I’m continuing my series on what it means to have wishes for our writing—the ones we carry quietly, the ones that keep tugging at us even when time, energy, or clarity are in short supply.
In my last post, I talked about writing in the in-between times—when writing can’t take center stage. This week, I want to explore something that feels adjacent:
What happens when we surrender?
What do we learn when we stop trying to force progress and start listening instead?
I’ve written about the need to pause our writing lives in times of grief, transition, or burnout. But I want to return to that space with something more practice-oriented—something I’ve come to call the surrender pile.
When Pushing Harder Stops Working
My daily walks vary in purpose. Some days, I’m tracking steps. Others, I’m catching up with a friend. But these walks often become reflective spaces—where questions rise to the surface, and I have room to hear them.
This past weekend, one question kept circling in my mind, especially in relation to my current writing project:
What does it take to begin—and stay with—the thing you most want to write?
Not just to think about it or make a detailed plan, but to actually begin and to stay inside that uncertain middle part when things get murky.
I’ve been there —maybe you have, too. You’ve carved out space and gathered your materials, yet you still feel like you’re not moving forward. The vision for your project gets fuzzy. The words stall. You might even start wondering why you began.
For me, this moment often shows up mid-project. I’ve written pages. I’ve asked questions. I’ve done the research. And still—I feel blocked. I doubt the project, or myself, or both.
When that happens, my first instinct is usually to push harder. I try again, open a new document, return to my notes, and read more.
But more often than not, what I actually need is surrender.
What I’ve Learned to Do Instead
Here’s the thing: surrender does not come easily. It’s incredibly hard for me to stop or let go—especially when there’s a looming deadline, or I’m preparing to hand a project off to a collaborator or share it with readers. But I’ve also learned this: sometimes, my work needs to rest.
This practice of surrender involves both a practical and physical step along with writing. The practical step is simple but important: I move the project—physically—off my desk. I place it in a designated spot, away from my immediate line of sight. This creates space, not just on my desk but in my mind. I don’t have to stare at the unfinished pages and wonder why I’m not working on them. I give them (and myself) permission to pause. Next, I use a series of writing prompts to help me process the pause with curiosity rather than pressure and give myself permission to temporarily set a project down.
This isn’t about giving up. It’s not abandoning the work. It’s about releasing the pressure to force clarity before it’s ready to arrive. It’s also about giving myself time to figure out what it is I need in the murky moments.
The surrender pile is a soft landing place for ideas and drafts that simply need more time, space, or distance.
Sometimes, something that’s been sitting in my surrender pile for weeks will suddenly come into focus. A sentence I couldn’t finish reveals its ending. A note I scribbled starts to make sense. Other times, it takes a conversation with a friend or someone I trust with my writing for the work to shift.
What Surrender Can Teach Us
Surrender is rarely convenient. It never feels efficient. And it doesn’t always come with obvious answers.
But in hindsight, I can often see how surrender clears space for something new.
It helps me reset, softens my grip, and reminds me that thinking isn’t the same as being stuck—and pausing doesn’t mean I’ve failed.
And sometimes, surrender helps me see the real obstacle more clearly:
- Maybe I’ve been trying to write through exhaustion when I need rest.
- Perhaps I’m drowning in research, which is pulling me away from the core idea.
- Maybe I need time to be in conversation with others about my writing.
If you’re in a Surrender Season
If you’re circling a project, unsure of how—or whether—to keep going, you’re not alone.
I’m thinking a lot about this as I prepare for a small summer writing camp I’m running. It was born out of these questions—the quiet ones that come up when we’re stuck, anxious, or uncertain about what’s next.
Sometimes, the next move is action.
Sometimes it’s insight.
And sometimes—it’s surrender.
Wherever you are, I hope this reminds you:
Your writing isn’t behind.
Surrender isn’t failure—it’s part of the creative rhythm.
Full Circle Writing, LLC 
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