inspiration doesn’t arrive fully formed.

For me, it arrives quietly—

one fragment at a time.

People assume writers always know where a piece is going.

I don’t.

And honestly, I don’t think I ever have.

If anything, the only consistent part of my writing process is that I rarely know where something is going to end up when I start it.

I think that’s part of why I gravitated toward writing in the first place. I used to draw and paint—mixed media, sketching, all of it—and I enjoyed it. But I always struggled with trying to make the final image match what I had in my head. There was a fixed outcome I was trying to reach, and if it didn’t land exactly right, it felt off.

Writing doesn’t work that way for me.

With writing, wherever the words land, they land.

And more often than not, they land somewhere I never expected.

The manuscript I’m working on right now is a perfect example. It started as an exploration of religious rhythm—something loosely inspired by the idea of a Book of Hours. I was interested in the concept of intentional pauses throughout the day, small moments of reflection built into daily life.

I’ve always found that kind of devotion beautiful. The structure. The repetition. The act of stopping, even briefly, to turn your attention toward something meaningful.

That was the idea.

What I did not expect was for that exploration to turn into a 400-page devotional manuscript.

That was not the plan.

There was no outline that said, this is where this will go.

I followed the idea, and the idea grew.

The same thing is happening now with another project I’ve been thinking about—a preservation project centered around rosaries. I’ve always been drawn to prayer beads, even before returning to Catholicism. There’s something about the physical act of moving bead to bead that feels grounding.

Recently, I started noticing how much history is embedded in those objects. Different materials used across time—wood, glass, even cherry pits in some cases. Each one tells a story about where it came from and the hands that held it.

And that raised a new question for me:

How do we preserve those artifacts now?

How do we document them in a way that keeps that history accessible?

Do I know what that project will become?

Not at all.

Do I know what it will look like in the end?

Not even close.

But I know there’s something there worth following.

And that’s usually enough.

If you want a modern-day comparison, go watch something like Critical Role—a group of voice actors playing Dungeons & Dragons. The game master might have an idea of where the story could go, but the players shape it in real time. The story evolves based on decisions, reactions, and the occasional roll of the dice.

Writing feels very similar.

You might start with a direction.

You might even think you know the ending.

But once you begin, the piece takes on a life of its own.

And your job, more than anything else, is to follow it.

People assume writers are confident in their work.

I don’t know a single creative person who doesn’t experience self-doubt.

At some point or another, most of us wrestle with it. The quiet question that shows up in the background:

Who’s actually going to read this?

Who’s going to care?

That question alone is enough to stop a lot of people before they even begin.

We wait for the perfect blog name. The perfect domain. The perfect setup. The perfect first post.

And the truth is, nothing is ever going to be perfect enough to start.

So you start anyway.

I’ve been writing on this blog since the summer. I now have over a hundred posts, and I’m just starting to see a small group of people return regularly to read what I write. And to those of you who do—you know who you are—I genuinely appreciate you.

But for a long time?

There were no views.

And that’s part of the reality of putting your work out into the world. It can feel disheartening. It can make you question whether what you’re doing matters at all.

Add to that the current culture—where something can go viral overnight or be picked apart just as quickly—and it’s no surprise that writers hesitate.

There’s always that moment of pause:

Do I post this?

Or do I keep it to myself?

I still have pieces I’ve written that will never be published here.

There’s a reason I write under a pen name. It gives me the freedom to explore, to share, and to be honest in ways I might not be able to if everything were tied directly to my full identity—especially in a corporate environment.

The name itself wasn’t something I over-engineered. It came together, and I kept it.

And that, in a way, mirrors the writing.

Because confidence, at least for me, doesn’t come from believing everything I write is perfect or even good.

It comes from deciding that it matters anyway.

Not because it will be read.

Not because it will be liked.

But because it meant something in the moment it was created.

If it resonates with someone else, if someone finds meaning in it, then that’s something extra.

That’s where the connection happens.

But that can’t be the reason for writing.

The only thing you can really be confident in is this:

that the words were honest when you wrote them.

And sometimes, that’s enough.