April Davila's Blog

When You Don’t Want Certain People to Know You’re Writing

A writer I know once confided, quietly:

“I don’t want people to know I’m writing.”

I say writer because that’s exactly what she is, even if she isn’t ready for others to know it yet.

Maybe it’s a sibling who gets competitive.
A coworker who once scoffed at creative work.
An ex you’d rather not imagine reading your heart on the page.
Maybe it’s family, especially if your story draws from personal experience.

If you don’t want people to know you’re writing, that’s okay. You’re allowed to protect your creative process. But carrying it entirely alone can get heavy. Here’s how to honor your boundaries while still letting a trusted circle support you along the way.

Privacy Isn’t Secrecy: It’s Protection

There’s a difference between secrecy and privacy.

Secrecy says, “This isn’t safe.”
Privacy says, “This is mine right now.”

If you’re keeping your work quiet, it might be because the story is still forming, or you’re not ready to field questions at the next family gathering. That’s more than fair.

Think of your draft like a seed underground. It doesn’t need exposure to grow; it needs warmth, patience, and the right environment. A small, trusted circle can be part of that environment, offering shelter without spotlight.

Choose Who Gets a Key (and Who Doesn’t)

You don’t owe anyone your process. You don’t even have to tell them that you’re writing.

Choose your audience with intention:

One writing friend who celebrates your pages, not just your wins.A thoughtful critique partner who understands timing and consent.A quiet space where showing up matters more than performing.

The people closest to us sometimes struggle to understand our writing life. They know the version of you who replies quickly, leads meetings, folds laundry. They may not yet know the version who slips into imaginary worlds. That’s okay. You’re growing. And growth needs space.

The Hidden Cost of Doing It Alone

Protecting your work is wise. Total isolation, though, can backfire. It often leads to:

Creative lonelinessRising self-doubtStalled momentum 

The sweet spot? Private, not secret.

Share selectively. Protect the rest. Let others carry the parts that feel too heavy to hold alone.

What a Good Writing Community Quietly Gives You

A healthy community doesn’t demand visibility; it offers support:

Accountability without pressure: “Are you writing today?” can be enough.Momentum through presence: Co-writing sessions quiet the noise and get you to the page.Perspective you can trust: Thoughtful readers help you see the forest and the trees.Encouragement on hard days: A simple “keep going” right when you need it.Respect for boundaries: You choose what (if anything) to share, and when.

You don’t need a crowd. You need a circle.

If You’d Rather Stay Under the Radar (For Now)

Try these gentle approaches to write privately while still feeling supported:

Block your calendar as “focus time.” No explanation required.Use a pseudonym or separate account if you share anything publicly.Write offline when the internet makes you self-conscious.Keep a short “worries journal” to park the what-ifs and free your drafting brain.Join a low-pressure writing space where showing up is the win and sharing is always optional.

If someone stumbles across your work before you’re ready?
They don’t get to decide its value.

When Feedback Misses the Process

Well-meaning friends and family may be eager to read your work, but their feedback often comes from a different place than what a writer truly needs. Non-writers tend to approach a draft as if it were a finished product rather than a work in progress, which can result in comments that feel confusing, blunt, or unintentionally discouraging. This doesn’t mean they don’t care; it simply means they aren’t equipped to see the layers of process behind the page.

Editors, critique partners, and fellow writers in your circle understand that a draft is fluid. They know how to ask the right questions, respect timing, and offer feedback that strengthens rather than stalls your momentum. While it may be tempting to hand early pages to loved ones, save that step for later, when the work is more polished and closer to publication. Until then, seek out responses from people who understand the writing journey and can help you move the story forward with care.

Just keep writing. Let people be surprised, or let them never find out. That is your call.

The writing comes first. Always.

And if you ever crave a quiet place to write among others who understand this balance – privacy and companionship – you don’t have to look far. Spaces like the Mindful Writing Community exist for exactly this reason: to give you company without intrusion, encouragement without expectation.

Find your people. Keep your boundaries. And keep going.

Community Keeps You Writing (Even When You Want to Quit)

I used to believe writing was something you did alone. That was the myth, anyway: the lone writer in a cabin, fueled by coffee and genius, pulling a masterpiece from the void. Romantic, sure. But also misleading.

Because here’s the thing: yes, writing requires solitude. But finishing a book? Staying with it through the messy middle? That takes community.

More than once, I’ve found myself staring at my manuscript, wondering why I was still doing this. No deadline. No contract. Just me and the page. And the doubt.

It’s not the grammar or plot twists that get you. It’s the quiet moments when no one’s asking for your work, and you start to wonder if it matters.

