I have been quiet these past weeks. Not out of avoidance, but because something inside me was rearranging itself. I began my second manuscript two months ago, but I set it aside when I realised the sound of it wasn’t true. The words were coming from my hands, but not from my core. It was as if a different melody was playing inside me – one I couldn’t yet translate onto the page.

And then, without warning, it arrived.

The idea burst open in my mind like a small firework – bright, gorgeous, impossible to ignore. Suddenly the rhythm was clear, the voice unmistakable, and the words spilled out faster than my fingers could keep up. It felt exquisite.

Moments like this remind me that creativity has its own seasons, its own hidden clocks. Nothing can be forced. I am not behind or slow or doing anything wrong. I am exactly where I am meant to be. The work waits patiently until I am aligned enough to receive it. And when the moment comes, it rushes in – whole, alive, and ready to be written.