Writing in the moment

No pressure, people!

The ability to be in the present moment is a major component of mental wellness.

Abraham Maslow

Dear Writers,

On Friday, I returned home from The Whole Novel Retreat at The Highlights Foundation’s Campus, and let me tell you, it was just what I needed! I went to campus with a few jobs: to support, talk to, and inspire the writers who sent us there novels. Cheering for others is the easiest part of my writing life! (Good news for one writer is really good news for us all!) To be part of an experience that illuminates every aspect of the writing life. To help the writers with whatever they needed. And to write. In the moment. I went to campus with an idea for a novel that I’ve been mulling . . . for months. And I was going to play.

One of the coolest parts of the retreat is that everyone is working on something! I love hearing about other writers’ process. I love finding new things to try. And I love how we all push each other. The permission slip that is Highlights makes us all a little bit braver.

Last week, it didn’t take long for a theme to develop: writing in the moment. This idea led to many conversations: from how to put the world behind us, to writing while busy, to trusting the subconscious, accepting what you know now, knowing that you will know more later, and letting stuff you no longer need go. I always talk about writing what makes us happy.

Friends, I always want to write what makes me happy. It’s my antidote for dealing with what I can control. It can also be a struggle. For lots of reasons. But mostly: when we write without validation and support, we can begin to stop trusting the process. Our writing suffers when that hope expires. When we feel forgotten. Unseen.

Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today.

Thich Nhat Hanh

Thanks to all the writers, it was an amazing week.

Not only did I write MANY words, but all the writers caught the energy of the moment. Together, they challenged each other. They experimented and played. More than a few came up to me with excited faces—they had figured out something huge. All of us put aside the obstacles and fears and opened the door to new ideas, new words, new details, more tension and hope. On the last night of the retreat, everyone read. Many people took the chance to read newly written words. I was so proud. So happy. So inspired. SO IMPRESSED. These stories! These writers! I can’t wait to read them in print.

One participant, Judy McSweeney, wrote this analogy for the event, and like everyone else, I was FLOORED. And so grateful. I asked her if I could share it, and she said yes. I just know you will find it meaningful:

My middle grade novel is about an eleven-year-old girl who’s obsessed with construction. She experiences the complications of her world as a series of blueprint layers. She sees people as power tools – some that hold things together… some that break things apart. And she holds fast to the idea that if you can imagine it, you can build it.

Turns out, writing works the same way.

Only instead of perfectly square doors and windows, we sketch imperfect characters. Instead of roofs and foundations, we lay down conflict and theme. Our blueprints look less like tidy rectangles and more like coffee rings on crumpled drafts… margins crowded with question marks… and arrows that say move this here... and wtf?

Of course, like most DIY projects, writing never goes as planned. The instructions are missing. Half the screws roll under the couch. The story insists on changing mid-build.

Or maybe a character says something you didn’t expect, or worse, refuses to speak at all. A subplot collapses, and you have to rebuild it with stronger beams.

Sometimes you realize you’ve been trying to squeeze a cathedral into the frame of a garden shed.

The “simple project” that should’ve taken an hour eats up your entire weekend. You call it quits, order pizza, and stare at the pile of parts wondering what you got yourself into.

Still… you tinker. You can’t help yourself, you’re a writer and that’s what you do.

But then—then—you have a breakthrough. The pieces click. A scene stands on its own. You realize maybe, just maybe, this thing you’ve been cobbling together might actually work. That’s the part we live for. The moment you squint at the words you’ve written and think,“maybe I’m not an imposter after all.” You whisper: Hey. That almost looks like a book.

The difference is that the wobbling, lopsided, not-at-all-like-I-thought-it-was-going-to-be story might end up being better than your original blueprint. More alive. Because unlike architecture, a story doesn’t have to pass inspection. It just has to pass through someone else’s chest and set something vibrating there.

At this conference, I’ve heard drafts read that were messy and glorious and nowhere near finished—and they still lifted the room. Why? Because we could see the bones. Because someone was brave enough to unroll their imperfect blueprint and say, Here. This is what I’m trying to build.

That’s what writers do. We build invisible structures out of nothing but ink and air. We invite strangers to walk through them, open the closets, climb the stairs, and sit at the kitchen table. And if we’re lucky, those strangers become friends, and leave a light on before they go.

So go home and be that builder. Hammer out your sentences. Saw down your word count. Sand your rough drafts until they don’t give splinters. The work is slow, sometimes backbreaking. But then you stand back and realize: the blueprint inside your head became a place.

So this is my blueprint, my messy confession: I write like I build. With more enthusiasm than skill, more duct tape than sturdy screws, and the faint hope that nobody will notice how unstable the whole thing is.

And if it still wobbles once I put down my hammer? Well, maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the point. Because whether it’s a structure or a story, the magic isn’t in making it perfect. Its creating a place someone can live—inside the chapters of your book… a shelter, where they can feel at home for a while. And if we can do that, my friends… we have tinkered well.

Writers, when we are open to tinkering, we are open to discovery. To genius. To subtext. To meaning. To our hearts. When we are IN THE MOMENT, we can’t help writing what makes us happy. Now, we won’t always have stellar days. Effort is a big part of the process. But we will be meeting the story where we are. And that is what helps us find the glimmers that will reach and connect with a reader.

In the words of Judy, are you ready to tinker well?

Today, let’s have some fun.

Open the first page of a favorite book. Maybe a mentor text. And rewrite it in a different POV.

Friends, that doesn’t mean change the pronouns. It means: reimagine that page. See it in a new way. Pick a new POV (third omniscient? third limited? First person from a secondary character’s POV?) and create some fan fiction.

If you’d like to share it, I’d love to see what you do.

I do this for every new book I write. It helps me see things I might have otherwise missed. It helps me know that secondary character. POV embraces your POV character’s misbeliefs, opinions, and backstory. So go for it!

I’m off to France on Thursday! Have a great writing week.

xo Sarah