Writing In The In-Between

 When your writing wish feels far away

In my last post, I wrote about writing wishes—those quiet or bold hopes we carry for our creative lives, especially as summer approaches. Over the next few posts, I want to keep building on that theme. How do we not only name our writing wishes, but also gently move toward them?

This post is about a particular kind of moment where it might feel hard to wish and even harder to imagine the wishes coming to fruition—the in-between.

The in-between is where many of us find ourselves:
You wish you could write, but it feels impossible.
You want to show up to the page, but life is simply too full.

Maybe you’re in a heavy stretch of caregiving.
Maybe burnout has crept in, and rest is non-negotiable.
Maybe you’re moving, holding too much, or trying to get through the day while the world swirls loudly around you.

I’ve been in this place many times—and in many ways, I’m here again.
I’m building a business with intention and care, mindful of how slowly healing from burnout unfolds. I’m parenting, caregiving, holding space for others’ writing through client work, and building offerings I wish I’d had during my own hardest writing seasons.

And yes, I still have projects calling to me—half-finished essays and ideas that tug at the edges of my attention. But right now, my creative capacity is often pulled elsewhere. It is a lot. And maybe you’re in a similar stretch.

So what does it look like to honor a writing wish when you’re not actively writing? I’m sharing here what it means for me, knowing that our situations may not be the same, but also hoping that this might land with someone else and if not be practices that are directly helpful, maybe they can offer you a chance to think through what you need. 

1. I’m acknowledging that not all seasons are for writing.

Some seasons call for a pause. For stillness. For getting through.

Over the years, I’ve experienced many moments where writing just had to wait:
After the births of my children.
During my dissertation, when a very dear family member was sick.
After losing my parents, when I was (and still am) learning how to navigate a world without them.

In each of those moments, there were times when I longed to write. But I couldn’t. And I had to learn—sometimes painfully—that stepping away from the page doesn’t mean stepping away from being a writer.

You don’t stop being a writer just because you’re not putting words together on the page. That kind of binary—writing every day or you’re not a “real” writer—is both false and unkind. It also makes it harder to return.

2. I’m staying connected to writing, even if it looks different.

Right now, I walk every day. It’s become a non-negotiable: sneakers on, AirPods in, out the door. Some days it’s purely for my mental health. Other days, I let the walk stir something creative.

Sometimes I snap a photo—a leaf, a sign, a bird, or a ladybug that catches my eye. This picture might make its way into my writing as inspiration or it might lead me to do a little research about whatever catches my attention. I think finding wonder is an amazing way to practice creativity. 

3. I also give myself permission to be messy with writing.

While I’m not working in a google doc or in a notebook, that doesn’t mean that some writing can’t still happen. Maybe it’s a Post-it with a phrase. A question scrawled on a napkin. A fragment saved in a notes app. I take what I can get when it comes to getting words down.  I also collage to explore themes, especially for essays I’ve been working on longer than I’d like to admit. It’s not polished—but it’s still writing.

If you’re in an in-between season, I hope you’ll extend yourself as much grace as you can. This work—this living and holding and writing—it’s hard. And even if you’re not writing, you’re still a writer.

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I’ll end with a writing prompt for the in-between writing times.

Finish this sentence: “Right now, my writing feels like…”

Let the metaphor surprise you. Maybe your writing feels like a dusty book, a slow-growing plant, or a half-packed suitcase.

You don’t need to explain it—just name it.

Then, if you want to go a step further, ask: What does this image tell me about what I need?

Let the answer guide your next small step—whether that’s rest, a walk, a playlist, a sticky note, or simply calling yourself a writer today.