The air is electric.

You’re lit up from the conversation. Words are cascading out of you, your mind’s chockers, and your friend’s face says you’re onto something.

You didn’t know how strongly you felt about this. But it’s undeniable. You’re pumped.

The cafe owner’s wondering how long you guys are planning to stick around. It looks like you’ve settled in for the duration, but she’d like to close up shop.

No problem, because you can’t wait to get home, open your laptop, and get your thoughts down. You have something so good to share with your tribe. They’re going to love it.

But an hour later, after hitting the soccer run traffic, when you do sit down, it’s gone. The flow’s not there. The words don’t come out right. You’ve lost the spark.

That familiar question is back: what did I want to say again?

What happened here?

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Shrinking at a screen

Reframe.

You don’t have a writing problem. You have a visibility problem.

It’s why you can talk about your work or your passion for hours. You’re clear, compelling, and your friends nod to each other about your insights. People lean in. They ask questions. They say you should write about this.

But then you sit down to write it... and something shifts.

The clarity’s gone. The words are flat. You read it back and think: that’s not it. That’s not what I meant at all.

So you conclude you’re not a good writer.

But here’s what I think is actually happening.

The hidden struggle

You’re not struggling to write. You’re struggling to be seen.

Those are two completely different problems — and they need separate solutions.

A writing problem is technical. Sentence structure. Clarity. Flow. Those things can be learned, and honestly? Most women I work with don’t have those problems. Their writing is perfectly fine.

What they have is a visibility problem.

Which means: a fear of taking up space. Especially on social media.

A habit of hedging. A tendency to qualify everything until the original idea is buried under a pile of maybe, and in my opinion, and I could be wrong but.

It’s writing around the thing you actually want to say, rather than saying it.

Publishing something and immediately feeling exposed — not because the writing was bad, but because it was real.

The unseen gatekeeper

I’ve watched brilliant women spend months trying to fix their words when their writing was never the problem.

The sentences were fine. The thinking was strong. What was missing was permission.

Permission to take a position. To speak with the authority they’d earned. To say the thing clearly and let it land — without apologising for it in advance.

To ignore the gatekeeper.

That’s not a writing skill. That’s a visibility skill.

And it changes everything about how you approach the page.

So if you’ve been circling a piece for weeks... if you keep rewriting the same paragraph and it never feels right... if you know you have something important to say but can’t quite get it out —

Stop asking yourself, How do I write this better?

Start asking, What am I afraid to say directly?

The answer to that question is usually the thunder in the post.

What’s the thing you keep almost writing? I’d love to know.

If you want to get clear about who you write for and what you uniquely bring to them, download my free One-Page Audience and Offer Clarity Map here.

One-Page Audience and Offer Clarity Map

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Why do the words in your “About” section that feel most inclusive—that you’d think open the most doors—actually close them all?

Here’s what’s happening: You’ve spent decades building expertise. You know your stuff backwards. You can see patterns others miss. You solve problems in your sleep. And deliver transformations your clients rave about. But when you try to describe what you do online, it comes out sounding like... everyone else.

“I help women live their best lives.” “I empower professionals to find balance.” “I support people in discovering their purpose.”

Generic. Forgettable. Invisible.

And more importantly: what do you say instead when every fibre of your being resists “niching down”?

By the end of this post, you’ll understand why vague positioning isn’t kind—it’s commercial suicide. And you’ll know how to get specific without feeling like you’re abandoning everyone else who needs you.

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The Logic That’s Lying to You

I see this pattern a lot with accomplished women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. They come to writing coaching with decades of real expertise. They’ve run therapy practices, earned coaching certifications, have consulting experience, and nailed leadership roles. They know their work has value.

But when I ask them who they serve, it gets vague:

“Well, I work with people who are going through transitions... career changes, relationship shifts, life reinvention. Really, anyone who’s feeling stuck and wants to move forward. I help them find a path and take action toward their goals.”

It sounds reasonable because they’ve helped hundreds of people with lots of different problems.

But here’s the fear underneath: If I get too specific, I’ll exclude people who need me. I’ll miss opportunities. I’ll limit my income.

The logic feels airtight. But it’s backwards.

What Happens When You’re Vague

Let me paint you a picture of what vague positioning looks like from your ideal client’s perspective.

She’s scrolling LinkedIn during her lunch break. She’s a 52-year-old former marketing VP who took a buyout and is trying to launch a consulting practice. She’s terrified. She’s been “successful” her whole career but has no idea how to sell herself. The corporate playbook doesn’t work when you ARE the product.

She sees your post about “helping professional women navigate change with confidence.”

Does she stop scrolling?

No. Because she doesn’t see herself. She sees... everyone. Which means no one.

Two posts later, she sees this: “I help former executives build consulting practices that don’t feel like selling your soul.”

She stops cold. She sends a DM. She signs up for a lead magnet. She joins a program.

Not because that person is a better coach than you. But because that person spoke to a specific woman with a specific problem at a specific moment of need.

Your vague positioning didn’t protect you from missing an opportunity. It guaranteed you’d miss it.

The Counterintuitive Truth About Specificity

Now, you’re probably thinking: “But I CAN help that woman. And I can help the 30-year-old changing careers. And the retiree starting a nonprofit. Why should I exclude any of them?”

Here’s the thing about specificity: It’s not about who you CAN help. It’s about who you’re KNOWN for helping.

Let’s talk about why this matters.

When you position yourself broadly, you’re competing with everyone. Every life coach/therapist/consultant who “helps people with transitions.”

You’re a small wave in an ocean of sameness.

When you position yourself specifically, you create a category of one. You become the obvious choice for a particular person with a particular problem. You’re not better than everyone—you’re the only one speaking directly to her.

Take the former marketing VP. When she sees 'I help women navigate change,' she scrolls past. When she sees the other message, she stops cold. Same coach. Same expertise. Different positioning. One gets the client.

Specificity doesn’t limit your opportunities. It creates them.

Because what actually happens: When you’re known for solving one specific problem, three things occur:

1. The right people find you faster. They’re not wading through generic promises wondering if you’re right for them. They know right away.

2. Other people refer to you more. “You need to talk to Sarah” is much easier to say than “You need to talk to Sarah, she helps with... well, lots of things, I’m not exactly sure if this is her thing but maybe?”

