This spring, I had the chance to lead workshops at four awesome writing conferences on writing place—the relationship between the places we (or our characters) live and visit, and our own inner landscape.
In each workshop, we spent time noticing small details, paying attention to embodiment, and exploring how place can deepen and enliven our writing.
What stayed with me most, though, was the conversations that followed.
The same themes seemed to surface—in workshop discussions, emails, and Substack comments. Here are three things that stuck:
Again and again, writers told me they made breakthroughs in their writing by starting small—just like we had in the workshop.
We don’t have to, and maybe shouldn’t, wait for the perfect starting point, the perfect scene, the perfect ending. Some of the most magical and creative writing emerges when we don’t try to think our way into meaning.
When people began with something concrete, we begin to build. One piece leads to another. Meaning begins to emerge.
Writing doesn’t always start with a big idea. It starts with paying attention and allowing the big idea to show up later. (I wrote about this here)
One of the simplest things we practiced in these workshops was noticing concrete details—sensations and details and the smallness of everything around us and inside of us.
When writers pause long enough to pay attention—to texture of the tablecloth, the sounds outside the window, a flutter in their chest, the humidity in the air—their writing became more vivid almost immediately. Specific and grounded.
It’s easy, especially when we’re busy, to move through the day quickly and carry that same pace into our writing. But if we can trade productivity for curiosity, our writing will bloom.
Sometimes the doorway into a piece of writing is smaller than we expect. (I wrote about this here)
One of my favorite moments in both workshops came after people had written for a few minutes and started sharing.
Sometimes the most helpful thing isn’t more advice about writing. It’s the presence of other writers. (I wrote more about community here)
Writing is often solitary, but it doesn’t have to be lonely. It is powerful to be in a room with other people who are trying to do the same strange and difficult thing: write.
Since these conferences, I’ve found myself wondering: How do we create more opportunities for that kind of attention and connection outside of conferences? How do we create more spaces where we can slow down, pay attention, and connect outside of conferences?
I’d love to experiment with a few possibilities. That might look like:
short online writing sessions
shared prompts or noticing practices
small workshops on writing and attention
If that sounds interesting, reply to this email or leave a comment. I’d genuinely love to hear what kinds of writing spaces would feel most helpful to you right now.
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