Making Space to Write Again
Finding My Way Back to the Page (and Moving the Furniture)
Lately, I've been trying to find my way back into my writing groove. Not exactly the “sit down and make it happen because deadlines exist” kind of writing groove (thought that one is also quite valid), but the real, consistent, happy sort of writing groove.
I’m looking for the kind of writing groove that has a rhythm to it, the one that makes me feel like a writer again like I once did, rather than someone just playing the part, forcing myself to keep fitting back into the writer and author block I made for myself.
So, recently as I get back into the WIP, I started going back to the rituals, the little atmospheric things I used to do without even thinking to get me writing again.
Things like making a playlist for the book I’m working on. Be ready for that playlist to drop any day now.
Letting myself wander through Pinterest for visual inspiration without labeling it as “procrastination.” I love a good fantastical mood board.
And, importantly, I’ve started carving out intentional, slightly more sacred time again. Not just squeezing writing in between everything else, but actually sitting down, and showing up for the page. Not waiting to feel inspired all the time (though I love that feeling and am still searching for it more often) just showing up, like I used to.
The other day, I was sitting at my desk and staring at the wall. (You know the stare: the “I’m writing but actually not-writing” gaze that feels deceptively productive.) Something felt… stuck.
It wasn’t just in the writing (though a little bit), but also in the space itself.
This could’ve been just a procrastination technique. A sort of outrageous one. But, I did what any younger teenager self with a case of restless inspiration would do: I decided to rearrange the room. Or rather, the corner of our apartment that functions as my office/cozy reading space.
I mentioned the idea to Mystery Man in passing, in that way where you're not sure you're ready to actually do it but want to say it out loud.
I kind of planned on if I had another slow day, that I would rearrange the furniture just to see if I liked it when alone, only for him to come back from work or wherever he was and think, “What the heck happened here?” But ultimately support it.
He nodded as I tried to explain the vision I had. It was in the way he does when he's listening and also already five steps ahead.
"Okay. Think to what you want to do," he said.
I stepped into the shower for a reset before the end of the night that usually involved TV, reading, and maybe a little yoga. Only, when I came out, there he was, already shifting furniture around like he knew exactly what I meant.
Books were stacked on the ground. My desk shifted across the room. The tall plastic bookcase I’ve had since college was on its side.
A few hours later (and many different organizing ideas of books later) we reimagined the space, and it felt different but also right.
My desk now sits near the window where I can look out and see the pond. There are ducks, the occasional crane, and the other day—no lie—a full-on stork wandering around to see if this would become its new summer home (I hope so).
My books are on open display now, instead of being tucked into a dim corner.
It feels like I claimed something back, like I carved out space not just in the apartment, but hopefully to feel the sunlight and the energy of it while I write again.
It’s not magic. I’m still rebuilding the writing habit, still finding my footing again, but I think there’s something to be said for changing your environment when your creativity starts to feel stale. Rearranging the room became a metaphor, a reminder that I don’t have to stay stuck just because I’ve been stuck.
So here’s to playlists, visual boards, early rituals, and lovingly nudged furniture. To window views and partners who understand how small shifts make big differences.
To writing, slowly but surely, our way back to the safe haven of home it once was and should always be.
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