Writers in the Storm

by Jenny Hansen

In a recent post, I mentioned a moment that shifted how I see goals. I had a productivity instructor say, “When you don’t keep an agreement with yourself, it erodes your self-confidence and the ability to trust yourself and your own word.”

In other words, it's highly expensive to your confidence (including your writing confidence) to break your word to yourself.

What else happens when you don’t complete your goals?

On the surface, nothing happens. The danger to your psyche doesn’t happen on the surface. And it doesn’t happen right away.

But over time, there’s a subtle shift that happens when things repeatedly DON’T get finished.

At first, it’s just descriptive information. It’s you talking to yourself:

• I didn’t get that project done.
• I stopped partway through [fill in the blank].
• I didn’t follow [fill in the blank] all the way to the end.

But over time, something else happens…

That initial description often turns into something negative that you say to yourself. It turns into a conclusion. It often turns into a value judgment and a criticism.

• This always happens.
• I can’t seem to follow through on my own work.
• I don’t trust myself to see things to the end.

What actually changed?

The project itself didn’t change at all. What did change was the meaning attached to it.

“I didn’t finish” describes an experience. But all that self-criticism and value judgements we heap on ourselves? That’s what turns the subconscious into forming an identity.

And once that identity settles in, it quietly starts running the show.

What happens when a missed goal becomes an identity?

I’d like to really examine this, because I’ve been there and watched writing friends go there, and the subconscious is aptly named. It can sneak things into our behavior that we don’t always catch right away.

(Do please let me know in the comments if any of these have happened to you.)

• You hesitate to begin things that matter because you don’t trust yourself with the ending.
• You lower expectations so the disappointment won’t sting as much.
• You walk away early, not because the project is wrong, but because staying feels risky when past attempts didn’t turn out the way you hoped.
• You second-guess your talent or your value as a writer.
• At the first sign of writer's block or story problem, you jump ship to a whole new project.

This type of problem is easy to misdiagnose.

Most writers who experience the problems I listed above will chalk it up to a motivation problem. A time management problem. An inspiration problem.

But when a momentary setback becomes negative self-talk and then an identity. . .that isn’t a motivation problem.

It’s a trust problem. A SELF-trust problem.

If you look closely, most people who think they “can’t follow through” actually do so every day: for other people. They finish things for work, for clients, for obligations that come with external expectations. The struggle I’m describing usually shows up in projects where no one is watching.

When no one is waiting for the work, the motivation has to come from inside.

Reframing it all

Do you see how “I didn’t finish” is a very different story than “I’m bad at finishing things?”

When you say, “I didn’t finish,” there’s room to be curious.

• What changed?
• What got heavier or more complicated than expected?
• What didn’t you know how to do?
• What kind of support was missing?

When you say, “this is just how I am,” that curiosity disappears.

Curiosity is crack to a writer’s brain. Curiosity is what keeps us moving forward with an idea, a character, a story.

One keeps the door open. The other quietly closes it.

Final Thought

This is the real power of finishing. Completing even one meaningful task or piece of work matters. Why?

Not because it proves anything to anyone else, but because it begins to repair your relationship with yourself.

Yes, you also get a dopamine hit from the finished task. But the real shift of a finished task or project is how you view yourself. Completion doesn’t have to be dramatic to be powerful. It doesn’t even have to be the whole project. It just has to be real and important to you.

And often, the most important thing you resolve by simply doing a creative task isn’t the project itself. It's resolving the story you’ve been carrying around in your subconscious. Finishing creative tasks you've set for yourself helps you let go of those pesky value judgments about what unfinished work says about YOU.

Have you ever experienced this kind of "writer identity crisis?" If not, what does your self-doubt look like? What self-talk messages feel like they sabotage you? Please do share your story in the comments!

About Jenny

By day, Jenny Hansen provides brand storytelling, LinkedIn coaching, and copywriting for accountants and financial services firms. By night, she writes humor, memoir, women’s fiction, and short stories. After 20+ years as a corporate trainer, she’s delighted to sit down while she works.

Find Jenny here at Writers In the Storm, or online on Facebook or Instagram.

