Three Steps Out of the Fog (and Into the Joy of Writing Again)

A Journey Through Doubt, and Back to the Stories I Love

For a long stretch—longer than I care to admit—writing felt like a fight. Not a thrilling, noir-style alleyway brawl with danger and dialogue, but an invisible, internal battle. A tug-of-war between passion and paralysis.

I wanted to write. Desperately. But perfectionism had its hooks in me. The need to make it “just right” became the excuse for not starting at all. I told myself I was too busy, too distracted, or “not quite ready.” But the truth was simpler, and more painful: I was afraid.

Afraid of what? Failure. Wasting time. Looking foolish. Even success, in some twisted way.

But here’s the miracle: I write now. I write regularly. I write joyfully. And I’ve fallen back in love with the kind of writing that first lit the fire for me—post–World War I short fiction, gritty and golden, full of shadow and soul.

So what changed?

It came down to three quiet, powerful steps.

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1. I Acknowledged My Fear of Failure

There’s a peculiar kind of fear that hits when you love something deeply. For me, writing has always been sacred. Stories aren’t just entertainment—they’re a lifeline, a way of making sense of the world and leaving a mark.

But that love came with pressure. If I care this much, I can’t mess it up, right?

Wrong.

The truth is, nothing gets better by avoiding it. So I called the fear by its name. I said it out loud. And instead of running from it, I sat beside it. I gave myself room to fail. Room to write badly. Room to discover, not dictate.

The stories started to come again—imperfect, yes, but alive.

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2. I Let Go of Guilt and Regret

This one was harder.

I spent years looking back at the time I’d “lost,” at unfinished drafts and dusty ideas that never saw daylight. I replayed every “should have” like a broken record. But guilt is heavy, and regret is sneaky. They make you feel like you need to earn your way back to creativity.

But writing isn’t a punishment. It’s not a penance. It’s a gift.

So I let it go. I forgave myself for the seasons I wasn’t writing. I stopped trying to make up for “lost time” and started writing from where I am—not where I wish I’d been.

And you know what? The work got better. More honest. More vivid. Because it wasn’t carrying the weight of shame anymore.

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3. I Simplified My Life

Not everything, of course. Life is still full of obligations, decisions, distractions. And for me, mobility is a challenge—I don’t walk through my days the way most people do. But I’ve learned to move through life in my own way: with intention, with focus, and with fierce clarity about what matters most.

I stopped chasing everything at once. I said no to noise, clutter, and unnecessary complexity. I gave myself permission to want less and create more.

And into that space came something extraordinary: the stories I was born to tell.

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Why I Write the Post–World War I Stories

When I finally returned to writing, it wasn’t by accident that I chose the post–World War I era. There’s something haunting and heroic about that time. The world was broken and trying to rebuild. People were searching for meaning, carrying invisible scars, rebuilding lives in the shadows of trenches and silence.

I write noir-tinged historical fiction—gritty mysteries set in the 1920s, featuring characters shaped by the Great War, driven by loyalty, loss, and hard-won hope. These are stories where nothing is simple, but everything matters. Where justice is murky and human connection is the only compass.

My protagonists—tough, flawed, often loners—carry parts of me. But they also carry echoes of people I love.

Like my brother. His brain was injured in 1971, and life hasn't always played fair. But he remains one of the kindest, most easy-going people I know. He rolls with what comes. He laughs easily. He reminds me, without ever saying so, that resilience doesn’t have to be loud or flashy. Sometimes it looks like quiet joy, stubborn optimism, and choosing to smile when no one would blame you for not.

I channel that into my characters. Into the men and women who lived through a global war and came home to streets filled with bootleggers, crooked officials, smoke, jazz, and grief. Their stories aren't just fiction. They're ways of honoring the broken parts of history—and the human spirit that survives it.

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What Keeps Me Going

This new chapter of my writing life isn’t about discipline or willpower. It’s about grace. I know now that I’m lucky—blessed, really—to be able to do this.

To be here. To have had some heartbreak and still be standing. To have excellent, awesome, beloved friends who remind me who I am when I forget. To have readers who care. To have words that still find their way to me.

Writing used to feel like pressure. Now it feels like home.

And the fog I was in? It’s lifted. Not forever—life still throws shadows. But I’ve learned how to move through it.

Step by step. Word by word.

Joyfully.