Where the Words Went

I had a plan.

Not a rigid schedule, but a rhythm. Word days, business days, my Friday blog posts. It’s what I could manage, balancing my writing goals against a full-time job and family obligations.

Then a personal tragedy hit, and everything stopped. The routine, my momentum, the creative spark was all swept away by an unexpected phone call.

Afterwards, even picking up the manuscript felt impossible. I’m not drafting right now; I’m doing the last pass of line edits before sending the book to my editors. But for the past few weeks, I couldn’t look at it. When I tried, the words blurred and had no meaning. Trying to refine the soul of my story was too much.

I haven’t found my way back yet. Not fully, but the numb shock is thawing. I’ve inched toward the page. Not with inspiration, but with small, quiet gestures. A note in the margin. A line edit here or there. This blog post.

It’s not steady, but it’s something. And for now, that’s enough.

Getting back on track isn’t about snapping your fingers and returning to “normal.” Grief doesn’t work that way, and neither does creativity.

Writing hasn’t erased the grief, but it helps me move through it. Stories remind us who we are. They give us structure when life doesn’t. And sometimes, working on a book, even in small doses, can feel like reclaiming a part of yourself.

If you’re going through something hard, be gentle with your expectations. Let the work be a comfort, not a burden. And trust that the words will wait until you’re ready.

The header photo is a composite image. Base image photo by Khadeeja Yasser on Unsplash