Top photo purchased from Depositphotos.

How Games, Affirmations, and Playful Rituals Can Bring Your Writing Back to Life

By Sarah (Sally) Hamer

Writers often talk about creativity as if it’s a fickle creature — something that wanders off without warning, returns on its own schedule, and refuses to be summoned. But what if creativity isn’t fickle at all? What if it’s simply asleep, waiting for you to tap it gently on the shoulder?

Over the past few years, I’ve watched writers of every genre — novelists, memoirists, poets, fanfiction writers, beginners, veterans — struggle with the same quiet ache: I want to write, but I can’t seem to access the part of me that used to feel alive.

The truth is, creativity doesn’t disappear.
It gets buried under pressure, perfectionism, exhaustion, and the thousand tiny responsibilities that nibble at a writer’s day.

But it can be awakened.

And one of the most powerful ways to do that is through play.

Not childish play.
Not frivolous play.
But psychologically smart, writer‑centered play — the kind that bypasses the inner critic, lowers the stakes, and reintroduces joy into the writing process.

In my work with writers, especially through my Creating Creativity seminar, I’ve seen how games, affirmations, and small creative rituals can reignite imagination faster than any lecture on craft. Today, I want to share some of those tools with you — tools you can use right now, at your desk, without needing a full day or a fantasy world (though I won’t lie… a fantasy world helps). For the upcoming seminar, we've chosen dragons as our thematic partners. We may use pirates, or unicorns, or even angels in the next ones.

1. Use Games to Disrupt Your Creative Patterns

Writers tend to fall into familiar grooves — the same story beats, the same character arcs, the same emotional rhythms. These grooves aren’t bad; they’re signs of mastery. But when you’re stuck, those grooves can become ruts.

Games shake the snow globe.

Here are four disruption games you can try today:

• Reverse the hero/villain — Give your “bad guy” a heroic trait. Switch up the hero(ine) and find a trait that, even if it’s not horrible, that will shake up the story. Doesn’t mean those characters don’t still play the same role in the story, it just means that they have more depth to pull from.
• Reverse the Emotional Tone — Take a scene you’ve written and flip its emotional temperature. Make the sad scene funny. Make the romantic scene tense. Make the quiet scene chaotic. You’ll discover new layers you didn’t know were there.
• The Curiosity Auction — Set a timer for two minutes and list as many questions as you can about your story. Don’t answer them. Just auction them off to yourself and see which one sparks the most energy.
• The Object Drop — Grab a random object from your desk (a pen, a receipt, a paperclip) and force it into your story world. How does it change the scene? What does it reveal about your characters?

These games work because they interrupt the brain’s autopilot mode.

They remind your imagination that it has options.

And when writers feel like they have options, they feel free again.

2. Create a Physical Affirmation Deck for Your Writing Life

Writers are often told to “believe in themselves,” but belief is a muscle — and muscles need repetition.

Affirmations aren’t magic spells.

They’re interruptions — gentle, consistent reminders that counteract the stories your inner critic tells you.

A physical card deck makes those reminders tangible.

Here’s how to make your own:

1. Grab 10–20 index cards or small pieces of cardstock.
2. Choose affirmations that feel like invitations, not demands.
3. Add a symbol, color, or small doodle that feels meaningful.
4. Keep the deck on your desk and pull a card before each writing session.

If you want affirmations that are writer‑friendly, emotionally intelligent, and not saccharine, here are a few from the deck we create in the seminar:

• My creativity is a living system. I don’t have to force it — I can feed it.
• I am allowed to write badly on the way to writing well.
• Curiosity is enough.
• I don’t need permission to take up creative space.
• My stories are allowed to grow at the pace of my nervous system.
• I can return to my writing without apology.
• I am not behind. I am beginning again.

The goal isn’t to “fix” your mindset.

The goal is to support it — the way a trellis supports a growing vine.

3. Build Micro‑Rituals That Signal Safety to Your Creative Brain

Creativity thrives in safety, not pressure.

Small rituals — tiny, repeatable actions — tell your nervous system, You’re safe. You can open up now.