In those moments, connection is everything.

“Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough.”
—Stephen King

Why Isolation Makes Writing Harder

As a monitor of mine likes to say, “isolation breeds self-doubt.” It’s so true. Because when you’re alone with your work for too long, your perspective shifts. What once felt urgent and exciting can suddenly seem trivial. The inner critic gets louder.

We need solitude to write. But if that solitude turns into disconnection, it can quietly sabotage your progress.

What Writing Community Really Offers

Writing with the support of a community isn’t just about feeling less lonely. It actually changes how we write.

Accountability
Sometimes just knowing someone else is writing at the same time is enough to get me to show up. A gentle, consistent check-in can be more powerful than any looming deadline. It’s not about pressure. It’s about presence.

Perspective
We all have blind spots. Writer friends can point out the patterns we don’t see, the heart of a chapter we’ve been circling around, or the emotion that needs just one more beat to land.

Encouragement
A well-timed “you’ve got this” can be the difference between closing the laptop or pushing through one more paragraph. Even small encouragements matter.

I’ve seen writers come alive again when someone else said, “I see what you’re trying to do, and I believe in it.”

Finding the Right Community For You

Finding the right community is less about the format and more about the energy. The “right” community is the one where you feel seen, where your goals matter, and where someone notices when you disappear for too long. It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be real.

Sometimes a community is a Slack thread, a monthly Zoom call, or a group text full of GIFs, page counts, and encouragement. The format doesn’t matter. The support does.

For me, the support I find in the Sit Write Here Mindful Writing Community means everything to me. Having the time blocked out on my calendar means I know I will get my writing done, and seeing the same faces every time I log in gives me such a grounded sense of support. If you’re looking for a community, please consider this your invitation to come do a 10-day free trial and see if it’s a good fit for you. 

Talk About It

Where have you found the most meaningful writing support?
What kind of community do you wish you had?

Reflect on it. Journal about it. Share it with a fellow writer and drop a comment below. 

And if you’re still looking for your people, come try out the Mindful Writing Community. It’s a gentle, welcoming space where writers come together with purpose, presence, and encouragement.

However you do it, just be sure to find the community that feels right for you. Write together. Show up for each other. It makes all the difference. 

What to Do When Your Draft Feels Boring

It happens more often than you might think: a writer hits the midpoint of a project, looks at their screen, and thinks, Is this… dull?

If you’re wondering what to do when your draft feels boring, take heart. You’re not alone and it doesn’t mean your story is broken.

In fact, feeling this way is often part of the creative process. That sense of boredom is not a stop sign. It’s a signal. And it’s important that you don’t ignore it. 

Boring Isn’t the End, It’s a Signal

Sometimes, what feels boring is simply your story trying to tell you something. Maybe the pacing has slowed. Maybe there’s too much setup and not enough movement. Or maybe you’re documenting everything, and not everything matters equally.

For example, a novel that spans an entire calendar year might follow a team from one championship to the next. But when told month by month, the narrative can become too episodic. A big scene, then a lull. A conversation, then a game. The shape feels flat, even if the events are interesting.

The problem often isn’t the content, it’s the structure. Some scenes are doing the heavy lifting, while others are just filling space. That doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means your draft is offering valuable feedback. It’s pointing out where the tension, emotion, or momentum dips.

Once you recognize that, you can revise with purpose.

Choose a Structure That Supports the Tension

When a story starts to feel flat, consider whether the structure is working for or against it. And remember that structure is different from plot. Plot is what happens in your story. Structure is how you, the author, choose to tell what happens. 

You may have a story that spans a year, but that doesn’t mean you need to show all twelve months. The narrative might only need to cover the final stretch – perhaps a few critical weeks – while weaving in the past through memory or flashback.

You can also shift the framework. Instead of moving through a linear timeline, try anchoring the story around key events or moments of transformation. Think of your plot less as a calendar and more as a sequence of reveals. Ask yourself: what do readers learn in each scene, and how does it build toward the turning point?

The more intentional the structure, the more room there is for tension, discovery, and change.

Look for Emotional Turning Points

If a scene feels boring, it may be because it’s focused on logistics instead of stakes. Movement without emotional weight tends to lose momentum quickly.

The fix? Zoom in on the moments that change something, internally or externally. A scene might show characters planning, arguing, or playing, but if no one’s inner world shifts, it may not be necessary.

To evaluate a scene, ask:

Does this change anything?Does it deepen a character’s motivation or reveal conflict?Could this be compressed, summarized, or cut?