3. You charge more and deliver better. When you solve the same problem repeatedly, you get really good at it. You develop frameworks. You spot patterns. You know what works. Your clients get better results, which justifies premium pricing.

How to Get Specific Without Abandoning Your Soul

Okay, let’s get practical. How do you actually create specific positioning that feels true?

Start with the Client, Not the Service

Stop describing what you DO. Start describing who you SERVE and what changes for them.

Instead of: “I’m a leadership coach helping professionals develop their potential.”
Try: “I help women CTOs stop second-guessing themselves in rooms full of men.”

See the difference? The first could apply to thousands of coaches. The second creates instant recognition for one specific woman.

Layer Your Specificity

You don’t need to pick just one dimension. Stack them.

• WHO: Former corporate women (demographic)

• DOING WHAT: Starting consulting practices (situation)

• STRUGGLING WITH: How to sell without feeling gross (specific pain point)

• WANTING: Six-figure income doing meaningful work (desired outcome)

Positioned: “I help former corporate women build six-figure consulting practices without sales tactics that make them shudder.”

That’s not excluding everyone else. It’s creating a beacon for someone specific.

Test It With the “She Thinks You Read Her Mind” Standard

You know your positioning is specific enough when your ideal client reads it and thinks: “How did she know?”

Not: “Oh, that’s interesting.”
Not: “I should probably work on that someday.”
But: “Wait a minute, is she reading my diary?”

That level of recognition only comes from specificity.

Use Their Actual Words

Generic positioning uses professional language. Specific positioning uses client language.

Last month, a client told me: 'I feel like a fraud every time I try to sell my services.' She didn’t say, 'I need to work on my mindset around sales.' The raw version is always better.

Use her words. Name the 2 am thoughts she’s too embarrassed to say out loud. The ones she confessed to you when you spoke on the clarity call. That’s positioning that lands.

Stack Your Credibility

Here’s the part no one tells you: Specificity gives you permission to use your actual experience.

When you’re positioned broadly, your decades of expertise become generic credentials. When you’re positioned specifically, they become proof you’re the right person for THIS.

Generic: “I have 20 years of experience in organizational development”
Specific: “I spent 20 years watching smart women get passed over for leadership because they couldn’t learn to brag. Now I teach them how.”

See how specificity transforms credentials from resume-speak into relevant authority?

What This Means for Your Business (And Your Sanity)

A client last year struggled to write for peers. Why? Because she was drawn to write for her younger self, the shy beginner. Once she zeroed in on her, the words flowed.

Here’s what changes when you get specific:

Your writing gets easier. When you don’t try to speak to everyone, you stop writing in careful, hedged language.

Your offers become obvious. When you know exactly who you serve and what they need, you stop agonizing over what to create.

Your energy stops leaking. You’re not chasing every opportunity, wondering if it’s “your person.” You know. You can say no without FOMO.

Your people find you. Not through complicated funnels, but through the simple recognition of “Oh my god, she gets it.”

But here’s the deeper shift: Specific positioning is an act of generosity, not exclusion.

When you try to help everyone, you help no one particularly well. Your writing stays surface-level. Your offers stay generic. Your clients get okay results.

When you commit to serving someone specific, you go deep. You develop real expertise in solving their actual problem. You create frameworks that work. You get transformational results. That specific person gets genuinely helped.

And the secret? Once you’re known for solving one problem well, the other opportunities don’t disappear. They come to you as referrals, as expanded offerings, as natural next steps. But they come because you’re known for something, not because you’re trying to be everything.

Your Positioning Isn’t a Limitation—It’s Your Launchpad

Your decades of expertise are ready. Your ability to help is proven. The only thing keeping you invisible is the belief that being specific is risky.

It’s not. Staying vague is.

So here’s your assignment: Write one sentence that makes your ideal client think you’re psychic. Use her actual 2 am words. Stack who she is, what she’s doing, what she’s struggling with, and what she wants instead.

Test it by sending it to three people who know your work. If they say ‘that’s interesting,’ you’re still too vague. If they say ‘wow, I know exactly who needs this,’ you’ve got it.

Now go get specific.

Dust is stirring. Annie’s worried about her asthma kicking in.

Boxes everywhere, and oh boy, the books. That old stale smell of stuff left too long ignored.

And this award. It’s heavy, not only with weight. Memories, pride, the ceremony and speeches. The smile inside that she’d been seen.

But now it’s just part of the clutter and burden of decision-making.

The charm’s left. She doesn’t need to revisit this glory.

So she acts quickly. It’s now settled in the giveaway box.

One less thing to hold on to.

But what she’s doing in that dusty attic? That’s not just decluttering. That’s something deeper.

A bigger story about retirement

Clearing out the basement or attic may be something you’re leaving for retirement.

Because you expect to then have endless days for the business of letting go.

And you think that retirement is when you release things, clear out the clutter, and take time to sort and let go of stuff.

But what if retiring is not only about age or work?

What if it’s more about turning inward so we can move forward in our lives?

What if it’s key to a creative, contented life at any age?

An ancient word

I learned a lovely Sanskrit term, nivarthadvam, from my meditation teacher, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. It means turning back, retiring into the spacious Self within.

In this Vedic tradition, rather than a once-in-a-lifetime event at age 65, retiring is seen as a daily meditation practice of coming home to yourself.

You fall into a deep rest. You let the world go. Your body, heart, and mind come back revitalised.

As a creator, I find this practice of retirement non-negotiable.

Every morning before I write, I sit for 20 minutes. Eyes closed, breath settling, mind sinking. If I write first, my words feel forced. When I meditate first, the writing flows.

Creativity’s ebb and flow

It’s the tide going out and coming back.

The outward creator. Producing, engaging, expressing.

The inward one. Integrating, listening, replenishing.

Without nivarthadvam, I’m all output, no input. All giving, no receiving. And I have nothing real to say.

The inward dive is where inspiration lives, where clarity emerges, where my real voice is present. Where I feel what’s emerging from me.

And also where I see what I’m ready to leave. What’s run its course. What no longer has a role in my life.

I discover what I’ve outgrown or what was not mine to begin with.

What I’m ready to retire from.