Some of my favorites:

• The 60‑Second Sensory Reset — Close your eyes and name one thing you can hear, one thing you can smell, one thing you can feel. This grounds you instantly.
• The Threshold Ritual — Before writing, place your hand on your notebook or keyboard and say (silently or aloud): I’m entering my creative space now. It sounds simple, but it works.
• The Dragon Breath — Inhale for four counts, exhale for six. Imagine you’re exhaling smoke or even fire, if there’s something you’d like to burn. It’s playful, grounding, and surprisingly effective.

These rituals aren’t about productivity.

They’re about permission — giving yourself a moment to transition from the world’s demands to your own imagination.

4. Map Your Creative Journey Like a Story

Writers understand story structure better than anyone.

So why not use it on yourself?

One of the most transformative exercises we’ll discuss in the seminar is the Flight Path Map — a visual map of your creative life that includes:

• your storms (blocks)
• your thermals (inspiration)
• your mountains (challenges)
• your hidden valleys (secret ideas)
• your destination (creative calling)

When writers map their journey, something shifts.

They stop seeing themselves as “behind” and start seeing themselves as in progress.

And progress is a much kinder place to stand.

5. Externalize Your Inner Critic Through Play

Every writer has an inner critic.

Most writers try to silence it.

But what if, instead, you gave it a role?

In the Creating Creativity seminar, we use a full Dragon Courtroom — complete with Judge Curiosity, Prosecutor Perfectionism, Defense Counsel Imagination, and a jury of dragons — to help writers externalize their internal conflicts.

You don’t need a full courtroom to try this.

You just need a pen.

Write a short dialogue between:

• your Inner Critic
• your Inner Imagination

Let them argue.
Let them call witnesses.
Let them make their case.

You’ll be surprised by how quickly the tension dissolves when the conflict is moved out of your head and onto the page.

6. Let Play Be the Doorway Back to Yourself

Writers often think they need discipline to return to the page.

But discipline without joy becomes punishment.

Play is the doorway back to yourself.

Play is what reminds you:

• why you started writing
• what you love about story
• what your imagination feels like when it’s awake
• that creativity is not a test — it’s a relationship

When you treat creativity as a living system instead of a performance metric, everything softens.

Everything opens.

And writing becomes possible again.

I will choose two writers who comment and give a "golden ticket" to my upcoming Creating Creativity seminar on May 15^th and 16^th, if you comment with, “I want a golden ticket!”

What makes your creativity shine? What do you do to wake it up?

About Sarah “Sally” Hamer

Sarah Sally Hamer has a B.S. in Psychology (which only makes her dangerous) and an MLA in history and philosophy. She is a multi‑award‑winning author who has taught creative and nonfiction writing at LSUS for over twenty years. She writes for two of the top one‑hundred writing blogs in the world, teaches online for three academies, and has been a long‑time columnist for The Best of Times senior magazine. She speaks nationally on writing, history, and philosophy, and believes wholeheartedly that every human being is an amazing story waiting to be told. She can be reached at sally@mindpotential.org.

Featured image from

By Jenn Windrow

As a developmental editor, I read a lot of manuscripts across different genres and at very different stages of revision. Some are early drafts still finding their footing. Others are polished and nearly ready for submission. But no matter where they are in the process, there’s a moment where I can usually tell whether a story is going to struggle.

• Not because the prose is weak.
• Not because the worldbuilding is thin.
• Not because the romance lacks chemistry.

It’s almost always the midpoint.

The story hasn’t imploded. It hasn’t derailed. It just…flattens. Scenes continue. Characters react. Events unfold. But momentum stalls. When the second act of the book feels long, repetitive, or strangely heavy, the problem is rarely pacing.

It’s direction.

What the Midpoint Is Supposed to Do

Writers often treat the midpoint as a twist or a dramatic reveal. Sometimes it is. A secret is uncovered, a betrayal is exposed, or a relationship shifts in a way the characters can’t ignore.

But those moments are not what make the midpoint work.

Structurally, the midpoint is a hinge.

A strong midpoint does three things:

1. It shifts the protagonist from reactive to proactive.
2. It creates stakes that cannot be undone.
3. It reframes the story question.