Even beautifully written scenes can slow the story if they don’t serve an emotional or narrative purpose.

Trust the Process and Finish the Draft

Sometimes the best way to see what your story truly wants to be is to finish it. Even if parts feel off. Even if you suspect whole chapters may be cut.

Get to the end. Then step back and take stock. What’s working? What’s dragging? What surprises you?

It’s completely normal to overwrite in early drafts. You might write 150,000 words and later realize that a third of them no longer belong. That’s not wasted effort – it’s how you discover what does belong.

Nothing is sacred. Everything is editable. Keep going. Then cut with clarity and kindness.

A Draft That Feels Boring Isn’t the End

It’s just the middle.

Early drafts are often heavy on setup and light on stakes. They contain too much explaining and not enough shifting. That’s normal. They’re not meant to be polished, they’re meant to give you something to shape.

So if your draft feels boring, it doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re deep in the work. And the middle is always messy.

You can revise. You can restructure. You can cut. And most importantly, you can finish.

Keep writing. The most exciting version of your story is still ahead.

How to Keep Momentum Through Long Drafts and Revisions

Every writer hits that moment: the excitement of starting has faded, the finish line feels miles away, and the document you once loved now feels like a mountain you’re not sure you can climb.

Whether you’re 30,000 words into your first draft or deep into a third revision, it’s normal to lose steam. Writing a book is long-haul work. It requires endurance, patience, and an unreasonable level of faith.

If you’re wondering how to keep momentum through long drafts or revisions, you’re not alone, and you’re not doing it wrong. Here’s how to stay connected to your story and keep moving forward without burning out.

Reconnect With Your “Why”

When you’re knee-deep in pages, it’s easy to forget why you started. The plot holes are distracting. The structure is messy. You’ve read chapter twelve so many times you hate it.

This is the moment to step back and ask:
Why did I want to write this book in the first place?
What was the emotional spark? The question you wanted to explore? The image or character or feeling you couldn’t let go of?

Revisiting your “why” doesn’t magically solve pacing issues, but it does remind you what’s worth fighting for. And that clarity can carry you through the hard days.

Set Micro-Goals (and Actually Celebrate Them)

When the goal is “finish the novel,” it’s easy to feel like you’re getting nowhere. But momentum is built on small wins.

Instead of trying to fix the whole draft, try this:

Revise one scene a dayWrite 300 new wordsUntangle one knot in your outlineRead through one chapter with a pen in hand

Then, and this is key, celebrate it.
Cross it off your list. Tell your writing buddy. Mark it on a calendar. Momentum builds not just through progress, but through acknowledging progress.

Every small step is a vote for the writer you’re becoming.

Don’t Confuse Resistance with a Broken Book

Just because your story feels hard to write doesn’t mean it’s broken.

In long drafts, you’ll hit places where things slow down. That’s normal. It doesn’t mean your idea is flawed or your structure is off. It just means you’re tired, or your brain is doing behind-the-scenes work to solve a problem you haven’t consciously cracked yet.

Give it space.
Sometimes momentum looks like walking away for an hour. Or taking a day to write about your character in a journal instead of editing chapter fourteen – again.

Not all progress happens on the page. But it all counts.

Repetition Creates Rhythm

One of the best ways to keep momentum is to write (or revise) at regular intervals. Not because you’re trying to be perfect, but because repetition makes reentry easier.

The more frequently you engage with your manuscript, the less emotional friction there is. You remember where you left off. The characters stay warm in your mind. You spend less time reacclimating and more time writing.

That doesn’t mean you need to work every day. But try to return to the project regularly, on your terms. Momentum isn’t about speed, it’s about rhythm.

Find a Way to Enjoy the Process Again

Somewhere along the way, the fun of writing often gets lost under deadlines, feedback, comparison, or perfectionism.

If you’ve lost your spark, ask:
What would make this part of the process more enjoyable right now?

Could you:

Print out your manuscript and revise by hand?Try writing one scene from a different character’s point of view?Read a book in your genre that reminds you why you love stories like this?Schedule a co-writing session with a friend or group?

Joy is fuel. And long drafts require a lot of it. Don’t be afraid to make the process feel good again.

The Finish Line Is Closer Than It Feels

If you’ve come this far, you already know how to do hard things.

That stuck feeling? It’s often a sign that you’re closer than you think. Most writers want to quit just before a breakthrough, just before the final thread clicks into place or the draft is finally “whole enough” to see clearly.

Keep going.

The only way out is through. And the writer who keeps showing up, imperfectly, inconsistently, but with heart, is the one who finishes.