When you shed old skins, your writing gets freer. More honest.

So let’s engage in a bit of retirement reflection with some prompts.

I designed them to help you reflect on where you’re already practising retirement, or where you might need to.

Retiring from the Old Self

Reflection prompt: Who have you been performing as?

I spent years as the person who said yes to every request. The helpful one. The accommodating one. Until one day, I was performing “nice” so well, I’d forgotten what I actually wanted.

The version of me that could say “No, thanks” without explanation? She was waiting in the wings. But I had to retire the people-pleaser first.

You could be performing a version of yourself you thought you needed to be. Which worked back then. But not now.

The costume you wore

Like a costume you put on and now peel off.

It was labelled “always available,” or “never complains,” or “doesn’t disrupt.”

But now you’re not sure you have the energy for that version of you.

And you hear a voice growing inside that wasn’t possible until you retired from that role. Because you wouldn’t have recognised yourself in her.

And no one else would have welcomed her in. Which mattered a lot to you in the past.

Retiring from Outgrown Ways of Living

Reflection prompt: What rhythms no longer fit your body?

Who doesn’t know the story of someone forced to retire early due to illness? The body kept the score and finally had its say. That time was up with the busy schedule, and change had to come.

I’ve been through a few of those cycles. You’d think I’d learn!

Are you at a pivot point where the hustle culture you once thrived in is now taking a toll? Noticing the dread that comes with seeing your packed calendar.

You sit back sometimes and ask, “When did productivity become an obsession? And who does it serve?”

You notice the difference in your body between your natural rhythm with the kids at the market on Saturday and the forced pace you adopt come Monday morning.

What energy patterns say

What is your energy pattern trying to tell you?

It’s like putting on those old sneakers that no longer fit. Your life feels as pinched as your toes.

It takes real courage to admit, “This isn’t working for me anymore.” To face what that means and the changes that follow.

Retiring from Old Thoughts and Feelings

Reflection prompt: What beliefs are you still carrying that don’t belong to you?

I held a belief for years that I had to earn the right to be heard. That my voice only mattered if I had credentials, accolades, proof.

But who told me that? Where did it come from? And why am I still believing it?

We have these blindspots that trip us up. False stories we’ve told ourselves. About what we need to do to be accepted, supported, and valued.

Beliefs about what success looks like. How failure feels. How exactly the sky will fall in on our heads when we post that story, quit that lame job, and try out tango classes.

An armour of fear

We’ve built an armour of fear long ago. But the drawbridge is down, the moat’s dried up, the castle’s empty. There is no enemy, but we feel imprisoned!

We ask where these feelings came from and why they are sticking with us.

We wonder what it would feel like to instead use that anger to create something. And to let joy run through us again.

To retire from needing to feel a certain harried, irritable way.

To let down this heavy baggage of emotion and stale ways of thinking about ourselves and the world, and choose a lighter way of being.

Retiring from Others’ Goals

Reflection prompt: Whose finish line have you been running toward?

You can get to 99% and feel glad you did well, but that’s about it. No exultation. No heart-searing delight.

This was me at age 15 with my math score. I could make the grade and get a stellar report, leaving the teacher and my parents proud. But not me, as reaching it was never an obsessive goal.

Luckily, I retired from following that particular goal early, choosing a degree in arts, not science, and never regretting the harder (for me) path.

And today, if my small Substack post or unfinished watercolour painting pleases me, I do feel I’ve made it. On my own path with my own reward on my own terms.

Whose expectations

The expectations? From parents, teachers, and the whole professional art world? Yeah, I stopped running that race. Sorry, not sorry.

How about checking in every now and again with whether the accolades and milestones that you’re pursuing mean more to you or someone else. Stop mid-race, catch your breath, look around, and check you’re still on the right track to a finish line that means something to you.

Because there’s a strange relief in admitting: “I never actually wanted this.”

Bonus prompt: What goals would you choose if no one were watching and approval didn’t matter?

Retiring Into Clarity

The gift of these retirements:

Each letting go creates space—this is nivarthadvam in action.

Who you actually are now finds a space to flourish.

Not who you were, not who you’ll become—who you are in this moment, sitting quietly, hearing the flow of your own breath.

This is where your real contribution lives. Not in the costume, the pace, the borrowed beliefs, the external goals.

But in the wisdom you’ve accumulated, the voice that emerges when performance ends.

One final reflection: What are you ready to retire from? What’s waiting in that space?

I’m still learning this practice. Still catching myself running towards finishing lines that aren’t mine. still noticing when I’m performing instead of just being.

But each time I retire something — a belief, a pace, a costume —I feel lighter. More like myself. More spacious.

Maybe that’s what retirement really is. A return to what was always there. A coming home.

Annie’s walking out of that dusty room now, the box is brimming, ready for new owners to claim.

Her heart is the most spacious she’s felt in years.

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For decades, I haven’t started my new year with goals, resolutions, or a hangover. I’ve taken a week of silence.

After the 9 pm New Year’s Eve fireworks ( I love the kids’ version), I fall asleep and wake up to do whatever I want, except speak out loud.

The quiet New Year’s Day. People sleeping in, kids on the streets, still thrilled with their Christmas toys. Shops shut. A few enthusiastic joggers getting in their steps.

I enjoy it, but I breathe a sigh of relief that for the next few days, I don’t need to interact. Don’t need to engage, respond, listen, or connect with speech.

I’m alone, but connected fully back to myself in a way I rarely feel.

Silence can seem terrifying

You may have had a different experience of silence.

The confronting one, when you’re with other people.

You tell a joke, and no one laughs. You open up about something vulnerable, and the room falls quiet. You’re with new people, and no one knows where to start.

Silence, surrounded by other people, seems odd, because you expect conversation.

Or, alone, silence on the outside can make you restless inside.

The jumble of thoughts in your head sounds louder, and you want to run. To a screen, a friend, a game. Anything to distract your mind.

So why would you intentionally choose silence?

I get it. The first time I tried being in silence, I thought I wouldn’t last a day. What would I do to fill the time? What would come up inside? Wouldn’t I get bored?

But after seven days, I wished it would go on longer.

When I asked around at the retreat, I discovered that those of us who love to talk enjoy silence the most.

