The Season of Showing Up: What Happens When You Return to the Page, Again and Again
Every writer has seasons. Seasons of momentum and clarity, when the words come easy. Seasons of silence, when the cursor blinks like a dare. And seasons of avoidance, where guilt curls up in the corners of your notebook and you start to wonder if you’ve lost it, or worse, wasted it.
If you’ve been stuck, circling your story but never quite landing, this is for you.
We’re calling this The Season of Showing Up.
Not because everything suddenly feels easy. Not because the industry gave you permission. Not because the stars aligned or the doubt disappeared.
But because showing up—imperfect, tender, and willing—is the only way forward.
Why Writers Stop Writing (And Why It’s Not Your Fault)
Most writers don’t stop writing because they’re lazy. They stop because they’re heartbroken.
Heartbroken by rejection. By isolation. By the weight of having something to say and not knowing if anyone will listen. Writing asks a lot of us. Vulnerability. Time. Courage. A willingness to sit inside the unknown and make something out of it.
When life piles up—when grief gnaws at the edges, when deadlines loom like threats instead of invitations, when our mental health takes a hit—it’s no wonder we avoid the page. It becomes too charged. Too haunted. Too loud with our own expectations.
And the longer we stay away, the heavier it becomes. A single day off becomes a week. A month. A year. Until we start to ask the wrong questions: What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just get it together?
But here’s the truth: falling out of your writing rhythm isn’t a failure. It’s a symptom. Of being human in a world that’s loud and fast and often unsupportive of slow, soulful work.
You’re not broken. You’re tender. And you’re not alone.
Our Biology Doesn’t Care About Your Book Deal
There’s a study about trees in a biodome—perfect conditions, abundant sunlight, controlled weather—and yet, the trees eventually collapsed. Why? Because without wind, their root systems never strengthened. They grew tall, but not resilient. They lacked what scientists call "stress wood," the tension that makes trees adaptable and enduring.
Writers are like that, too. We need challenge. Not to break us, but to deepen our roots. But when the challenge comes without care, without community, without a way to process the stress, we collapse under the pressure.
And evolution doesn’t help. Our brains are wired to avoid visibility if we associate it with threat. Rejection wasn’t just unpleasant to our ancestors—it was dangerous. To fail publicly, to be cast out from the group, meant a loss of protection, of food, of belonging. That fear is still alive in us, even if we’re only sending pages to a critique partner or editor.
Neuroscience backs it up: studies show that the brain processes social rejection using the same neural pathways as physical pain. That email saying "not for me"? It hurts. Not just emotionally. Biochemically.
So when we avoid the page, it’s our nervous system trying to keep us safe. It sees the blank page as a battlefield.
But safety isn’t the same as fulfillment. And avoidance never delivers the relief it promises. What does? Returning.
The Myth of Readiness, the Power of Return
The writing world often celebrates the end result: the book deal, the bestseller list, the splashy debut. And those are real wins. But they’re not the whole story.
Most of the writing life isn’t glamorous. It’s quiet. It’s incremental. It’s 100 small choices to come back instead of turn away.
The writers who stay in this work—who grow, who evolve, who finish what they start—aren’t waiting to be inspired. They’ve built the habit of returning.
And not always with confidence. Sometimes with doubt. Sometimes with just enough energy to open the doc and sit in the chair. That counts. That matters.
Showing up doesn’t mean pushing harder. It requires reclaiming your relationship with the work on your own terms.
When you show up, you might:
Log into a writing session even when you don’t know what to say
Open your document and re-read the last scene, just to feel close to it again
Let yourself write badly, privately, bravely
Choose to be in the process, not above it or outside of it
Showing up is a practice. And practices are what carry us through when willpower fails. They don’t require belief. They require presence.
Writing Is a Seasonal Practice
Creative work isn’t linear. It moves in cycles. Like breath. Like weather. Like growth.
And just like in nature, every season of the writing process holds a purpose—even if it doesn’t always look productive.
Spring is the start. The spark. Ideas emerging, outlines forming, the thrill of something new taking root. Not everything survives this season—but the ones that do are worth tending.
Summer is the stretch. Deep drafting. Long hours. Tangled middles. It’s sweaty, messy, alive. Things are blooming and breaking at once.
Autumn is revision. A season of harvesting, yes, but also of letting go. Cutting what no longer serves. Honoring what made it to the page and deciding what gets to stay.
Winter is rest. Integration. Sometimes grief. Sometimes stillness. This is where the next idea hibernates. Where clarity seeps in slowly. Where we recover.