If you’re looking for a little extra support to keep that momentum going, my free webinar — How to Turn Your Half-Finished Novel into a Completed Manuscript — offers clear, practical tools and encouragement to carry you through. Come join us for a few tips that can keep you moving forward. 

You don’t need to be fast. You just need to keep moving.

Stuck on Chapter One? Here’s How to Finally Move On

Let’s be honest: getting stuck on Chapter One isn’t something we talk about lightly. That first chapter carries a lot of weight. It’s the reader’s introduction to your world, your characters, your voice. It has to do so much. And if you’ve been staring at Chapter One for weeks or months, frozen by the pressure, it’s time to move on.

In my work with writers, I’ve seen this happen again and again. The story begins with a spark, but that opening scene becomes a bottleneck. It gets rewritten, restructured, polished. Meanwhile, the rest of the book goes unwritten. Sometimes it’s perfectionism. Sometimes it’s fear. And sometimes, it’s a sign you’re still figuring out what the story really is.

Whatever the reason, getting stuck is normal. But it doesn’t have to stop you.

Why We Get Stuck on Chapter One (And How to Break Through)

There’s a lot riding on the first chapter of a book. We know it’s the hook, the invitation, the part agents and editors see first. That knowledge creates pressure, and pressure can lead to paralysis.

What many writers forget is this: your first chapter will almost certainly change – maybe even dramatically – by the time you reach the end of your draft.

So if you’re stuck, one of the most helpful things you can do is loosen your grip on Chapter One and move forward. Let the rest of the book teach you what the beginning needs to be.

Feeling Stuck on Chapter One? Move On Anyway

Yes, even if you’re not sure what happens next. Even if it feels messy. Even if it’s “not ready.”

Your job isn’t to get the beginning perfect. It’s to tell the story.

If revising that first scene has become a daily ritual that leads nowhere, try opening a fresh document. Give yourself permission to write the next scene (any scene) no matter how imperfect. Forward motion often creates the clarity that polishing never will.

One writer I worked with spent six weeks reworking her opening paragraph. After finally allowing herself to move on, she drafted ten new chapters in three weeks and realized that the beginning of her story didn’t actually belong anywhere near the original. She found it by writing forward.

Sometimes Chapter One Isn’t the Real Problem

More often than not, being stuck at the beginning is a symptom of not yet having clarity on the story as a whole. Maybe you’re unsure what your protagonist wants. Maybe the stakes are still fuzzy. Maybe you haven’t figured out the ending yet and without knowing where it’s headed, it’s hard to know how to start.

That’s okay.

Clarity doesn’t always come at the start. Many writers don’t find it until well into the drafting process. But when you keep moving, even if it feels awkward, you’re doing the work that brings that clarity into focus.

Writing Is a Process, Not a Performance

One of the biggest gifts you can give yourself as a writer is the permission to be imperfect – especially in early drafts.

Your first chapter doesn’t need to be submission-ready (yet). It doesn’t need to sparkle. It just needs to get you going.

So if you’ve been looping endlessly through your opening, the answer might be as simple (and as difficult) as this: write the next thing.

Write what happens next. Write what you know. Write what excites you, even if you’re not sure where it fits. You can always revise later.

But first, you need words on the page.

A Nudge to Help You Move Forward

If Chapter One has become a bottleneck, try zooming out. Look at your story as a whole. Sometimes a bit of structure – a loose outline, a beat sheet, or even a one-paragraph summary – can help you step back into the draft with fresh confidence.

Even just a few days of focused planning can bring surprising clarity.

Because while Chapter One is important, the most important thing is this:

Keep going. Keep writing. Clarity will come – not before the work, but because of it.

Scene, Chapter, or Both? Understanding the Building Blocks of Storytelling

When you’re deep in the writing process or staring down the blank page trying to begin, it’s easy to get tangled in the structure of your story. Do I start a new chapter here? Should this be one long scene or two short ones? Do I need a new heading or just a line break?

If you’ve ever asked yourself these questions, you’re not alone. Scene, chapter, or both? It’s a craft question that trips up even experienced writers. And understanding how these building blocks work together can bring much-needed clarity to your storytelling.

Especially when you’re working toward a clear outline or revising a first draft, knowing the difference between a scene and a chapter and how to use each can help you create better flow, stronger pacing, and more engaging storytelling.

What’s the Difference Between a Scene and a Chapter?

Let’s start simple: a scene is a unit of story. A chapter is a structural container.

A scene happens in a specific time and place, with a certain number of characters experiencing or initiating change. A chapter, on the other hand, is a choice you make about where and how to break your manuscript into readable sections.