What happens when I stop talking

I now take this new year time to be silent alone. I let family and friends know, and turn my phone off. I fill the fridge and clear the calendar.

In the first couple of days, I feel the familiar inclination to achieve something start to drip off me. No to-do list makes sense here. I don’t feel like moving any needle at the moment. I’m ready to settle in. To see what happens.

As I go about my day, I feel myself both relaxing and becoming more awake.

I feel my breath slowing. I notice my appetite building. There’s more ease in my body. Yet I’m aware of the same old little twinges here and there.

I also feel more acutely when my energy is draining. This signals time to sit, read a book, pick up a drawing pencil, or take a nap (rare for me).

I’m alert to these inner rhythms that I usually miss.

Being home alone, enjoying a quiet day without speaking to anyone, isn’t unusual for me. But this feels different.

This won’t be just a few hours, but a few days in a row. Free from interruptions. No phone. Or laptop. No digital distractions. No speech.

No interaction with anyone.

So I prepare to sink deeper into myself as the days go by.

It’s a physical feeling, this dropping deeper.

The silence gets louder

By day three, something shifts.

The noise inside has died right down. Not all at once, but gradually, like sediment settling in water.

I notice I’m not planning any more. Not mentally drafting emails or rehearsing conversations. The constant internal monologue - the one I didn’t even know was running - goes quieter.

What’s left is just... presence.

And instead of my vocal chords, my senses do the talking.

It surprises me how lively, melodious, and engaging my world is. I hear the sparrows chatter and flit around the ferns. I watch the sunlight travel across the succulents in the morning. I savour a delectable lunch and linger a while after.

Reading or listening to anything while I eat feels like sensory overload.

My body is telling me things I usually talk over. That I have what I need. That all is well. That slowing down feeds me.

I know I can return to this quiet place whenever I need to, because it’s inside me. It’s my true home.

Like a ripple fanning out on a pond, I’m connected and yet quiet. I’m flowing, but also still.

I’m tiny, and also vast.

What the silence teaches me

On day four, I realise I’ve been rushing through conversations, sometimes half-listening while planning what I need to do next. The silence shows me how much I miss when I’m not fully present.

On day five, I notice which thoughts keep recurring. Not the urgent ones about work or obligations, but deeper questions: What feels meaningful? How do I want to spend my time? Who lifts me up, and who drains me?

On day six, I understand something about my creative work. The best ideas don’t come from forcing or hustling. They come from this - from spaciousness, from allowing, from trusting the quiet.

These aren’t the kind of insights you get from a goal-setting workshop or a productivity app. They’re quieter than that. More foundational.

A kind of knowingness that lingers, rather than flashes by.

That’s stationed in a deep, quiet place inside me that doesn’t want to be ignored.

Re-entry to speech

After a week, I’m ready to lose my hermit mode. I’m looking forward to the first conversation, even if it’s in the supermarket line. And reconnecting with friends and family and chatting about what they’re all up to. I want to communicate again.

What’ll be different now is that I’ll notice more the silence between sentences. And I’ll value the time between conversations. I’ll relish the gaps in my everyday when I can hear what the steady quietness inside and my senses want to tell me.

The week didn't give me a five-year plan or a list of resolutions. It gave me something better - a recalibration. A return to what matters.

I know the regular practice of silence isn’t for everyone. Demands of work, or toddlers, or psychic wounds interfere. Any of these could make the whole idea unattractive or practically impossible.

But I share my experience as a counterattack to what our digital culture commands. To goal-setting and optimization. To pushing through. To constant noise and connection.

Take silence in whatever form is possible for you. A quiet evening alone with a book, a silent Saturday run without earbuds, a digital-detox weekend. Intentional silence may be the soothing balm your heart and mind long for.

For me, it’s a way to begin the year by listening instead of declaring.

The practice of subtraction rather than addition.

The wisdom of quiet and openness as a starting place.

This morning, for me, that beginning was watching the moon set over the water, the subtle mix of salmon and pale grey colours, and not a soul in sight.

P.S. I’m opening up my Women’s Writing Circle again next week. If you’re looking for clarity, confidence, and connection to start the year, and are ready to think out loud with a small group of fellow female writers, reply to this email.

Not on my list yet? You can email me directly at jeanette@wordsworthsharing.me or subscribe so you can reply privately next time.

Don’t bother writing about something that bores you - the boredom will bleed into your work.

Remember those assigned school essays? The forced sentences. The chore-like process. The lifeless result.

Now compare that to describing something you love:

You can barely shut up, the words sing, you lose track of time, words appear effortlessly, and you lean toward superlatives

That’s the power of writing in alignment with your values.

Watch and learn when you can’t shut up

For example, I could talk about creativity, curiosity, art, writing, and expression till the cows plod back into the barn. When these topics come up in a group conversation, I’m quickly edging my way over to join in.

At a recent lunch party, my friend Anne started discussing her latest reads. She’s the one who encouraged me to visit the free Adelaide Writers’ Week (which I’ve obsessively attended ever since).

She asked, “Have you read Where the Birds Call Her Name and The Island of Missing Trees?” When I answer no, her face shows the bliss she felt reading it, along with the joy that I’m in for. Plus an ever so slight envy that the experience of discovering that book is now behind her.

I immediately put both books on hold at my library. And feel surprising urgency for the “Your book is available” message to arrive soon.

Yes, those conversation starters, “Have you seen the latest art exhibition at the state gallery?” or “How did you find the watercolour workshop?” or “Booked in for the National Theatre Live movie?” are the entry to my happy place.

Because when creativity comes up, I can’t help myself. Energy flows through me that won’t be tamed. My brain’s on fire, and I’m fuelled up to chat. When the conversation’s over, I’m energised, not drained. I feel plugged in.

This is why friends will say that I’m talkative (which surprises me because I consider myself quiet!) And why one friend caught my eye across the party room that day with that knowing smile. The one that says, There she goes again.

What’s the irresistible topic for you? Cricket, Persian food, skydiving, solo travel? And what genre fills your bookshelves or podcast feed?

Obsession drives success

If the topic you’re obsessed with matches your work, you’re in luck. You’ll be an asset at work or succeed wildly in your business as the founder. Because your heart, mind, and daily contribution are aligned.

