My routine, for the past week, went on a hike, wandered into a freak hurricane somewhere along the eastern seaboard, took shelter, got airlifted, and is only entering recovery. Hosting guests will do that. The first casualty, of course, was my reading and writing practice (though I did attend Writers’ Hour—ardently, with half-open eyes.)

Still, all is not lost. I remember a YouTube video from a habit guru I used to watch during my minimalism phase, maybe six years ago: never miss more than two days. That stuck. I’ve decided to adopt it again—no more than two days off from the habits I want to become second nature. I printed out a little calendar from Canva and taped it up. Thoughtless execution. Less space for negotiation. Reasoning should be saved for the page.

The past week has been quietly calamitous on top of the lost routine, with a back injury and yet another appliance demanding repair. The painting above mirrors it exactly. Alexander captured the stillness of repose, a body still, in repair. It’s not a place you arrive at. It’s something you find yourself inside, likely only by accident.

Always Be Submitting

A writer from the London Writers' Salon shared that they've been writing almost daily since February and submitting three to four pieces a week. They’d nearly quit—but then, in the span of three weeks, three pieces were accepted. All paid, with one fetching a mighty $1,000! I cheered for them and loved reading the published piece that was shared. The only part of their journey I truly relate to, though, is the considering quitting part. It hit me that, at most, I've only ever submitting one piece per week. And since pausing my weekly responses to Substack prompts, I've been submitting a big fat zero.

Now, when I recognize a writer’s name in my feed or in the publications I subscribe to, I feel a newfound respect—for the persistence, the consistency. The old stereotype of the disorganized, drifting artist couldn’t be further from the truth. Anyone creating anything, especially writers publishing regularly, must be deeply organized. They’re constantly working on drafts, editing, submitting, tracking timelines, scanning for new opportunities. The hustle is relentless. And I see it in everything I read. I feel so much gratitude that I get to witness it—that I get to read at all.

Revisiting the Rule of Ten

In the natural way that living goes, I’ve discovered a necessary addendum to the rule I wrote last week: Choose an arbitrary number. Promise. Practice. Reflect. But—cap the reflection too.

Lately, I’ve stalled in the pause. I’ve stopped submitting. My Submittable is quiet; every piece has been answered for. The tank is, quite literally, empty.

What is reflection worth?

For one, it’s led me to the stories of other writers. I’m six months into submitting anything at all, and reading the behind-the-scenes truths of others has been oxygen. Emily J. Smith’s voice struck a chord I didn’t know was waiting. Her cold start, her self-made path—familiar terrain. One line won’t let me go:

Yes. This is the work. Not just the writing itself, but defining what success even means. I’m happy to report that simply drafting a piece and sending it out (to at least one person or publication), is enough to make me feel full. Of course I care about the response, but the process is where I find my nourishment.

This pause also revealed a quiet obsession: I’d been submitting almost exclusively to one magazine. As the rejections (and occasional acceptances) rolled in, I realized I’d mistaken repetition for progress. Prompted submissions are great practice—but there's this whole other world out there. Pitching! You can actually be part of the ideation process? So I've started reading about pitching. At first, the idea seemed absurd to lowercase W, me. This is for real capital W, Writers. Journalists that went to Journalism school. But Sub Club offered a way in. Catherine Baab-Muguira’s letter—how a decade-old thank you led to a WSJ byline, Is the kind of industry lore that feels both impossible and deeply human. Her advice: the pitch doesn’t have to be perfect.

So that’s the new plan. Keep reading. Start pitching. Keep submitting. Keep answering the random prompts that feel like dares from the universe. Even when the tank is dry. Maybe especially then.

Maybe the dry season is its own kind of writing.

I've really been enjoying The Bleeders Podcast with Courtney Kocak. It helps to know every single person trying to write has struggled to call themself a writer, and has indeed considered quitting, repeatedly. This seems to be a necessary part of the creative cycle. Almost like there can no creation without self-doubt. But a fresh take on writer's block (for me at least) is something Matt Bell mentioned as part of NaNoWriMo—write so fast you can stay ahead of your insecurities. "Writing 5-6 pages a day, you can very easily get past what you can even remember...doesn't allow for self-reflection or doubt...an ideal place in some ways where you just focus on what's in front of you." He of course emphasized that reflection and edits are part of what comes next, a structured revision process, but in the beginning it really is a burst of raw energy.

Now, I need to go purchase Matt Bell's Refuse to Be Done. I have a feeling it might help with more than just the blank page.

Ashni