Reactive to proactive.
In the first half of a novel, your protagonist is responding to disruption. They’re gathering information. Testing the problem. Surviving.

At the midpoint, that changes. They stop reacting to the plot and start driving it.

If they’re still scrambling after the midpoint, the second half will sag.

Irreversible stakes.
A line is crossed. A truth is uncovered. A cost is paid. Something changes that cannot be erased without breaking the story.

If you can remove your midpoint event and the second half still works, it isn’t doing enough.

Reframed story question.

Before the midpoint:

• Can she win?
• Can they resist?
• Can he stop the threat?

After the midpoint:

• What will she sacrifice?
• What happens when resistance fails?
• What if the threat is closer than expected?

The story deepens. The stakes are more dangerous, more extreme, more terrifying. It doesn’t just continue.

The Three Most Common Midpoint Failures

After years of developmental edits, I see the same issues on repeat. A great reveal, an amazing twist, but the main character doesn’t react, they move on as if nothing has happened.

1. The Cosmetic Twist

Something dramatic happens. A betrayal. A kiss. A shocking reveal.

But remove it, and the plot unfolds exactly the same way.

Diagnostic question:
Would your protagonist make different decisions if this moment never occurred?

If not, it’s decorative. Not structural.

2. The Reveal That Changes Nothing

A secret is exposed. The villain is unmasked. A backstory comes to light. Your protagonist now knows more. Their world is shaken, tilted, and may never be the same again.

But do they act differently?

New information should require a new strategy. If your character keeps pursuing the same plan, your story hasn’t shifted. It has paused.

Diagnostic question:
Does this truth force a new approach?

3. The Emotional Spike Without a Power Shift

This one is common in romance and fantasy. Something wonderful happens on the page, but it doesn’t change the trajectory of the story.

• There’s a passionate kiss
• A devastating fight
• A magical victory
• A crushing loss.

But the power dynamic remains unchanged.

Ask yourself:

Who holds control before the midpoint?
Who holds control after?

If the answer is the same, you’ve added intensity, not progression. Intensity is not direction.

The 5-Question Midpoint Test

If Act Two feels unstable, pull out a notebook and answer these on paper:

1. What does my protagonist believe the goal is before the midpoint?
2. What new truth reshapes that goal?
3. What decision do they make because of that truth?
4. What becomes impossible after this moment?
5. Does the second half escalate from this shift, or repeat earlier beats?

If you cannot answer these clearly, your hinge is weak. If the second half could exist without your midpoint event, you’ve found the structural gap.

Why Writers Miss This

We hesitate to escalate too soon. We think the real shift belongs at the climax. We get attached to the original premise and resist complicating it. Or we mistake tension for direction. The scenes are dramatic. The stakes feel high. But if the story isn’t turning, it’s spinning.

The midpoint is not where you raise the volume. It’s where you change direction. It is were you mess with your character, shake their world apart, and then send them spinning into oblivion to figure it all out.

If second half feels long, don’t start trimming random scenes. Don’t blame your prose.

Fix the hinge.

When the midpoint works, the second half stops wandering and starts accelerating toward the inevitable end. That’s when readers stop feeling like they’re reading a story. And start feeling pulled through one.

If you removed the midpoint from your novel, would the second half of the story change? I would love to hear about it in the comments.

About Jenn Windrow

Jenn Windrow once attempted to write a “normal” book—and promptly bored herself into a coma. So now she sticks to what she does best: writing snarky, kick-butt heroines, broody supernatural men, and more sexual tension than a vampire in a blood bank.

She’s the award-winning author of the Alexis Black novels and the Redeeming Cupid series, where the undead never sparkle and the drama is always delicious. Jenn moonlights as a developmental editor, helping other writers wrangle their wild plots and tangle-free prose.

When not arguing with her characters or muttering about Oxford commas, she can be found binge-watching trash TV, wrangling the slew of animals that live in her house (husband and teenagers included), or telling herself she’ll only have one more cookie.

You can find her at jennwindrow.com or lurking on social media where she pretends to be an extrovert.

Photo by Oliver Roos on Unsplash