Especially now, when it’s almost impossible to disconnect from work, to get space in our day for quiet, to have a moment where there is nothing left on the to-do list and we can allow our minds to reset.
Even if we do step out for a walk, or escape to a hotel for a writing binge, we always have our phones. Which means that every friend, family member, boss, client, and work colleague comes with us.
They often join us in the bathroom. Not to mention notifications from complete strangers on social media.
Just imagine what it would look like if all those people were physically there, crowding around you as you tried to write.
When was the last time you were truly alone? With no way for anyone or anything to intrude on your thoughts?
It’s easier to remove ourselves from real people than it is from our endless virtual networks.
I used to just muddle through. But as I’ve become more aware of how the overstimulation taxes my neurons, I’ve learned that it’s my responsibility to carve out time to step away, take a breath, and let the dust settle.
Only then am I still enough to hear my own creative intuition. I show up better for my writing, as well as for my work, family, and social life.
I’m sharing this because, honestly, I’m at critical mass. My family is wonderful, but this is a very active household, and with work and writing, it’s a lot. My job as a digital marketing specialist means I am online all day, every day.
I’ve learned the signs that I need a break— feeling impatient, frazzled, overwhelmed, and blocked. The brain drain is poison to creativity, and the stress influences everyone and everything around me. My experience with digital burn-out inspired my novella, Popsicle, where the effects of internet overload end up with extreme consequences.
So for the next two weeks, I’ve planned a sabbatical. I’ll be alone — well, not totally alone. I’ll be with dogs, which is honestly the best company. My trick is booking nearby getaways on a pet-sitting app. I get a place to myself, and the owner gets someone to spoil their furbabies. Win-win.
I know we can’t always take off and leave our responsibilities behind, but even micro-getaways help. You can hide in a quiet corner at the local library. Put on headphones and lock yourself in a closet. Go to a park and wander around without a purpose. Sometimes I get into my car and drive to a nearby parking lot just to be in silence.
The crucial thing is to turn off your phone. Leave it at home, if you can. Not only do notifications interrupt you, the mere anticipation of getting messages puts you in a constant low-level alert mode. This steals bandwidth from your creative potential.
Notice how it feels to remove the possibility of being interrupted—to release the urge to send pictures, check email, or Google whatever random question comes into your mind.
Yes, it’s an uneasy feeling to be untethered.
But it’s so incredibly freeing.
Now, I ask you—what could you do to plan a small pocket of solitude?
May the muse be with you,
—Christa
P.S. Speaking of things worth your time—our short story contest is open for submissions, and we’re now accepting nonfiction essays on writing and creativity for publication on this blog.
All the details are on our submissions page. We’d love to read your work.
We have run this contest twice before under our former brand, the Writers’ Mastermind at Let’s Get Published, where it was recognized by Kindlepreneur as one of the best writing contests to enter.
Both times, we were genuinely moved by what writers sent in. The quality of the stories, the range of voices, the courage it takes to put your work out there — it reminded me why we started this writing community in the first place.
This time, there are cash prizes on the table, plus publication on the Write Catalyst blog/newsletter and promotion to the whole community.
Here’s what you need to know:
SHORT STORY CONTEST 2026 PRIZES
— 1st Place: $150 cash or gift card + publication + 1-year Write Catalyst membership
— 2nd Place: $50 cash or gift card + publication + 1-year Write Catalyst membership
— 3rd Place: $25 cash or gift card + publication + 6-month Write Catalyst membership
(All placing stories receive mailing list and social media promotion)
SHORT STORY CONTEST 2026 DETAILS
— Entry fee: $5 per story (multiple entries welcome)
— Word count: 1,000–5,000 words
— Genre: Open — write what you love (excluding extreme horror and gratuitous erotica)
— Format: 12pt font, double-spaced, 1-inch margins. Include word count on first page. No self-identifying info.
— Deadline: July 22, 2026 at 12:00 AM EDT
A panel of judges will evaluate each submission for plot, theme, structure, characterization, atmosphere, originality, prose, and overall impact.
Note: In the past, members of the Write Catalyst community were not permitted to enter our contests. I’m happy to announce that we have changed that this year as our new submissions system allows for blind reading (meaning we can’t see the name of the story’s author).
Members may now enter stories as long as their submission is not one they have shared with the group before (as in getting any type of feedback during a write-in, Facebook group, or privately via email) or has used any part of the story in one of our live reading events.
If you’ve been sitting on a story — half-finished in a drawer, waiting for the right moment — this is it.
To submit, just click the link and upload your story.
How many days do we live and how many days do we singularly remember?
Why does our brain choose to remember some days and not others?
I’ve chronicled my life in journals since I was a child. And every so many years, I read my life from start to finish. No matter how many times I go back, it is a mind-bending experience.
In reading old journals, you meet your old selves and re-experience unique little moments and lessons that you’ve forgotten.
You get a different perspective on past events that were too close for you to see before. You laugh, you cry, and you realize just how full your life has been.