I recognize this fire in other people immediately. Like when I recently signed up for online art classes.

The teacher, Gabbi, is warm, inclusive, encouraging, and talented. But what draws me in most is the curiosity in her voice as she explains why she’s adding this colour here, and now covering it up with this mark. She’s sharing her practice as she goes and is lost in a state of flow.

You see an inner voice guiding her, and her willingness to pivot. She fully trusts her intuition. Her assuredness, along with a delicious sense of freedom, encourages us to take chances, too. She gives us permission to be ourselves and find our way.

When she turns to the camera, her face is full of light and joy. It’s clear she loves what she does and wants to share the experience with us. She’s obsessed, in the healthiest way. And she’s honey to a bee, for her students.

My abstract painting above is what flowed out of me in her class.

Readers want to be warmed at your fire

You know that infectious energy you feel when an entrepreneur, actor, artist, or author describes their work and life sizzles through them?

That’s the magnetism we want in our words.

I felt it this morning when asked to journal my Song of the Self (inspired by Walt Whitman’s) in 10 minutes. Words poured out—the leaf I was looking at, the dust of India, the faces of friends—details from decades ago zoomed in.

When I read it aloud to the group, I felt right back in that time. And those listening went quiet afterwards. Then complimented me on the narrative, the rhythm, and found the writing “lovely, profound.”

What I loved was the bodily feeling of being true to myself. Sunk into the earth. Solid.

I knew again why Whitman’s words have survived for 170 years. They tap into his rapture of being alive and transmit it to us today.

He doesn’t write about well-being. His words take us there.

That’s what happens when you write from obsession instead of obligation. Readers don’t just understand your point - they feel your fire.

Like:

• The karaoke singer who wins us over with their courage and chutzpah

• The Christmas pageant kid who’s off-key but adorable

• The old rockstar who keeps touring because he’s still got the spark

Your words connect you to your readers. And readers are listening to see if your values match theirs. They need to know you’re worth reading and someone they want to get to know.

So write what you care about and play that unfair advantage of being your one brilliant self.

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“Can you make it sound more professional?”

That’s what a client once asked me after I simplified the language in her draft post.

She didn’t mean “more professional,” of course.
She meant more sophisticated.

Because somehow we learned that complex language equals intelligence. And that clarity, somehow, cheapens expertise.

But the longer I’ve worked with professionals, the clearer it’s become.

Simplicity isn’t dumbing it down. It’s lifting it up.

It’s the highest form of respect you can offer your audience.

And yourself.

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The performance trap

I used to be fluent in jargon.

I could write, “We continuously apply an integrated combination of our signature strengths to create lasting, significant personal transformation” without blinking.

It sounded good. It also meant very little to the man in the street.

But in professional spaces, that kind of language often feels aligned.
It signals we belong. It hides our uncertainty.

Like others, I believed that the more abstract my language, the more legitimate I sounded.

But what it did was build a wall, one word at a time, between me and the people I wanted to reach.

And it’s not only me. I see it every day in client bios, LinkedIn headlines, and academic-speak articles.

We write for approval, not for understanding.

We perform professionalism.

But clarity isn’t unprofessional. It’s powerful.

Because it says:

“I respect you enough not to waste your time.”

Simplicity as service

We tend to forget this, but clarity is an act of generosity.

When you make something easy to understand, you’re saying:

“I care enough to take the time to make this accessible.”

That’s what great teachers do.
It’s what trusted advisors do.
It’s what true leaders do.

They don’t talk down to people — they light up the path.

And it’s not only word choice. It’s emotional clarity as well.

When your message is simple, people feel safe and at ease.
They know what you do and how you can help them.

They don’t have to decode it or second-guess it. They don’t have to ask the “stupid question” to clarify it.

And in a world full of noise, that kind of simplicity stands out like a cool breeze after tropical rain.

One of my clients said, “I feel like now people understand me.” All we had done was remove the filler.

No rebrand. No 12-step strategy. Just clean, honest communication.

The myth of “dumbing it down”

Part of the problem is ego.

Some of us — especially those with long careers — can secretly fear being seen as “too simple.”

We’ve worked hard to master our craft. We’ve earned our credentials, our language, our nuance.

So when we simplify, it can feel like erasing part of that. But simplification doesn’t erase depth. It reveals it.

Think about the line widely attributed to Einstein:

“If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.”

How many boring lecturers need to take that on board?

Simplicity is the sign of mastery, not mediocrity.

We don’t need to strip away meaning. We need to distil it.

Saying something complex so that anyone can grasp it gives your expertise real-world power.

A story about clarity (and courage)

Last year, I worked with a first-time author named Lynn. Twenty years of experience with teens. And a deep desire to help them navigate the landmines of living in the 21st century.

We talked about what teens struggle with, what help looks like for them, and how they’d feel reading her book.

I asked whether her teen audience were training as psychologists because she’d included words like “social anxiety disorder” and “selective mutism” in her original book draft. We agreed that only their therapists use these abstract labels to define them.

When teens talk to each other, they say, “I freeze up with other people,” and “I can answer questions in my head but not out loud.” When she switched to the words that teens use, her book came alive. And her teen readers saw themselves in it and became her fans.

Because clarity isn’t clever. It’s connecting.

The inner work of simplification

Simplicity sounds easy, but it isn’t.

It asks us to be brutally honest about what matters. To let go of filler, of performance, of pretence.

And that’s vulnerable.

Because complexity can be a kind of armour.

When we hide behind big words, we don’t have to risk being misunderstood.

But when we speak simply, we stand naked in our clarity. And that’s how trust builds.

Every time you make your message simpler, you also make it more you.

How to simplify without shrinking

If you’re ready to make your message clearer, your headline, offer, or how you describe what you do, try this exercise:

1️⃣ Ask a friend outside your field to read your bio or pitch.
Can they tell who you help and how? If not, simplify until they can.

2️⃣ Replace every abstract word with a concrete one.
“Solutions” → “results.”
“Leverage” → “use.”
“Optimize” → “improve.”

3️⃣ Focus on results, not roles.
Instead of “I provide executive coaching,” try “I help leaders make better decisions faster.”

4️⃣ Say it out loud.
If it sounds like something you’d never say in a real conversation, rewrite it.

