How to Dream

This is a story about giving in

Hi friends,

As 2025 draws to a close, I’ve been slowing down, easing back from my decade-plus-long drive to write, write, write—squeezing it into every available moment almost every day. In many ways, writing has felt like a race against time: I started too late, have too many ideas, feel too much urgency to get my work into the world.

For the past few years since my debut novel, Endpapers, came out, I’ve been working on two new book projects and a handful of short pieces, applying to residencies and workshops and getting wait-listed or rejected, battling a few nonserious health issues, and supporting my kid through his junior and senior years of high school, college applications, and the slow roll-out of college admissions decisions.

I think what I’m trying to say is that I’m tired. But not in a bad way, not exhausted-and-need-a-break-from-life tired. More in a good way, like I’ve earned some time to pause and enjoy LIFE—curl up and soak in good family time, great books, immersive TV shows and movies, plans with friends, swing dancing lessons!

Even so, in the background, doubt has been lingering. I’ve been all too aware with every word I’ve been writing of my newest project that no new ideas have been waiting for me as I come to the end of a draft. At least no ideas that I care about enough to put pen to paper. When I look at the few that have collected in my notebooks, they seem flat and uninviting.

I admit this lack of ideas has scared me at times—making me question if the well has run dry, if my writing days are over, at least for now. And it frightens me even more with a kid on the way to college in the fall. If I won’t be writing then (when I finally have more time to do it!), what will I do? Who will I be?

These are tough questions. So here’s what I’ve been doing to address the fear: Not much.

Instead, I’ve given into it. I’ve decided to trust what my body and mind need, which is a break. Writing has always been challenging, but it’s also always brought me joy, helped me make sense of the world and the issues I care deeply about, made me feel connected to people and causes. I’ve relied on creativity and the creative process to help me move through life. Without it, I tend to feel unmoored.

At the same time, writing has become like a second job, full of striving and applying and submitting, and after so many years of this, the creative part of my brain simply hasn’t been feeling so creative. And I’ve instead been feeling fulfilled by lots of other things, without having to try so hard.

The good news is that this is not a story about giving up. I’m not here to declare that I’ve quit writing. I’m here to tell you that while I’ve been giving in to the break from pushing so hard, even through all the doubt and fear, my creative well has been refilling on its own.

In early December I went on a long-ago-planned writing retreat with two friends, even though I had no concrete goals. I decided to spend the time trusting myself to work only when the mood struck and to read as much as I wanted. Over the course of those three days, I read almost all of Miriam Toews’s new memoir A Truce That Is Not Peace, which attempts to answer the question of why she writes. It was the perfect read. I found an Italo Calvino collection on the shelf in my room and read a few stories. I opened the writing projects that called to me, when they called, and I didn’t count a single word. At the end of each day, I connected with my writer-friends and soaked in all the support we were giving one another. It turned out to be exactly what I needed.

Also, stepping away from my notebook and giving my brain room to focus on other things has gotten me back in touch with what’s important to me right now, in this very minute. That’s how it happened that a few days ago when I was brushing my teeth—not thinking at all about writing but about a family situation that I wish someone would take drastic action to change—that an idea for a new novel came to me. One that, at last, I can’t wait to dive into!

Finally, two days ago, on the same day, two wonderful things happened: My husband surprised me with Thich Nhat Hanh’s How to Dream:

And a good friend texted me this (you can read the full Lowell poem here):

These things are wonderful not only because they’re inspiring on their own but because they made me feel seen as a writer—even (especially!) at a time when I’m not being productive and don’t have any Important Writer News to share. Two people who are close to me recognized how integral the creative process is to my life—how much I need it—and went out of their way to offer support when my footing feels unsure. I’m incredibly grateful.

So I came here to offer this to you as you head into the new year: Whatever your dream or your creative endeavors, I see you striving. I see you writing quietly between work shifts and baby feedings and family obligations. I see you painting, dancing, making music. I see you trying to be the best parent/partner/child/sibling/friend/student/teacher you can be. I see you fighting fascism and climate change and transphobia. And I hope this letter gives you whatever fuel you need to keep going today or, more important, a reminder to rest.

Cheers to rest and renewal in 2026!

Jen