Think of scenes as what happens, and chapters as how you serve it to the reader.

You can have one scene per chapter, multiple scenes within a chapter, or even a chapter that spans just one short moment. There’s no rulebook, only what serves the story.

Scene, Chapter, or Both? When to Use Which

Here are a few guiding questions to help you decide:

1. What is the convention of your genre?

Genres like mystery and thriller often use scenes as chapters (short and fast paced). Literary fiction, on the other hand, usually has longer chapters that contain many scenes. Get familiar with the conventions of your genre. 

2. Does the setting or time jump?

A scene is a certain number of people, in a specific place, at a specific time. If we leap forward or switch locations, that’s a strong signal for a new scene (but not always a new chapter). 

3. Does the pacing need a pause?

Sometimes you might want to end a chapter to give the reader a moment to breathe. Other times, you’ll end with a cliffhanger. Chapter breaks are powerful tools for pacing, tone, and rhythm.

Why This Matters for Planning and Revising

Whether you’re just starting your novel or deep in a revision, understanding the difference between scene and chapter helps you:

Avoid filler paragraphs or aimless transitionsSharpen the focus of each sceneOrganize your manuscript into clear, navigable sections

It also helps you avoid one of the most common traps I see in early drafts: “connective tissue” writing – those in-between paragraphs where your character ties her shoes, walks down the hall, drinks her coffee, and arrives at the next meaningful moment. These transitional passages often slow the story without adding much. They can almost always be cut during the revision process. 

When you write scene-by-scene first, and decide on chapter breaks later, you focus on what matters in the story. The rest can come (or go) in revision.

Where Scenes and Chapters Meet the Outline

Some writers outline in chapters. Others in scenes. Ideally, you want both: an outline with key plot points and an understanding of how each scene supports them. I like to think of chapters as folders while scenes are files in the folder (that’s how I organize my stories in Scrivener). 

Even just a few days of focused planning can bring surprising clarity. You don’t need a rigid map, but a working framework – a container for your creativity that can make the writing process feel so much more manageable.

Want Support Mapping Out Your Story?

If you’ve written a few scattered scenes (or just have an idea that won’t leave you alone), it might be time to bring some structure to your storytelling. Not a rigid blueprint—but a flexible outline that gets you excited to write.

This is exactly what I help writers do during From Ideas to Outline, a free 4-day challenge designed to help fiction writers clarify their story structure and organize their scenes into something they can actually build on.

Because once you understand how scenes and chapters function, both on the page and in your outline, you can write with more confidence, clarity, and momentum.

Click here to learn more.

What Constitutes a Scene? A Practical Guide for Fiction Writers

Stories are basically collections of scenes, so as writers, it can be useful to think about scenes as discrete units. But what exactly IS a scene? If you’ve ever found yourself staring at your manuscript thinking, “Is this even a scene?” – you’re not alone.

Understanding the basic components of a scene can be a turning point in your writing process. It helps you structure your story, track momentum, and know when (and where) things are happening in the narrative. Particularly if you’re still trying to move your idea from “vague outline in your head” to a working draft, mastering the scene is one of the best places to start.

What Constitutes a Scene in Fiction?

In simple terms, a scene is a unit of action. It takes place in a specific time and place, with one or more characters interacting to move the story forward. That interaction might be physical, emotional, or even internal but something changes.

When I work with writers (or reflect on my own messy first drafts), I often use a helpful rule of thumb:

A scene is when a certain number of people are in a specific place at a specific moment in time and something meaningful occurs.

The moment one of those three elements changes (someone leaves, time jumps, or we switch locations), you’re starting a new scene.

This might sound obvious, but in practice, it can be easy to drift through paragraphs without realizing you’ve left one scene behind and entered another, especially while working on early drafts. 

Why Scenes Matter More Than Chapters (At First)

When you’re in the thick of writing a novel, it can be tempting to focus on chapter breaks. But here’s the truth: chapters are structural choices; scenes are the foundation of the story.

Focusing on scenes helps you:

Stay present with what’s happening nowAvoid filler or “connective tissue” writingTrack character motivation and emotional arcsMaintain momentum

When you know what constitutes a scene, you can write more efficiently and revise with purpose, especially when your goal is to build a solid outline or move past early-draft chaos.

Scene Checklist: The Core Elements

If you’re unsure whether what you’ve written is really a scene, check it against these elements:

A Clear Time and Place
Readers should know when and where this moment is unfolding. If they don’t, they’ll feel unmoored.