5️⃣ Ask the real question:
Does this sentence invite connection or create distance?

Clarity connects. Complexity separates.

Simplicity honours time

What I’ve learned after working with high-achieving professionals?
The more successful people become, the more they crave simplicity.

Not because they’ve lost their edge — but because they’ve learned that time matters most.

When you communicate clearly, you honour your audience’s time — and your own.

You say, “I value you enough to be direct.”
You say, “I respect myself enough to be understood.”

And that’s rare.

In a culture that rewards noise, clarity makes a mark.

Closing reflection

Simplicity isn’t about making yourself smaller.
It’s about making your impact larger.

When your message is clear, you don’t have to shout.
People lean in naturally — because they feel seen.

So the next time you’re tempted to add more words, more jargon, more layers,
remember this. Every word between you and your audience is a tiny act of distance.

And every word you remove is a gesture of respect.

Call to Action:

If this resonates, take ten minutes this week to read your own “About” section. Or your LinkedIn summary or homepage.

Then ask yourself the hardest, simplest question:

“Would a stranger instantly know who I help and how?”

If not, start there.

Clarity isn’t just good communication.
It’s leadership.

I’m sitting in the back corner of the coffee shop, watching a woman stare at her laptop screen like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. She’s been typing and deleting the same sentence for ten minutes, and I recognize that look. It’s the face of someone who used to write fearlessly as a child, filling notebooks with stories and poems, until someone told her to “be more realistic” or “focus on practical things.”

This is the story I hear over and over from my female writer friends. Women who loved creating stories when they were young. Who poured their hearts onto journal pages without pausing. Until teachers or parents or well-meaning adults convinced them their writing “wasn’t that good” or they should “rein it in.”

So they did. For years. Sometimes decades.

Here’s what I know about that woman at the laptop: the blank page isn’t her real problem. It’s the voices in her head—the old feedback that taught her to question whether her stories matter, whether she has the “right” to take up space with her words.

But where you place yourself dictates what you see—and I don’t mean the coffee shop. What matters is who you surround yourself with. What doubts you allow into your head. What kind of feedback you trust about your writing.

The same woman with the same stories burning inside her finds freedom in a supportive community. It all depends on the voices she chooses to listen to.

I’ve watched too many of us carry stories that could help others—stories about parenting, resilience, reinvention, hard choices—and we keep them locked away because we’ve convinced ourselves we don’t have the “right” or “right words” to tell them.

These don’t need to be dark stories or about sharing trauma. The stories are often full of hope, skill, and vitality. But whatever the stories, we need each other to create a sense of belonging. So we’re ready to take the risk of valuing our own voices. Especially when others haven’t.

Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity, as Brené Brown reminds us. When women gather to write, we’re not just sharing stories—we’re honoring each other. We’re inviting creativity. We’re welcoming each other to be brave enough to be seen, to tell the truth, to risk being imperfect on the page.

What Happens When Women Start Writing

There’s this moment that happens in every writing circle, usually around week three. We feel safe with each other. The politeness mask slips and the real voice emerges.

From writing perfectly pleasant pieces about gardening and self-care, we move to less safe stories. We show up with something different. Our hands shake slightly as we talk about a pivotal moment of self-discovery—sitting in a car, gathering courage, taking the step that would change everything.

The room goes quiet. Electric quiet. The kind that happens when truth enters the space.

“I’ve never told that story out loud,” we whisper. “I didn’t even know I wanted to write it until it was there on the page.”

Years of being “nice,” of smoothing edges and softening truths, evaporate. We discover that our real voices—the ones that have been waiting patiently—are far more compelling than we imagined.

Truth-telling captivates you. Once you write one honest sentence, you open a door you didn’t know was closed. Stories that only you can tell start to demand attention. The story about being the only woman in the room. The story about choosing yourself over others’ expectations. The story about failure that led to everything good.

From “I don’t have anything interesting to write about” to bubbling over with stories. The transformation happens when women stop apologizing for their experiences and start claiming them as stories worth telling.

The Magic of Community

Writing alone in your journal versus writing in community is the difference between having a conversation with yourself and being truly heard.

When women gather in a circle, something shifts. Shared vulnerability creates bonds that go deeper than typical friendships. There’s something about reading your work aloud, voice slightly trembling, and having other women nod in recognition.

The feedback isn’t harsh critique. It’s women saying, “Yes, I felt that too,” and “Can you go even deeper here?” It’s feedback that helps you find your voice rather than change it to please others.

When a younger writer reads about anxiety, an older woman offers insights about how that feeling evolved for her over time. When someone shares their immigrant experience, it opens conversations about belonging. Our own writing becomes better informed and inspired.

The accountability is gentle but real. When someone asks about that piece you mentioned last week, you write it. When the group celebrates everyone’s small wins, you want something to share too.

Women get excited when they finally share their first post online. When they finish a difficult piece. When they decide on the name of their publication. These victories, witnessed and celebrated, build confidence that extends far beyond writing.

Where You Place Yourself Changes Everything

Back to the woman in the coffee shop, afraid to claim she’s a real writer.

When writers find supportive community, they let go of saying they’re “not really writers.” They start identifying as writers who also happen to be academics, coaches, mothers, gardeners, or business owners. Small shift. Enormous difference.

Where you place yourself—the community you choose, the questions you entertain, the feedback you seek—determines your view.

If you surround yourself with voices saying, “Who are you to write about that?” you’ll see all the reasons you can’t. If you place yourself among people asking, “What truth are you here to tell?” you’ll see possibilities everywhere.

Women in supportive writing communities don’t just transform their writing—they start showing up differently in their lives. They speak up in meetings. They pitch bigger ideas. They set boundaries. They take up space.

Writing changes us because it requires us to listen to ourselves, to value our own thoughts enough to record and share them, to believe our perspectives matter. These aren’t just writing skills—they’re life skills.

The Stories Are Waiting

Your stories are already there, waiting. The one about the decision that changed everything. The one about the time you surprised yourself with your own strength. The one about what you learned when everything fell apart.

They’re not waiting for you to become a “real writer.” They’re not waiting for you to have more time or the perfect laptop or a cabin in the woods.