And the length of each season? It varies from writer to writer. From project to project. From chapter to chapter. Some winters are long. Some springs come fast. Your process isn’t broken because it doesn’t match someone else’s timeline.
The key isn’t to force yourself into a different season. It’s to recognize the one you’re in, and show up to it as best you can.
How to Begin Your Season of Showing Up
If you’re feeling stuck, you might be carrying the quiet weight of expectations: that every session has to be productive, every draft has to be good, every return to the page has to justify the time it takes. But showing up can be gentle, a returning to a practice that is yours to shape.
You don’t need a breakthrough. You need a rhythm. One that feels safe, sustainable, consistent, and rooted in your actual life. Think of it as tending the soil, not rushing through to the harvest.
Here’s how you can begin:
1. Shrink the task.
When you're overwhelmed, your brain interprets your project as a threat. Lower the stakes. Instead of trying to tackle the whole chapter, set a timer for 10 minutes. Open the doc. Highlight your favorite line. Write one sentence. That counts. Small actions compound.
2. Create a ritual of return.
Our bodies crave cues. Give your nervous system a signal that you're shifting into creative mode. Light a candle. Brew your favorite tea. Open the same document each time. Play a specific playlist. Rituals don’t have to be fancy. They just have to be repeatable. Over time, they become anchors.
3. Write with others.
Isolation feeds avoidance. Accountability interrupts it. Find a co-writing space, join a writing session, or meet a friend online and sit in silence while you both work. You don’t have to share your words. You just have to be present in the space. Sometimes, proximity to other writers reminds your nervous system: it’s okay to try.
4. Re-read without judgment.
Perfectionism thrives in silence. Interrupt it by returning to something you’ve already written and love. Not to fix it, but to remember it. To remind yourself what you’re capable of. Even if the next words feel clumsy, you’re still the person who wrote those lines.
5. Track presence, not progress.
Progress can be deceptive. Some days the win is just showing up. Mark an X on your calendar for every day you return. Start a note in your phone where you list one thing you touched—scene, playlist, outline. Let those marks be your trail. Proof that you’re already in motion.
These aren’t rules. They’re doorways. Choose one. Let it be enough for today. You don’t need a breakthrough. You just need a way back in.
What the Season of Showing Up Looks Like
We’re calling this a season for a reason.
Seasons don’t ask you to be perfect. They ask you to return. To keep tending. To trust the cycle.
There will be days when the words come easily, and days when they don’t. What matters is that you keep returning to the possibility of them.
In The Residency, our online writing community, this season means:
Writing alongside others who are also finding their way back
Having accountability that’s gentle but steady
Hearing "me too" in the moments you want to give up
Being witnessed as a writer—even when you’re not producing at full speed
Being in relationship with your work, even when it’s complicated
Progress isn’t measured by speed here. It’s measured by presence. By the act of staying close to your work, your voice, and the story that keeps calling you back.
Whether you’re revising a novel, drafting essays, or starting something entirely new, you don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to feel behind. You just have to come back.
Why We Made Space for This Inside The Residency
You’ll see plenty of programs promising to help you “be a bestseller” or build a six-figure author life. The Residency was built for something deeper. For the real work of showing up, writing through the doubt, and cultivating something that lasts.
Inside our community, we’re creating intentional rhythms and rituals to help you:
Build a sustainable writing routine
Get support from other serious, soulful writers
Stay in the work without burning out
You’ll find writing sessions, craft workshops, check-ins, and kind-hearted accountability. But more than that, you’ll find a space that welcomes you as you are, even if you’re just now coming back.
This is your season. And it’s enough.
Come Write With Us
Ready to reclaim your writing rhythm? The Residency is open to writers who are done disappearing on themselves. Join us to build your momentum, deepen your craft, and stay close to the work that matters.
This is your Season of Showing Up. And it’s right on time.
No matter your path—hobbyist, hopeful, or building a writing career—there’s a place for you inside The Residency.
Choose the path that fits your season. With structure, support, and community, you’ll build momentum and keep showing up for your work.
Tiffany Grimes (she/they) is the founder of Burgeon Design and Editorial, a queer founded boutique editing and design house for brave creatives. At Burgeon, we specialize in book editing, coaching, and web design for the individualists, nonconformists, and trailblazers of the literary world. If you’re a maverick, outsider, rebel, renegade, dissenter, disruptor, or free spirit, you’ve come to the right place.