Character Interaction or Tension
Whether it’s a conversation, a conflict, or even a solo moment of reflection, the scene should revolve around some kind of friction or decision.

A Shift or Change
By the end of the scene, something should be different – emotionally, physically, or plot-wise (even if it’s a subtle shift). If nothing has changed, ask yourself: why is this moment here? 

Relevance to the Story’s Central Arc
Scenes don’t need to be action-packed, but they do need to serve the larger narrative. If they don’t? It might be worth cutting or rewriting.

Working Scene-by-Scene Helps You Find the Shape of Your Story

One of the most common frustrations I hear from writers is this: “I’ve written all these scenes, but I don’t know what it adds up to.”

That’s not failure. That’s the process. And the truth is, the bigger picture is most likely already there, even if you can’t see it yet. 

This is where even a simple outline can make a huge difference. And you can write an outline at any point, even after you’ve completed a draft. It can be simple. You don’t need to map every beat, but having something that gives your scenes context can take your writing from scattered to satisfying.

Want to Build an Outline That Works?

If you’re ready to move your novel from scattered scenes to a solid story structure, you don’t have to figure it all out on your own.

That’s exactly why I created From Ideas to Outline, a free 4-day challenge for fiction writers who want to get their novel out of their heads and onto the page (or to organize what they already have into a coherent structure). 

In less than a week, you’ll:

Learn how to identify which scenes belong (and which don’t)Clarify your character’s goals and stakesMap your scenes into a working, flexible structure 

Whether you’re brand new to fiction or you’ve been circling the same half-finished manuscript for years, this challenge will help you build a strong foundation so you can stop spinning and start drafting with confidence.

Want in? Click here to learn more.

How Discovery Writing Helps You Find Your Story

If you’re knee-deep in a draft and your story keeps changing on you, take a breath, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing the real work. A writer once said to me, “I keep changing my mind about what this story is about. I thought I had it, and then… I didn’t.” That uncertainty? That’s the pulse of discovery writing.

What Is Discovery Writing?

Discovery writing is the act of uncovering your story as you write it. You might begin with a character, a moment, or even just a feeling. But the theme, the emotional core – that “why” behind it all, may not show up until much later.

It took me eight years to understand the theme of 142 Ostriches. I was at a writing conference when someone asked me to finish the sentence: “This is a story about people who…” That’s when it clicked: “People who refuse to acknowledge their own truth.” The signs were there all along. My gut had known. But it needed time to articulate the truth.

Author George R.R. Martin describes two types of writers: architects and gardeners. Architects plan everything. Gardeners plant a seed and see what grows. Discovery writers? They are gardeners. They write to uncover, to follow curiosity, to see where the story leads – often surprised by what blooms.

Why Discovery Writing Feels So Unsettling

Discovery writing often unfolds like this:

You write.The story veers somewhere unexpected.You question everything.You rewrite the beginning.You revise the ending (again).

It can feel like circling the same ground. Like you’re not moving forward. Like you’re failing.

You’re not. You’re excavating something deep and real.

One writer I know watched her story morph from a love triangle to a tale of women resisting patriarchy, to a single character navigating emotional repression in a professional world. Each draft taught her something. Each version pulled her closer to the heart of it.

This is not linear work. And that can feel disorienting. But remember: it’s only through persisting in our wandering that we find what truly matters.

Don’t Rewrite – Layer

When something changes mid-draft, resist the urge to go back and fix it. Instead, make a note and keep moving.

This is especially important for non-linear writers. If you don’t write chronologically, only loop back if it helps you move forward. Otherwise, let the messy draft live. Once it’s all there, the full shape will reveal itself—and you can revise with clarity.

When I’ve written projects this way, and I circle back to the beginning, the change I decided on mid-way through the draft is lodged in my head as the new reality that I’m sometime surprised to see that the old material is still there. That’s a good thing. It makes editing super easy. 

You Don’t Need to Know the Ending

Not knowing your ending can be your secret weapon. When you’re in the dark, you don’t give things away. Your readers stay present with you, experiencing the story moment by moment. And when you finally reach the end, your surprise becomes theirs.

Kazuo Ishiguro, author of The Remains of the Day, has shared that he often discovers his stories through writing. He starts with questions, not answers. And it’s in writing his way forward that he finds meaning.

Yes, it’s vulnerable. But that’s where the most powerful stories live.

Trust That You’re In Process

The hardest part of discovery writing is often the self-doubt. That voice whispering, “A real writer would have this figured out by now.”

I say: Let that go.