They’re waiting for you to sit down, place yourself in the “My Voice Matters” chair, and begin.

The world needs your stories. Not someday—now. Your unique perspective, your hard-won wisdom, your particular way of seeing the world—we’re all waiting for it.

The question isn’t whether you have something worth writing about. The question is: are you ready to claim your place at the table and start telling it?

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A few years ago, I would've been in awe and a little nervous. The way I’d feel going to a snooty cocktail party. All designer clothes and precarious heels.

But these days, I'm excited and curious when I step into a gallery or an artist’s studio. It’s a party where I can be myself and speak from my heart.

Because I share the passion for being creative.

Last month saw me lapping up a lot of art.

The settings differed:

• A major gallery with famous international works. Lauded exhibition. Paid entry. Frames are heavy. Artists are long gone.

• A local state annual exhibition. Free to all. Across the city, often in the artist’s home. Artists are there to chat.

In both settings, there are beautiful works, full of colour, mystery, and light. The audiences drink them in. And the spirit of play, of curiosity, of excitement is thick in the air.

But the added joy of being with the living artists is that I’m free to probe. To learn.

I ask questions:

• Why do you do this?

• What inspires you?

• How much patience does it need?

• Do you know what you’re doing when you start?

And they speak to me, assuming I’m an artist too. They explain their technique. They’re eager to share. They love bringing others into their worlds.

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One is drawing a child’s face with exquisite detail. Trained in a classical realism tradition. She started art later in life. Her engagement is infectious.

Another has flown whisper-like silk clouds at the water’s edge and photographed them. They have deep symbolic meaning for her family and honour indigenous women from the past. She tells a painful story, but the art is transcendental.

Another is a famous older artist, who, even here with the public milling around him, is working on something new. His warm handshake welcomes me.

As we leave, I notice how calm and contented I feel.

I breathe deeply. I walk taller. My mind is brimming with ideas, colours, shapes, textures, and possibilities.

I’m a part of this creative world. Not an observer. I share their energy.

What lingers with me for days afterwards is their excitement and vitality. They’ve tapped into a vein of life that feeds them. They gain more life by doing this.

It’s what creative expression can do. Engage you better with the lifestream flowing within you.

My Creative Class of Artists Over 50

This year, I joined art classes for folks over 50. I wanted to be part of a community, rather than painting from home.

Each week, I experience the same joy, loss of time, and lightness of being when we amateurs gather to paint.

There’s trepidation but zero pretension.

Just focus and play.

Dirty fingers, paint splotches, quiet chatter.

Sometimes silence for an hour.

A few have taken classes for several years now.

Others are new, tentative, self-critical, and doubting. But letting go of a lot each week.

All are encouraging and, in my book, courageous.

All are artists.

And sometimes the art we produce takes my breath away. It’s exhibition-worthy.
And does get shown and sold.

But even more inspiring is the energy and enthusiasm in the air. The sense of a group of people feeling alive together.

Like those first few days at school as five-year-olds.

So many possibilities, new worlds to enter. New books, new materials.

Curiosity. Challenge. Growth.

Permission to experiment.

It’s this feeling we share that’s the true art.

My Writing Circle: Where Fears Go to Die

The same energy transformation happens in our writing group.

We meet each week online to share our work, get feedback, and support each other.

The main joy: showing up and being seen.

It’s a quiet, safe space. So secrets and shame and fears get heard. And lose their power over us.

Self-doubt dissolves through encouragement. Tentative voices become strong and clear. Forgotten dreams are dusted off and pursued.

Our true voices may have been long buried, but come back to life here. And the powerful words start to emerge. Decades of life experience pour onto the page.

Stories full of hope and promise.

Small sketches of daily life.

Brave revelations.

Curious forays.

Big leaps of faith and vulnerability.

Excitement builds for what lies ahead.

Like artists, we writers go through periods of doubt, experiment, challenge and delight. And we feel ourselves transform.

The group holds us. And we take the next step boldly.

This doesn’t feel like aging.

The Age-Defying Power of Creative Passion

Creative energy doesn't age—it regenerates. And there’s no time limit on it.

And passion for anything fills you with life. No matter how many years you’ve stacked up till now.

Creative challenges keep your mind sharp and your spirit strong, according to research. Each time we try something new, we encourage new neural connections to grow.

As psychiatrist Norman Doidge said in “The Brain that Changes Itself,

We must be learning if we are to feel fully alive, and when life, or love, becomes too predictable and it seems like there is little left to learn, we become restless—a protest, perhaps, of the plastic brain when it can no longer perform its essential task…

When young and growing, we’re constantly learning and adapting. This doesn’t have to stop at any age.

Youth sparkles in the eyes of my artist friends. Creative conversations make me come alive. My brain cells are possibly growing!

And when creative people discuss their work, I feel a kinship with them. Even if they lived centuries ago, it’s a common language. I nod along to the words that I would use myself today.

What I’ve learned

Creative possibilities are open to us all.

Age has little to do with it.

The creative medium has little to do with it.

You could be a sculptor, a musician, a chef, a gardener or a writer.

What matters is the absorption and flow you experience. And the delight it brings.

Here’s what I know:

• You already belong in a creative space.

• A beginner's enthusiasm is as valuable as expert technique.

• Art is about expression, not perfection. Every master was once a beginner.

• Your unique perspective matters precisely because it's yours.

• Ordinary people create extraordinary things.

• Accomplished creatives struggle with doubt just like you.

• Creativity is a practice, not a destination.

• Courage is contagious in creative groups.

• Shared struggles normalize the creative journey.

The Invitation: Step into the Creative Light

From feeling like an impostor to feeling like you belong. This transformation is open to you when you step into a creative community.

You don't need permission to be creative. It’s your nature, even if it was squashed or questioned earlier in your life.

Here, your age is an asset, not an obstacle. You have less to lose now.

Creative energy is renewable and contagious.

Community accelerates both learning and healing. It moves us from isolation to connection.

It's never too late to feel young again through creative passion.

The challenge: Where will you find your creative tribe? What gallery will you visit? What writing circle will you join? What artist studio will remind you that creativity isn't about age—it's about being alive?

The artist in that studio didn't ask my age before showing me her latest painting.

The writers in my circle don't preface their work with apologies about starting late.

