Write Things: On Returning to the Page

Hello {{ first_name }},

Life has a way of tossing us curveballs, speed bumps, and detours when we least expect them. When that happens, our writing habit is often one of the first things we set aside.

It’s happened to me countless times this year.

When life becomes tumultuous, we naturally shift our priorities and decide where to spend our time and focus.

That isn’t good or bad, right or wrong—but it is worth noticing.

So, this week, I’m writing to myself as I prepare to get back on the wagon.

Mindset Shift

Our Inner Critics thrive on judgment. So this isn’t about blame or finger-pointing for not writing.

That kind of judgment only leads to guilt and shame. It doesn’t serve us—it just teaches the Inner Critic that we respond to the whip.

At the same time, I still take ownership of the moments when I’ve chosen to prioritize other things. Because if it isn’t my choice—whose is it?

Here’s how I find my way back to writing.

First, I ask myself honestly whether I want to spend my precious time and focus on writing. I call this my “magic-wand scenario.”

If I had a magic wand that could erase stress, worries, or pressures—a wand that gave me perfect focus and energy—would I choose to write today?

Preference is key. In a perfect world, would writing be part of your day?

Today, my answer is yes.

Then I sit down with a cup of coffee and wait for the inevitable arrival of Resistance. Sure enough, as soon as I acknowledge that I’d prefer to write, there’s a knock at the door.

My Inner Critic stands there with a plate of cookies and a box full of excuses:

“You’ve got a lot on your plate—don’t overwhelm yourself.”

“Things are busy; get back to writing when life slows down.”

“You don’t feel inspired—wait until you do.”

“You didn’t prepare today. Start fresh tomorrow.”

Its arrival is comically predictable.

I hear all of that and then ask again what I’d prefer. If the answer is still that I’d rather be writing, I make a plan to do so.

Then I write—or at least, I intend to write.

That’s an important distinction.

I guarantee myself a set amount of time to focus on my writing. I can’t guarantee that words will come or that I’ll enter the creative flow. All I can promise is that I’ll show up and be open.

As humans, we create by investing time and focus.

So: distractions away. No phone. No social media. Just space to wonder what I might express or create.

When time’s up, I might keep going—or I might not. Either way, I’ll acknowledge that I’ve done my part. Sometimes the Muse arrives, sometimes not. Both are okay.

Finally, the most important step:

I ask myself if I’d prefer to write again tomorrow—and the next day. Then I set that time aside and defend it like it matters as much as anything else in my day.

Because it does.

To hold myself accountable for getting going again, I’ve included my own quick-write below.

If you’re ready to return to your writing too, tackle the quick-write below.

Want some guidance and support? I’ve got a pair of writing groups starting next week and I’d love to have you join us. You can check them out here. 

BONUS: Once a year, I like to encourage friends to join together. Sometimes this is the extra push a writer needs to choose to commit to their writing. 

If you OR your friend haven’t worked with me this year (or ever), I’d like to offer both of you 50% off your registration. 

Just reply to this email and let me know who you’re joining with =).  

Your Next Four Minutes

Prompt: “The Window”

Windows invite us to see—and sometimes to long. You might write about a time you looked through one and noticed something that changed your view of the world. Or imagine a fictional moment where a character watches from behind glass, torn between staying where they are and stepping into what they see.

Set a timer and write freely for four minutes. Don’t edit. Don’t worry. Just go. See what appears when you let your attention rest on the view, the barrier, or what’s reflected back.

If you decide to develop your quick-write into a piece:
👉 Use the window as both boundary and mirror—a way to show your character’s desire, distance, or perspective without naming it directly.

From the Write Things Community

Here are a few four-minute writes from new members of the Write Things Community:

Anja P. 

Jeanette gazed from her perch behind the bay window of her kitchen. Sipping her tea, it was the perfect vantage point to study the feathered visitors that came for treats she left out for them daily.

As she watched pigeons, swallows, and blue jays flock to the feeder her heart swelled with both pleasure and yearning. She knew they only visited her for sustenance but she liked to imagine they knew her by name, knew how kind she was, enjoyed her company just as much as the morsels of sunflower and poppy seeds enrobed in honey.