All this life is fuel for writing.
That’s why fiction writers should journal
Writing good books means having a deep understanding about the transformations you and others experience when meeting challenges, coping with sorrow, or finding joy.
And building a journaling habit not only helps you to travel back into the past and relive pivotal moments, the act of writing down your deepest personal thoughts helps you to become more self-aware and pay attention to what’s happening beneath the busyness of your life.
We can see how events shape us as individuals. We can excavate our own inner worlds for treasure.
Journaling (or morning pages) might be difficult to stick with, especially when you’re trying to get your word count in on your fiction projects, but it’s worth it. We can’t possibly remember every day we lived—the variety of impressions, the symphony of emotions, and the subtle shifts in our perception.
Our ordinary days are full of tiny gems of insight, but they often lump into one default memory. That is why journaling is a valuable practice to keep.
Recently, a close writing friend told me he would forgive a writer for a messy plot if there was underlying passion and depth.
I agreed.
When you pick up your typical mass market paperback, you’re presented with a perfectly formulated product. It was written to appeal to a wide audience, easily digestible and mildly entertaining. These books often repeat themselves in endless series to keep readers buying indefinitely.
These kinds of books might help pass a few hours on the train, but will they change your life?
Probably not.
Why?
Often, it’s because the writer prioritized formula over feeling. They followed the market instead of sharing their soul. They didn’t bleed for it. And you can tell. You can feel that the heart of the writer is missing.
So how can you make your writing speak to readers on a deeper level? How can you make your stories the ones readers treasure and recommend to everyone they know?
Write for yourself, not to pander to every buyer out there. Think about the writers who changed your life. Imagine if they tried to fit themselves in an easily marketable box.
If you want to make your book unforgettable, write about the things that most deeply stir you, and you will stir them.
The 2006 Christopher Nolan film The Prestige, based on the novel by Christopher Priest, has a lot to tell us about how to write compelling stories.
Though there are many things to learn from the way it presents us with a story of two rival magicians, perhaps the most important learning point is the concept embodied in the title itself.
For those who don’t know, “The Prestige” is the third act of any magician’s trick, in which what they previously destroyed, or made to disappear, returns – to the delight and adulation of the crowd. As Michael Caine’s character, Cutter, observes, “It’s not enough to make something disappear. You have to bring it back.”
“It’s not enough to make something disappear. You have to bring it back.”
Our mythologies and religions are full to bursting with gods and human beings who return from death. From the wounded King Arthur, who will one day come again from beyond the veils of Avalon, to the crucified Jesus who lay three days dead in the tomb yet rose, to the dismembered god Osiris, who was reforged from scattered body parts by his wife, Isis, the list goes on and on.
The recurrence of this image throughout history and across innumerable cultures is evidence that the idea of a “prestige” is hardwired into our deepest psyche. We yearn for what was lost to return to us. The concept has filtered through into modern-day popular culture too: The Return of the King, The Return of the Jedi, even Superman Returns. There is a sense that true heroes, true saviours, come back to us when we need them the most.
Of course, sometimes this deep human need is exploited for quick cash grabs, as in the “endless sequel” effect in which our favourite characters just keep coming back time and time again. In these instances, often it is the case that the story begins to lose all meaning, because there are no real stakes; the heroes are invulnerable, and even if they seem to die, they always come back without a scratch.
However, when this mythic principle is handled with sincerity and integrity, it can produce some of the most startling and moving moments in cinema, prose, poetry, indeed, any medium. The initial disappearance of the figure who is going to return need not even be via death; it can be just that: a disappearance.
Consider how Gandalf leaving Helm’s Deep in the second Lord of the Rings movie shapes the narrative. He leaves the story for some time, long enough we almost forget where he’s gone off to, but at the critical moment, when all hope seems lost, he returns to save the day (bringing with him the “lost” Rohirrim) in a sublime eucatastrophe.
I often hear writers talking about how they have “written themselves into a corner” by disposing of an artefact, character, or even a place. Many of these issues can be fixed by building the concept of a “prestige” into your fiction from the get go.
And on that subject, I always admire a writer who has the guts to kill their characters, and sometimes a character simply has to die, and die forever, for a story to end, for it to have any meaning. But whilst the bitter fruit of death, or loss, is sometimes what is needed to round out a tale, the far sweeter fruit of return also has its place. This is more true of horror, not less.
In Nolan’s 2010 film Inception, he remarked that “Positive emotion trumps negative every time”, and I also happen to agree with him on this front. A sad death at the end of a book can be devastating. But a “prestige,” a triumphant return, is infinitely more powerful; it shakes to the bone. Death, after all, is merely existential.
A return is transcendental.
In fact, it’s magic.
A sad death at the end of a book can be devastating. But a “prestige”, a triumphant return, is infinitely more powerful; it shakes to the bone.
Joseph Sale
Joseph is the author of more than 30 books, including The Book of Thrice Dead, Virtue’s End, Dark Hilarity, and The Claw of Craving. He is drawn to the baroque, the spiritual, and the mythic like a moth to flame.