They're too busy creating, too alive with possibility, too young in spirit to worry about the number of candles on their last birthday cake.

That energy is waiting for you too.

I posted a note the other day about women over 50 lifting each other up …

And more than 1500 of you hit “like.”

Not because it was clever.
But because it was true.

Something’s shifting.
We’re not disappearing.
We’re creating. Starting again. Taking up space. Writing our stories instead of staying silent.

And most of all—we’re doing it together.

I’ve heard from so many of you who want to:

• write more consistently

• be seen and supported

• find your readers online, not just your doubts

• be part of a circle of kindred spirits, not just another course

• get kind but honest feedback

So I’ve been dreaming…

What if a small circle of us came together regularly?

Not a big course. Not a noisy group.
Just 10–12 women, writing side by side, building something that lasts.

A private space to write, be real, be read, and rise.

I’ll be your guide—offering support, prompts, Substack know-how, feedback, and visibility.

But the power will come from the circle itself.

👉 If that already calls to you, fill out this short interest form

You don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to feel the tug.

Introducing the details…

The Words Worth Sharing Circle
A sacred writing circle for women over 50 who are over being silent.

You’ve lived. You’ve learned. Now it’s time to write.

What’s included

• Initial 30 minute Zoom call this week with me to discuss your needs and get to know you

• Weekly 90-minute live Zoom gatherings (6 total)

  (Gentle writing prompts, deep reflection, and live writing time)

• Support with sharing your work on Substack or beyond

• Feedback in a safe, small group of 10–12 women

• A private space to grow your voice and be witnessed

• Visibility opportunities through guest posting/interviews on Words Worth Sharing newsletter

• Real connection. Real stories. Real momentum.

• Starting date August 10.

Why now?

Because we women over 50 are starting something new.
We’re writing our next chapter. Together.

This isn’t a course. It’s a creative catalyst.
A place to finally get the support you need.
So you can fully show up and be seen.

How to join

We’re keeping it small. Just 10–12 women, eager to move ahead.
To apply, fill out a short form. I’ll read every answer personally and invite those who are the right fit for this round.

Apply NOW

(Investment will be $295 for 6 weeks. Payment plans available.)

Still on the fence?
Email me directly if you have a question or want to chat: jembliss@gmail.com

Ever said to yourself, “But I don’t have any good stories…”?

Yeah. Me too.

But I’m calling that out.

As did someone at my recent writing workshop when she started recognising the stories in her life.

Because I’d guess you’ve had a moment today that’s the seed for a powerful, funny, moving, or thought-provoking story.

And I bet you didn’t value, let alone catch it (which is not your fault).

The problem is that we don’t understand storytelling.

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We think stories have to be big, dramatic, perfectly wrapped in meaning like a TED Talk.

But the truth is that the best stories start small. They whisper rather than shout.

• They’re in the way the barista looked harried, but still had energy for a smile.

• In your neighbour’s Bengal cat, who escaped from her cage and came flying into your yard.

• In the protest you went to today, where the politician didn’t show (in case of protest).

The seeds of good stories are everywhere. You just need to start noticing them.

You are a storyteller. You’ve just been out of practice.

Maybe you haven’t written anything since high school. Maybe you’re used to writing memos and reports, not reflections. Maybe you’ve been taught your life has to be impressive to be shared.

Nope.

That’s the myth that shuts people up. It says: “Unless it’s huge and emotional and life-changing, don’t bother, we’re not interested.”

Let’s flip that.

A story isn’t a novel. It’s a short scene.

Pay attention as you watch a good sitcom. You’ll see how a writer creates small stories from very ordinary moments.

The everyday is the material.

If you can tell a friend about the man curled up on the train seat, who’d stayed over to mind the grandchildren, and how it turned into a lovely moment with strangers smiling at each other… you’ve already told a story.

You don’t need perfect prose. You need presence. Curiosity.

And a simple system to catch the gold when it appears.

That’s what you need to build.

Here are the three simple steps to start.

Step 1: Switch on your ‘Noticer’ mode

Writers are observers. Noticers. Eavesdroppers (the generous kind).

Here’s how to start spotting story sparks in your day:

• Pay attention to sensory micro-moments. A glance, a phrase, a smell, a sudden burst of laughter or tears.

• Tune into conflict or contrast. Did someone react in a way you didn’t expect? Did something go right after going very wrong?

• Watch for strong feelings. If something made you smile, cringe, ache, or rage, it’s a story trigger.

• Look for tiny transformations. Did you see something differently after a short interaction or reflection?

Your story muscles grow with practice.

The world becomes more vivid when you’re open to that moment that’ll breathe life into a post.

Step 2: Keep a ‘Story Seeds’ stash

Don’t trust your memory. It’s a slippery thing, right?

Instead, catch story ideas the moment they show up.

Try one of these:

• Use the Notes app on your phone. Make a folder called “Story Seeds.”

• Carry a tiny notebook in your bag or pocket. Old-school and magical.

• Voice record a quick thought while walking your dog or doing the dishes.

Write down the thing exactly as you noticed it, not how you think you should write it. “Lady at health food store dropped her kefir and swore like a pirate—everyone laughed.” Perfect.

You don’t need to write the full story yet. Just plant the seed.

Step 3: Shape it into a short post

You’ve spotted a story. You’ve jotted a note.

Now what?

Here’s a ridiculously simple structure to turn it into a short Substack post (or Note or journal entry):

1. Start with the scene
Open in the middle of the action. What did you see/hear/feel?

“The magpie was waiting for me. Same spot as yesterday. Same glare. Same bird.”

2. Add meaning or a twist
Why did this moment stay with you? What thought or memory did it spark?

“It made me think about how we underestimate the power of routine. This bird shows up more consistently than most people. Apparently they recognize who belongs in their territory too.”

3. End with a nudge or reflection
Turn it toward your reader. Make them feel something. Ask a question.

“What if we stopped chasing ‘more interesting’ lives and started appreciating the steady, small ones we already live?”

Done.

Real examples from my week (yes, just this week):

• New to South Australia, I’ve mostly taken trips during the brown, dry summer, but this week I saw the brilliant, green growth on red soil that comes after rain. Nature keeps surprising me.

• