On Coming Back

I want to tell you about a writer I've known for some time.

She's talented. Thoughtful. The kind of writer whose work stays with you. And for a stretch, life pulled her away from the page. Not dramatically — just the way life does sometimes. Other things needed her attention. The writing became sporadic. Then less than that.

I stayed in touch. Checked in. And what I watched her do during that time impressed me more than I expected. She didn't force it. She gave herself space. She wrote when she felt moved to, experimented a little, and let the rest be. And then one day, quietly, she realized she wasn't writing as much as she'd like.

She may have beaten herself up a little. If she did, she didn't show it. Instead, she reached out. She's getting herself into a private feedback group. She's going to start writing again. Just that — just start.

The grace she showed herself stopped me. I thought it was worth writing about.

There's a story many of us tell ourselves when we've been away from our writing for too long.

We know what the inner critic sounds like. We've read about resistance. We understand, in theory, that the answer is to sit down and write anyway. And yet — we didn't. Days passed. Weeks, maybe. And now we're not just dealing with not writing. We're dealing with the guilt of knowing better and still not doing it.

If that's where you are, here's what I want you to consider.

If you're disappointed that you haven't been writing — if you're frustrated, or quietly angry at yourself, or carrying a low hum of guilt about the pages you haven't written — that's not evidence that you've failed. That's evidence that writing still matters to you. A great deal.

You don't beat yourself up over things that don't matter. The guilt, the longing, the nagging feeling that you should be writing — that's not weakness. That's love for the work. Hold onto that.

Here's something else worth remembering.

The life you've been living during this time away — the highs and the lows, the hard stretches and the unexpected joys — has been shaping you. The heartbreak, the uncertainty, the loss, the moments of beauty you didn't expect — all of it becomes perspective. And perspective is what your writing draws from.

You can write deeply because you have felt deeply. The time away was not wasted. You were living. And the life you've lived — all of it, including this stretch — is your one of a kind view of this world. No one else has it. No one else could write from it the way you can.

When we drift from our writing, we may hurt. Or we may simply enjoy the rest. Neither is wrong. It just is. But as a storyteller, you may find yourself wanting to make meaning of it — to tell yourself a story about what the time away means, about who you are or aren't as a writer.

Here's a thought: take that impulse and put it on the page.

Vent about the stretch you've been through. Write about something that happened while you were away — the joy, the difficulty, the ordinary moments that surprised you. Write the first thing that comes to mind when you pick up a pen. If you're working on a manuscript, drop into a scene you've been curious about. Write a moment you haven't reached yet. Write the ending. Write anything.

Express whatever you're feeling and thinking through your words.

And just like that — you're writing again.

If you've found yourself away from your writing and you're ready to come back, the Write Things Community would love to welcome you. Writing alongside a group of warm, supportive, genuinely caring writers has a way of making the return feel less like a mountain and more like a door you just have to open.

It's completely online, so you can write from wherever your summer takes you.

Doors close June 28th — so if you've been on the fence, now is the time.

Join the Write Things Community →

Wishing you and your stories all the best,
Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S. If you're looking to dive deeply into your writing this summer, I have two 1:1 manuscript coaching spots remaining. More on that next week.