Drafts, Doubts, and the Deep End
Summer 2025, here we come!
I hope this note finds you well. It’s been a while since I’ve written, I know. But here I am, reaching out anyway.
So, where have I been?
Before I explain, I’d like to give a note to the formatting of this newsletter. I have no idea what this will look like when it reaches your inbox. I am using the Substack app instead of the website to write this post. So apologies if it looks like a huge block of text. I will do better next time.
Well—life. Life got overwhelming. Every time I thought about writing to you, another wave of more would hit, and I had to choose: write about the overwhelm or just try to move through it. I chose to move through it. I needed space to manage the heaviness without adding pressure to chronicle it in real-time.
And also—I’ve been writing. A lot, actually.
You’re probably thinking, Wait, I thought you were working on a short story collection? You’re right, I am! But I’m also working on my next poetry collection. I’ll tell you more about that in a moment. But first, I want to share a moment that reminded me why I write in the first place.
A Room Full of Praise
Let’s talk about Praise Song for the People and this awesome event. We gathered at Imprint on a beautiful, miraculous Sunday—and it was a packed house. Honestly, I was surprised.
Now, I tend to sit either right at the front or off to the side during events because sitting with the audience can make me a little nervous. That day, I found a little enclave tucked around the corner—close enough to see the readers and snap photos, but hidden enough that I couldn’t see the crowd.
So when it was finally my turn and I turned that corner toward the mic—bam. A full house. I was not going to lie to you, I was a little scared. Not because I didn’t think I could do the reading—I knew I could—but because so many people had turned up for the poetry. And every poet before me had been so good.
I felt imposter syndrome bubble up, and it’s been a while since I felt that during a reading. It wasn’t that I thought I didn’t belong, but more that I started questioning whether this particular version of me belonged in this particular room. That’s a vulnerable place to be.
But I’ll tell you this: the energy was nothing but love. It was warm. It was welcoming. It felt like celebration. It felt like family. And that’s exactly the audience you want when reading something so personal.
I read my poem—a praise song for the woman who helped my mother during her cancer journey—and I also read a couple of new pieces from my upcoming collection. The reception was encouraging. Validating. It whispered to me: yes, keep going.
The Two Projects Carrying Me
Let’s talk about the poetry collection and the novella.
What’s interesting about the poetry collection this time around is that it’s moving quickly. The ideas are coming fast and furious. I’ll start tinkering with a poem, and before I can settle in, another idea pops up. So I’ve had to learn how to draft quickly—write the thing, set it aside, go on to the next. Then, after a couple of weeks, I double back to those early drafts and get to work revising.
That didn’t happen with the first collection. But honestly, I kind of like it this way. It means I don’t get to linger as long in the initial creation, but I do get to spend time with the revision and shaping—and maybe that’s exactly where my energy should be.
There is a motif that’s starting to emerge in this collection, and I don’t want to give it away just yet. But I promise I’ll talk about it soon. I’ve also been experimenting with form—something I didn’t do much of in the first collection.
I’ve been working on a villanelle, which is currently kicking my butt. It’s such a strict form—repetition, rhyme, structure—and that limitation forces me to be more creative. How do I say this in fewer words? Is this the right syllable? Can I condense this line without losing its meaning?
It’s hard, but it’s beautiful.
I’m also attempting a blues poem, and let me tell you—that form is a nightmare in the best way. There’s the traditional version, then the modern version, and both still carry rules. The tension between form and feeling has been stretching me in new ways.
And you know what? I think that’s the point. All the shades of what I want to say—grief, memory, care, joy—they’re coming together like puzzle pieces. Together, they’re building a larger portrait. All the fragments forming something whole. I may be butchering the saying, but you get the idea.
Now, the novella.
It’s going well. Messy, but well. I’ve taken a pause on it for now, but I’m still living inside the world of the story. Still hearing the characters. Still adjusting the arc in my head.
I’ve been following the Murakami method: write three pages a day, take a break, revise later. I love that rhythm. I don’t have Murakami’s time or silence (ha!), but I do have a dog, a day job, and a fire in my chest—and that’ll do.
I see the ending now. That’s new. And I see the places where the story wants to stretch and sing. This summer, I’ll get back to it. And I think when I do, I’ll meet it from a stronger place.
Finding My Center (Again)
My routine, a book, a pen, Post-Its, and coffee in the backyard
Let’s talk about this.
Losing your center looks like waking up one day and realizing you’re not even sure why you’re doing what you’re doing. You’re going through the motions. You’re making the meetings, sending the emails, showing up—but that still, quiet voice in your chest keeps asking: Is this really it?
Is this what I want to do with my one and only precious life?
And I know myself well enough to know that when that question shows up, it’s time to change something.
Friends, all I’ve ever really wanted to be—consistently—is a writer. I know a lot of things. I’ve done a lot of things. Enough to do pretty well on Jeopardy or give someone a run for their money in a trivia game. But is that how I want to spend my time here on Earth?
No. I want to write.
I’ve wanted to write since the moment I realized it was even possible to do so. So I had to shift—not just my schedule, but my thinking. I had to admit that some of the things I used to call dumb or frivolous weren’t dumb at all—they were signs. They were showing me who I was and what I needed to reclaim.
And the real question was whether those things I’d been doing still aligned with my purpose. If they didn’t, I needed to act accordingly.
I’ll probably write about this more in another post—it deserves its own deep dive. But I can say this: one of the tools that’s helping me find my center again is my morning ritual.
Every morning, I wake up, grab a cup of coffee, step outside, and ground myself. I journal. I talk to my curator (you know who you are). I check in with myself before I check in with the world.
On the days I don’t do this, the day feels off. Rushed. Like I’m chasing something instead of moving with intention. So I keep returning to the ritual, because it keeps returning me to myself.
Summer Intentions
I’ve officially dubbed this summer Poolcation Summer. That means I plan to spend as many days as possible near water—poolside, maybe beachside, maybe just standing in a kiddie pool with Cafecito barking at a bird. Joy doesn’t have to be complicated.
I do have a few professional projects: I’m co-writing a textbook, doing research for a teaching initiative, and getting ready for the fall semester. But I’m also making time for the things that make me feel whole: poetry, storytelling, naps, hikes, music, quiet.
The goals:
• Work on the poetry collection
• Finish a solid draft of the novella
• Find stillness, often
• Laugh with friends
• Eat fruit outside
• Write, even on days I don’t feel like a writer
So what about you? How’s your writing going? What are you hoping for this summer? What’s one small way you’re planning to return to yourself? I’d love to hear from you. Truly. If you feel like sharing, reply here or drop a comment. I read every one.
With gratitude and a hopeful heart,
Icess