I’ve had an ethical dilemma about my Willa series which is why so much time has passed between Parts IV and V. After Part IV, I fielded some questions about her from a few friends who read the blog. I felt uncomfortable answering them because I’ve not been completely honest about this.

I’ve been playing a lot of chess instead of writing because this one has been hard. Whenever I sit down to write, something more pressing comes up, and yet when I’m doing literally anything else (making lunchboxes, walking the dog, showering), this unfolding story is all I think about. It’s infuriating.

I’ve been dragging my feet on this story about Willa. It turns out not even the fact that it’s true, happening in real time, and I’ve already begun (and therefore made a kind of commitment to a hypothetical reader), is enough to make me productive. It’s so much easier for me to write my silly little cultural rabbit hole blogs than it is to practice the one thing I actually want to be good at. Sigh.

I may have found my story. It’s not technically mine, but I’ve been granted permission to share. It meets my two search criteria: a true story that’s happening in real time. Given this, I don’t know the ending yet. That’s a risk, but it has an intriguing, magic-adjacent beginning and a dream protagonist so 🤷‍♀️.

I’ve wanted to write a story my whole adult life. If only wanting was enough. My brain is addicted to narratives to the point that I sometimes care more about other peoples’ stories than I do my own. There is always a moment—usually during my withdrawal phase when a story ends—where a narrative world feels bigger and more compelling than my real one. Every time I sit down to write the same thing happens: my brain stops me to ask why… “why are you writing this story?” My answers must have been unconvincing because my past is littered with half written tales.