Photo: I took a full-blown “old lady tumble” on Tuesday afternoon. One of those “I don’t know what I tripped on” sort of falls that sent me forward onto my driveway, hard on the wrist and the knee and on the foot. Being young (for a while longer) and foolish (likely forever), I of course recovered and went to lunch. By the time I was done with my day’s obligations, I couldn’t put weight on the foot. I taught a class (online), got xrays in the morning and… never really got a definitive diagnosis. But… I’ve got the boot, a doctor’s note that says I don’t have to travel to Boston this weekend (a boon), and… I’m taking it easy (a necessity). I need to turn my mind over to other things.

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I turned 41 recently. A weird age. It’s a number that is certainly high. It represents a “you’re no longer hot shit” age but it also represents a “you’re too young to be ignored” age, too. It’s the “oh good, I’m glad no one is looking at me” age and a “fuck, what’s going to kill me?” anxiety age. It’s the age when I know people who have been divorced. It’s the age when I know people who are just now starting to have kids. It’s the age when I know people who might maybe be thinking about getting married for the first time? It’s the age when I know people who have buried parents. It’s the age when I’m preparing myself to bury one of mine. It’s the age when I dream about my and my husband’s “what happens after kids?” era. It’s the age when the decisions that we make are much less reversible or even recoverable. It’s the age when, quite frankly, I see articles about “how to live to 100” and I think to myself, “maybe… that’s not the goal.” It’s the age when “crone” whispers to me through the stuff I read and I say, “I want to go to there.” It’s the age when “witch” is a compliment and “bitch” is default and a theme song to be sung along to in the car. It’s the age when I wish my children would ask me more questions about who I was, who I am, what I want to be. It’s the age when I wish anyone would ask me said questions because, well, I have a lot to say about that.

And it’s the age, as advertised, when I’ve looked at the novel I started earlier this year and decided, definitively, heartbreakingly, that… I’m going to have to set it down for a little bit.

It fucking sucks.

(Not the novel, the setting it down.)

But don’t worry, I’m setting down that novel because I need to write another novel. A novel I’ve been thinking about since my Clarion West workshop. It’s been speaking to me, I’ve been dreaming about it, I can’t stop thinking about it and I can’t write the novel I was writing because of it.

And that… fucking sucks, too. Because this was the number one thing I was afraid of before I started my Clarion West workshop. I just knew in my writerly spirit that I was going to get an idea over the summer that wasn’t going to let me go and I was going to end up abandoning the novel I was writing with (half-spirited) gusto.

Chuck Wendig has a rule about finishing your shit. It’s something I’ve carried with me since my baby-writer days. I followed his blog religiously when I was first starting out and this particular bit of his advice was really important to me. You start a story, you finish a story. That’s how you become a writer. You push, you work, you hone your craft, and the struggle of that finishing makes you learn something about yourself and your craft and your storytelling. This advice has really served me well.

Interestingly, Clarion West taught me how to cut line when a story isn’t working. That’s a different writer lesson. I started multiple stories during my summer and, because of the short deadlines, I had to learn how to very quickly discern when a story was viable and when a story was not.

But now here, this is different. I’ve given 30,000 words to this novel already. I have seen what it is and where it is going. I think I even know how I want to get it there. It’s a viable story. It’s got good bones. It’s just not the story of my heart because it was conceived in a time when my spirit was feeling… hopeful? That’s not fully true. It was conceived in a time when my spirit was feeling hopeful despite of it all. Hopeful as an act of defiance. A cut above naiveté, I suppose.

Ah, but now. But now? Ah, but now. But now.

I am 41. A Millennial true and true. That means that my hope can never say die. But that hope that sprouted tender in spring and screamed alongside the cicadas all summer has now matured with the insistent chirp of the crickets, the changed light of Autumn’s sun angle and, most importantly, the evident (but still new) patina of the leaves. This maturity of my same hope requires expression in a more sophisticated way. A way I acquired when the sun was hot and the cicadas screamed and I found my stride in intensive workshop.

And so: back to square one.

You want to know sometime cool about 41? Square one at 41 doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t make me panic. I’m not panicked at all.

But I am thoughtful and sad and perhaps a touch ill-prepared to confront the new blank page and a story world that needs to be built from the ground up.

Perhaps that’s why I’m writing this blog post instead of actually doing the thing.

That’s ok, too. I’m mourning and preparing. I’m clearing my mind’s “desk” to make room for the creativity I’ve now given permission to occupy it.

This is all very much part of the process.

I’m also writing this to anyone who has, perhaps, not hit that “we don’t panic anymore” age and needs a little permission: if you have been wondering if you need to cut line on a story that doesn’t serve, consider this your sign. Set it down. Let the spirit move. Let the spirit return if the story is worthy. It very well may be.

And don’t be afraid to confront that blank page again. A new story will erupt once it sees there is space to do so.

Gift yourself with the opportunity to stand at square one. What a beautiful place, honestly. What a beautiful place.

Would you like the chance to stand at square one with me this Fall? There are still spaces left in my 6 Weeks, 6 Stories class for GrubStreet starting on the 23rd (omg coming up so fast!!) and my 4-week class with StoryStudio Chicago specifically focused on writing inspired by food (sign up and spread the word! I really want this class to run!). And if you’re curious about how I confront that blank page, I’m also teaching a How to Write a Short Story class for GrubStreet in December. It’s a quick 1-off and I promise to give you a bunch of tips on how to do it and how to do it well.

I… might figure out a way to share how I’m doing on this new novel that I love. My goal for 2026? Get an agent. Agent or bust, y’all. Will you go on this journey with me?