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And How Quiet Seasons Are Still Doing Work
Tonight, I sat down to write and couldn’t get in.
Not blocked. Not resistant. Just… not inside the work in the way I wanted to be.
So I closed the document and decided to take another day.
That choice — to stop rather than push — used to feel like failure. Like losing momentum. Like proof that I wasn’t disciplined enough or committed enough to call myself a writer.
I don’t see it that way anymore.
The Myth of Visible Progress
We’re taught to measure progress by what can be seen:
- Words added
- Pages completed
- Drafts finished
If nothing new appears on the page, we assume nothing happened.
But writing doesn’t work on a straight line.
Some of the most essential movement happens beneath the surface — in the pauses, the circling, the moments when the work quietly resists being rushed.
When the Work Says “Not Yet”
There’s a difference between avoidance and readiness.
Avoidance feels agitated. Distracting. Noisy.
What I felt tonight was something else — a clear sense that I hadn’t found the right way in yet. That the next part of the work needed a different approach, one I couldn’t force on demand.
Taking a day to think isn’t stepping away from the work.
It is the work.
Quiet Seasons Are Still Doing Something
There are seasons when writing is expansive and generous.
And there are seasons when it’s quiet.
In those quieter stretches, it can feel like we’re standing still — or worse, going backwards. But often, something is reorganising itself out of view.
Questions are aligning.
Threads are loosening.
The unconscious is making room.
The absence of words doesn’t mean absence of movement.
Trusting the Pause
Choosing not to write tonight wasn’t giving up. It was listening.
It was recognising that forcing my way forward would produce something technically complete but internally off — words that moved, but didn’t land.
There’s a particular kind of courage in stopping mid-approach and saying: I need a little more time with this.
That decision protects the integrity of the work.
Progress Isn’t Always Additive
Not all progress adds something.
Some progress clarifies what doesn’t fit.
Some progress removes an approach that no longer works.
Some progress simply waits until the next step can be taken cleanly.
When I give myself permission to pause, I often return with more precision — not because I worked harder, but because I listened longer.
A Reframe for the Quiet Nights
If you’ve sat down to write and found yourself unable to enter the work, consider this:
Maybe the writing isn’t stuck.
Maybe it’s incubating.
Maybe tonight wasn’t for producing words, but for preparing the ground they’ll land on.
A Small Reflection (Optional)
If you’d like to mark the moment without forcing it, try writing just this:
“What I’m still sitting with is…”
Write one paragraph.
Then stop.
Let that be enough for tonight.
Writing doesn’t always move when we ask it to.
But it doesn’t stop working just because it’s quiet.
Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is step back, trust the process, and return when the door opens — even if that’s tomorrow.