When Stories Quietly Change Us

The moments that change a writer are rarely the ones anyone else sees.

They don't happen on release day, or when the first copy arrives in the mail. They happen quietly, usually somewhere you weren't expecting them to.

I hadn't set out to write Still Here. I'd set out to write something just for myself, something to put a feeling somewhere it could finally rest. It sat unfinished for a long time. Then, this spring, something shifted, and the story stopped feeling like something I was inventing and started feeling like something I was simply paying close enough attention to finally get right.

That's the part I don't think writers talk about enough. Not the craft, not the deadlines, not the version of the process that fits neatly into a panel discussion. The quieter part. The moment a story stops waiting for your instructions and starts leading instead, and you have to decide whether you trust it enough to follow.

I used to believe a story needed a fixed destination before I was allowed to begin. Still Here taught me otherwise. I built the world, I shaped the people in it, I chose every word on the page, and somewhere in the middle of doing that, the story surprised me first, before it ever had the chance to surprise anyone else.

Every novel leaves something behind with me. This one left more than most; a little more patience, and a little more courage.

Every book has two endings. The one printed on the page, and the quieter one the writer carries afterward, long after everyone else has closed the cover.

Still Here isn't finished yet, it's still in the final stages, and is coming soon. But I already know it's given me its quieter ending. I hope, before long, it gets the chance to give you yours too.

Until next time, may you always find beauty in the quiet places where stories begin.

Warmly,
Sheridan Laine