This past year was messy.
It was my first year releasing a book, which meant learning the publishing process the hard way—figuring out what actually works for me, what doesn't, and where I was burning energy for no real return.
At the same time, going on disability and stepping away from traditional work changed the shape of my days. Time blurred together. My moods were inconsistent. And more often than I like to admit, I was forcing myself to write when the desire simply wasn't there.
More than anything, this year was about learning—often by doing things the wrong way first.
I learned how much work happens after the writing is done: formatting, revisions, publishing platforms, distribution decisions, marketing realities, and the constant small administrative tasks that don't look like "being an author" but absolutely are.
I also learned that my creative rhythm doesn't respond well to pressure. Treating writing like a task to be completed on command, rather than something that needs the right conditions, led to resistance instead of progress. The more I tried to force output, the harder it became to stay connected to the work itself.
By the end of the year, it became clear that this wasn't about a lack of discipline or commitment—it was about building a process that actually fits the life I'm in now, not the one I used to have.
Forcing consistency when the foundation wasn't stable didn't work.
Trying to maintain momentum by pushing through low-energy days only made the work feel heavier over time. Instead of building flow, it created friction—and that friction turned into frustration, stalled progress, and tasks quietly piling up while I was too burnt out to address them.
I also underestimated how much adjustment it would take to shift into this phase of life. Treating it like a simple change in schedule, rather than a full structural shift, led to expectations that weren't realistic or fair.
What I'm carrying forward into the new year is a clearer understanding of how I work best—and a willingness to respect it.
That means prioritizing depth over volume, and alignment over forced consistency. It means letting projects develoip at a pace that supports the work instead of exhausting the person doing it.
I'm also carrying forward the lessons from my first release: the importance of building systems that are sustainable, learning when to pause instead of push, and recognizing that progress doesn't always loo linear from the outside.
Most importantly, I'm choosing to work with the life I'm in now, rather than constantly mreasuring myself against expectations that no longer fit.
Going into the new year, I'm being more intentional about what I commit to—and what I don't.
Updates, releases, and behidn the scenes work may not follow a rigid or predictable schedule. That isn't a lack of follow-through; it's a deliberate shift toward working sustainability instead of burning out and disappearing entirely.
Working this way also means that some things will take longer than they might appear from the outside. Tasks may queue up, priorities may shift, and progress may be quieter at times—but that doesn't mean work isn't happening, or that things are being abandoned.
The goal isn't immediacy. It's follow-through that actually lasts. I'd rather move forward steadily than rush, and have to start over again.
I'm heading into the new year with a smaller set of goals, and they're intentionally quiet.
A lot of my focus will be on tending to what already exists—working through a backlog at a sustainable pace, revisiting projects that deserve more attention, and allowing space for reflection instead of constant production.
I'm also making room to read more, engage with other authors' work, and approach future projects from a place of preparations rather than urgency. Some of that work will be visible; much of it won't.
This year is less about immediate output and more about laying groundwork that supports cleareer, more intentional creative decisions going forward.
If you're here reading this, thank you. Not in a performative way, but genuinely. Your support—whether that's reading, engaging, or choosing to stick around—matters more than constant visibility ever could.
I don't take it lightly that people are willing to follow work that unfolds at a thoughtful pace rather than on demand. That patience makes it possible for me to create in a way that's honest, sustainable, and worth standing behind.
I'm moving into the new year with clarity, intention, and a quieter sense of direction—and I appreciate those who choose to walk alongside that instead of pushing for speed.
What goal or intentions are you setting for your writing and self-publishing in 2026?
For 2026, my focus is on continuity, completion, and sustainability, not volume for volume's sake.
On the writing side, my main goal is to finish and release my next stand-alone book, rather than starting something new. I'm prioritizing depth, cohesion, and long-term story integrity over rapid output. Alongside that, I want to maintain a steady reading habit and write short, honest reflections or reviews about what I read, mainly to stay connected to the craft as a reader as well as a writer.
From a self-publishing perspectrive, my intention is to strengthen my foundations: cleaning up my backlist, improving how my work is organized and presented on my website, and making sure the systems I use are ones I can realistically maintain. Less scrambling, more structure.
Since I no longer work out of the home, I am also making it a point to get out at least once a day so the doldrums don't creep in—especially during the winter months.
Overall, 2026 isn't about chasing trends or aggressive scaling. It's about doing the work I've already committed to—well, deliberately, and without burnout.