How she wished she could join them as they darted off after their fill, flittering and carefree, off to their next adventure.

She shook her head to herself when her yearning became unbearable. She knew she’d never be able to fly away without worry like those silly birds. They might be free, but at the mercy of the unforgiving elements. Not Jeanette. Behind the window she was safe, protected, enclosed. Her home a safe haven and cloistering cage to the fearsome, unpredictable outside world.

Leanne M. 

It’s 5 am. The alarm splits the silence dragging me out of sleep like a scream in a quiet room. Cocooned in the warmth of my blankets, the bed holding me here. Just a few more minutes won’t hurt. I should get up…the gym is waiting, whispering my name reminding me of the commitment I made to myself. Get up, get dressed and get going! But five more minutes…what’s five more minutes? My body begs to stay in my cocoon, in the dark, in the quiet but my mind keeps ticking, counting the minutes like failures. I stay…I can’t quite move…not yet.

Tanus T. 

Gazing out my front window I shudder at the mess in front of me. We have been living in a construction zone for three months, and I am getting tired of it. Yes, I know it will be beautiful when it is done, but for now it is a big ugly mess. They have taken the road down to the gravel and it is not very pretty or comfortable to walk on. I try to remind myself that the foundation needs to be solid for the road above to be smooth and well constructed. All the digging is exhausting. Sometimes the whole foundation of the house is shaking. It feels like I am in a time of transition. I hope the ground will settle eventually, and my pen will find the page.

Linda E.

She looked out of her window and wished she could head outside. The waving trees beckoned to her, their branches waving as though trying to convince her to leave her responsibilities behind. She couldn't. She looked down at the pile of work that had to be finished before she left her job. She knew that the trees would still be there, she knew that the large patch of grass would still be soft and lush and welcoming but it would be too late, too dark to sit and enjoy the nature that surrounded her. Instead, she sat on the hard wooden chair and polished the silver and knew once that task was completed, she'd have to iron the dishtowels and fold them just-so before her employers arrived home.

Aileen H. 

She sat down gingerly on the seat across from the bus driver, it was hard to know if there was anything lurking, the cushion pattern hid a multitude of sins.

"Does this bus go near Falgarwood" she asked, he nodded impatiently as he closed the door and the bus jerked into motion.

She hadn't been on a town bus since grade 11, over forty years ago now, she watched as they started up Eighth Hill, it used to be a much wilder ride. She could remember the 70's when the bus would wait at the bottom until the car ahead had crested the top. The town had eventually leveled it out which made winters less treacherous and also less exciting.

She passed by the homes of the girls she had known, The Minshall's, the Blackburn's, The Cooper's, the lights glowed softly. There must be new families in most of them by now.

They pulled past the school, she could see the playground, and the outdoor swimming pool, long closed for the season now, by my, hadn't they had a time there?

She grasped the bell and stood up, careful to keep hold of the pole by the door. "Thank you" she said as she carried her bags down the stairs.

Her last night at home, if you could still call it that, with only the ghosts to keep her company.

Trevor M. 

The mop struggled to do its job in front of the window. The spotless floor needed more attention and he, being a diligent custodian, was sure to give it. A pull of a handle, the mop released its near-clear water back into the bucket. Stan straightened his back and went back to work for the third time, massaging the floor where it met the wall. His ear buds were in, but no music played. His face down, masked in focus. But with every push of the mop, his eyes scanned, his ears searched, hoping for some sign of movement behind the dirt-caked glass. Glass filthy on the other side.

He found no light, no movement through the solitary, tiny hand print on the other side. 

Want to Hear Writers Read Their Stories?

Check out the Write Things Podcast! (New episode out next week!)
🎙️ Listen to past episodes here: https://www.ihelpyouwritethings.com/podcasts/write-things-podcast/

If you enjoyed this edition, please share it with a friend. The more writers we get writing, the more wonderful stories we’ll have in the world.

Until next time, I wish you and your stories all the best,

Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things