You’re not behind. You’re exploring. And if you keep circling back to the same ideas, that’s not failure, it’s your voice asserting itself.

As author Anne Lamott reminds us in Bird by Bird, “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.”

Tools to Stay Grounded During Uncertainty

Here are a few practices that help me (and might help you) stay grounded during discovery writing:

Daily check-ins: Begin your writing session with a few lines in your journal. Ask: “What feels alive in the story today?”Scene anchors: Even if you don’t know the plot, write scenes you feel drawn to. Trust your instincts.Theme tracking: Keep a separate document where you reflect on themes emerging as you write. Over time, patterns appear.Embrace the mess: Give yourself permission to write badly. You can’t revise what isn’t written.Talk About It

Are you a discovery writer? What helps you keep going when everything feels uncertain? What does it feel like when your story shifts beneath you? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments because when we talk about the messy parts of writing, we normalize them.

You don’t need to have everything figured out. You’re not lost. You’re learning. Stay curious. Keep going. The story will meet you where you are, one page at a time.

Autofiction: When Your Story Doesn’t Fit in the Box

You sit down to write your story. It’s personal. Emotional. True, but also –  not exactly. You’ve changed names. Rearranged events. Invented scenes to make the emotional arc land.

And then, someone asks: So, is it a memoir or a novel?

Cue the panic.

If you’ve ever stared at your messy, honest, beautiful manuscript and thought, “What even is this thing I’m writing?” you’re not alone. Many writers have wrestled with this exact question. Sometimes what we’re writing isn’t fully memoir, but it isn’t fully fiction either.

I’ve wrestled with genre labels myself. Sometimes a story feels like literary fiction, but carries the emotional resonance of memoir. Sometimes it leans into magical realism or brushes up against the edges of another genre entirely. These boundaries can feel both helpful and limiting. They give us a framework but they also risk boxing in stories that live in the in-between. 

That in-between space? That’s where autofiction lives.

What Is Autofiction, Anyway?

Autofiction is a genre that blends autobiography and fiction. Think: memoir with imagined details or a novel based on real events where the author is clearly (but not explicitly) the protagonist.

It’s not new. Writers like Karl Ove Knausgård, Sheila Heti, and Rachel Cusk have been living in this space for years. But lately, autofiction is getting more attention especially from younger writers who value emotional truth over factual accuracy.

Two great recent examples:

Be Brief and Tell Them Everything by Brad Listi – A raw, reflective book about creativity, grief, and fatherhood, written in a voice that blurs journal entry and novel. I loved this book.
On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong – A novel in letters, fictionalized but clearly rooted in Vuong’s life.

Autofiction lets you say, “This is my truth, even if it didn’t happen exactly this way.”

Why Writers Struggle With Labels — Especially in Autofiction

The tension between truth and fact is at the heart of the autofiction conversation. Memoir demands that you stick to what happened. Fiction gives you room to play. Autofiction says: what if I do both?

Here’s where things get messy:

Legal Fears: Writers worry about defamation or family blowback. “If I call it fiction, am I safer?”
Marketing Confusion: Agents want to know where your book fits on a shelf. “Is this a novel or memoir?” isn’t just curiosity,  it’s a practical concern.
Internal Doubt: You may wonder, “Am I cheating if I invent things? Or holding back if I don’t?”

We’ve seen this come up in our Mastermind Sessions. One of the writers in our community called her book “a memoir with a safety net.” Another said, “It’s like fiction… but emotionally autobiographical.” That’s autofiction. It’s the genre of “yes, and…”

Reflections from Fellow Writers

This question (“What genre am I writing?”) comes up again and again in conversations with writers navigating personal material. It’s especially common among those who begin with memoir but realize along the way that fiction might offer the flexibility they need.

Some writers say their novels began as memoirs, but after changing so many details, the stories no longer feel autobiographical yet they still carry emotional truth. Others feel stuck trying to be perfectly honest, especially when their memories are unclear. For them, autofiction offers the freedom to let go of strict facts and simply write.

These kinds of reflections are powerful reminders that the writing process isn’t always linear and that genre labels can feel both helpful and limiting. For many, discovering autofiction becomes a way to move forward with a story that’s deeply personal, even if it doesn’t fit neatly into a single box.

Talk About It

Have you struggled to define your book’s genre?
What does emotional truth mean in your writing?

Start the conversation, whether that’s journaling on your own, chatting with a fellow writer, or bringing it to your next writing group. These are the questions that lead to clarity and momentum.

