As the fog of the past few years begins to lift, I find myself facing something both exhilarating and terrifying: I’m calling writing my job now. Not just an idea. Not just a dream. A job.

We’re all still stumbling through this post-pandemic world, trying to make sense of what’s left and what’s possible. For me, that means facing the mess I’ve left behind during the worst slumps of my life—and choosing to write my way through it.

Writing Through the Fog

Focus has never come easy. Wisps of fog keep drifting in, tugging at my attention. But one thing I do trust about myself is my stubbornness. I don’t sink; I swim. And I write.

My plan is to sit down for five or six hours a day and let the words come—messy, raw, unfiltered. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about creating something I can shape later. It’s a brain dump of brain dumps. A practice. A beginning.

For years, I’ve talked endlessly about writing. I’ve posted about it on social media. I’ve organized notes, cleaned drives, hunted for writing jobs. But what I hadn’t done in too long was the most important thing: actually write, daily, as my work.

Building a Writing Life

Earlier today I read a post about twelve famous authors who rose before dawn to write for hours. 5:30 a.m. — that’s when my brain seems to wake up too, ever since starting anxiety medication. I’ve tried using those hours for coursework, but maybe it’s time to make them my writing hours instead.

It almost feels like cheating, to call writing my job. But maybe that’s exactly the point: to build a life doing something I love, and to treat it with the respect of “real work.

I want a schedule that evolves with me — structured but flexible enough to let creativity breathe. I want brainstorming time to be sacred. I want to keep the words flowing, not just for myself but for the world I want to help shape.

Zines, Patches, and Possibility

Some of my inspiration comes from unexpected places. Like bingeing on folk-punk patches and realizing I can design my own AJJ patches for my scooter, jacket, and purse. Why not send out zines alongside my blog to promote my work? These small acts feel like planting seeds for something bigger

As the fog thins, I’m remembering who I am. I’m emerging. I’m learning to live without constant, crushing anxiety. It’s strange — to feel worried without the full-body panic. To breathe through it. To believe in something new.

My Past, My Pages

I think often about writing a memoir. In my head, I’ve drafted a hundred versions of it. I’ve written and unwritten pieces of my past without putting a word down. But the truth is: those stories are mine to tell. And this is how I begin.

The fog isn’t gone, but it’s shifting. And I’m ready to write through it.