He lives in the south of England with his wonderful family, where he obsesses over table-top RPGs, trading card games, book bindery, esoteric Christianity, and anime.
Have you ever felt like your writing comes from some deep, true place inside you, but you can’t quite pinpoint what that place is or why you’re compelled to write what you write?
I had always wanted to be a writer. I think many introverts feel the same way. We live internally, preferring to express ourselves within the receptive, non-judgmental pages of our journals than to open up to another person. A blank sheet of paper or a white screen will always listen. Like Joan Didion said, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.”
But becoming an actual published author seemed like a ridiculous dream.
Then in November 2012, when eBooks were becoming the norm and many indie authors were seeing great success, becoming a writer seemed a real possibility. I decided to participate in National Novel Writing month. I had never written a novel before. I had no idea how to begin, but the challenge was thrilling.
My story began with a sculptor and his muse, an idea my sister gifted to me. I outlined the plot from the time the characters met till the happy end, each chapter mapped out according to a generic story structure formula I found on the internet.
I intended for it to be a contemporary romance. But as I began writing, something unsettling happened. The story mutated. It broke free from the outline and shaped itself into a completely different beast. No matter how hard my logical brain tried to steer the narrative where I thought it should go, the characters veered off in directions I could’ve never imagined. It baffled me what mysterious, interior worlds were uncovered by writing a fictional story.
Now looking back on that first novel-writing experience, and all that avalanched out of Oblivion Black, I realize that the creative act forced my deepest questions, thoughts, and feelings to the surface, a side of myself that had always been waiting to be voiced. The anger, the pain, the confusion, the doubts that had been censored or buried were played out in the trials and journeys of my characters. What started out as a fun project of melodramatic romance became a dark, psychological deep dive, ultimately ending in my main character’s spiritual catharsis. This closure, I also experienced in telling the story to myself.
And that is how I experience being a fiction writer. I am writing my way back home to myself. At the same time, I’m reaching out to those who might need to hear the same message.
Writing fiction has a way of revealing our innermost selves. In many ways, it goes deeper than talk therapy or journaling because we act out our most secret fantasies or shadow tendencies. We hide within our characters and their stories, discovering things we’ve hidden from our very own waking life. Writing fiction bridges that gap between your conscious and unconscious mind.
I didn’t understand what was happening at the time. I never set out to write dark fiction and horror. I couldn’t figure out where I fit as an author in the real world. I was uncomfortable promoting my books and putting myself out there because I didn’t feel 100% authentic.
Years later, after studying som of Carl Jung’s work, and personality models like Myers Briggs, Enneagrams, and Motivational Maps, I saw a pattern in the books and writers I read and knew personally.
Each writer has a unique set of values, which gives their writing its soul. Once a writer locks into their values, they can recognize their unique gifts as creatives, cultivate their strengths, and express themselves more fully through their fiction. This allows them to connect deeply with readers, turning mere entertainment into something that leaves a lasting effect on their hearts and minds.
You, as a writer, are a metaphor, writing in symbols about characters who are also symbolic. In waking life, you are a son or daughter, a parent, sibling, friend, worker, and member of your community. But in your creative life, you’re projected into words and iterate your unique pattern through them, leaving your stamp on everything you create.
Through this process of letting my fiction take me where it wanted me to go, my writer archetype was unearthed. In Write Catalyst, I am The Mystic writer archetype. It doesn’t mean I write about people with supernatural powers or ancient tomes of secret magic. I take the most unlovable, unredeemable people, put them through the dark night of the soul so they are forced to grow into their best selves. The Mystic writer makes their characters’ personal journeys transformative on the most profound levels. They take leaden characters and transmute them into gold.
What confused me before now makes sense. Knowing my core values as a writer has given me clarity.
My intention underlies everything I write, and it’s supposed to. My themes of personal evolution and spiritual growth aren’t weird, but essential to making my stories’ impact that much stronger. Instead of trying to force myself into the box of this or that genre, I use genre as a vehicle for my greater, underlying purpose. I can write horror and sci-fi and psychological fiction with confidence by trusting in the writing that makes my soul sing.
This makes writing flow easier. It makes life more inspired. I feel more comfortable promoting myself now—because it’s not about selling books. It’s about what I stand for and what I hope to do for readers.
Yes, we need to do the work—the editing, the querying, the self-promotion—but we need a higher purpose to power our creative force.
Your fiction is trying to tell you something about yourself. The question is—are you listening?
Think about everything you’ve written.
What are the recurring themes?
What problems are your protagonists constantly confronting?
What might you be trying to resolve within yourself?
When you understand what inner dynamics you’re working out in your fiction, you understand why your stories matter—not just to readers, but to yourself. You stop second-guessing your themes. You stop apologizing for what moves you. You stop trying to write like everyone else.
You write like yourself. Finally.
Take the shortcut to discovering what drives your writing.
