Lately I’ve been feeling that quiet tug to start over–especially since last week when talking about my own novel. 

And it’s not actually a dramatic urge. Not where I hit the delete button and scrape all the character growth and personalities and begin with a blank slate, more thought-out plan. 

No it’s just a steady thump behind my ears.

Maybe restarting is the best thing.

It comes up when I think about my novel. 

When I reread what’s sitting there, trying to find the right direction to go. 

When I remember how it felt when I first started writing and comparing it to how it currently looks. 

Starting over sounds simple and clean. 

It can almost be interpreted as control. 

Like wiping everything clean and doing it “right” would fix everything. 

But I can’t bring myself to do it. 

Like if I restart it almost feels… over. 

Like everything I wrote before never belongs or never had a place. 

Like the version of my story–despite its incomplete status–was forcefully closed. 

And honestly I don’t think I’m mentally or emotionally prepared to do that. 

Not yet. 

So instead of restarting I’ve been letting it sit. 

I haven’t been forcing myself to write.

Haven’t tried forcing myself to outline.

Haven’t tried forcing myself to “fix” the current version. 

I’ve been letting it sit. 

Honestly at first I felt uncomfortable and uneasy. Like I was doing something wrong.

Like avoiding working on something that should’ve taken top priority. 

Like if I didn’t latch onto whatever idea was flooding my mind, I’d lose the connection to my story. 

But the more I took a step back, the less it felt like avoidance and started feeling more like a healthy pause. 

Still, there are times when the characters spring back into the front of my mind. 

Not in the full sense of completely structured ideas or scenes–just small moments. 

The way someone might react or say something in that moment. 

A reaction that truely feels like them rather than the forced emotions of what I’ve recently written. 

And those thought feel different.

They’re not forced. 

They’re not corrected.

They’re more real–like they did in the beginning. 

I can’t tell you if this is just a part of my process or something to just buy time.

I can’t even tell you–or even myself if I’ll eventually restart the novel, or if I’ll slip back into what I’ve already written.

Right now, I’m choosing not to decide that. 

I think learning that not everything needs action.

Some moments just need space to decompress. 

To sit in a space where something feels off, without rushing to fix it. 

To understand the feeling behind it. 

So for now, restarting isn’t decided. 

I’m not rewriting. 

I’m not forcing the story into a tiny box.

I’m just letting my story exist the way it is, all while figuring out if there’s still a feeling of mine underneath it all. 

Maybe that’s all I need for now. 

More soon, 

Quill.