Writing Hard Scenes That Carry Real Emotion

If you’ve ever hit a section in your story that made you want to close your laptop and walk away, you’re not alone. Writing hard scenes—grief, shame, trauma, heartbreak—takes something out of us. I’ve talked to so many writers over the years, across genres and stages of the journey, and this comes up again and again: how do you write the emotional parts without spiraling?

There’s no one right answer. But in my experience, having a plan for how to approach emotionally intense material makes all the difference.

Why I Avoid Writing Emotionally Hard Scenes (And Maybe You Do Too)

For many of us, there’s a voice in our head that says: “No one wants to hear this.” Or, “This is too much.” Or even, “Don’t be whiny.”

I was raised with a “suck it up and get it done” mentality. Describing emotional experiences didn’t come naturally—and honestly, it’s still the hardest part of my writing process. But I’ve learned that emotional writing is what gives a story heart. A well-structured plot can move a story forward, but it’s the emotional scenes that make a reader feel it.

What It Feels Like to Write the Hard Scenes

One writer in our community described revising her novel and reaching the last few chapters, only to feel sick at the thought of digging into the emotional beats. “It’s like the last mile of a marathon,” she said. “I know it matters. I know it will make the book better. But it’s exhausting.”

I call that “last mile stuff.” Those little emotional additions that elevate a story from passable to powerful. Often, it’s just a few key sentences, but they have to be exactly right. And sometimes those few sentences are the ones I avoid the longest.

I’ve had scenes where I knew exactly what was needed—and I still danced around them. I’d write everything but the moment that hurt. Eventually, I circle back and handle it, but not without preparation.

Writing Hard Scenes Without Hurting Yourself

There’s actual research to support this approach. Dr. James W. Pennebaker, a psychologist at the University of Texas at Austin, has conducted extensive studies on what he calls “expressive writing”—writing about emotional experiences. His findings show that when people write about difficult topics in a safe and intentional way, it can lead to better emotional and even physical health.

According to a Harvard Health article summarizing Pennebaker’s work, those benefits are most powerful when writers don’t push themselves too hard, too fast. Taking your time and layering your emotional truth onto the page in manageable stages can actually be more effective—and more sustainable—than diving in all at once.

Here’s what I’ve learned: you don’t have to dive in all at once. Think of emotionally intense scenes as something you can approach in layers. In draft one, sketch the shape of what’s happening. In draft two, add tone and texture. When you feel ready—and only then—go deeper.

Treat these emotionally charged scenes as something you build over time, not something you need to bleed onto the page in one go. That space gives you more control, and often, more clarity.

Some writers I know will write a placeholder in their draft—something like, “insert emotional moment here”—and only come back to it when they’re ready. That’s not avoidance. That’s pacing yourself.

How I Write Emotionally Difficult Scenes (Without Burning Out)

Here are a few strategies I’ve developed over the years, and that often come up in our community conversations:

Name what you’re avoiding. Say it out loud. Sometimes I’ll literally write a note in the margin: “This is the hard part.”Write it fast and messy—then walk away. You don’t have to get it right the first time. Just get it out.Let yourself feel it. If you cry or clench your jaw while writing—it’s okay (in fact, it’s probably a sign that you’re capturing some good emotions on the page). That reaction is part of the process.Talk to someone about it. A writing buddy. A therapist. Someone who can hold space while you work through it.Create a post-writing ritual. After I write something particularly hard, I go for a walk, take a shower, or put on a favorite playlist. Something to remind myself that I’m okay.

And always know: you are not obligated to write about every painful thing that’s ever happened to you. But if you choose to, honor it by writing with care—for your reader and for yourself.

Why Writing Emotional Scenes Matters

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” – Maya Angelou

When we allow emotional truth to land on the page, something shifts—not just for the reader, but for us as writers. It’s vulnerable. It’s brave. And it often becomes the part of the story that readers remember most.

Personally, I want to write stories with emotional heart. And that means I have to go back and write the sentences I keep avoiding. Not always right away. Not every day. But eventually. That’s where the good stuff lives.

I’ve seen this in every genre—from memoirists writing about childhood trauma to thriller writers digging into grief. Readers connect with emotion. It’s what brings a story to life. So even if you write fantasy or historical fiction or speculative worlds, know that the emotional core is what makes it real.

One of the most powerful things I’ve learned is this: you don’t have to do it alone—and having support can make all the difference.

What’s the hardest emotionally intense scene you’ve ever written? Or what are you avoiding right now?

If those difficult scenes have you stuck, these articles might help you find a way through.
Writing Hard Scenes
Avoiding Difficult Scenes

Because more often than not, the scenes we resist are where the real story lives.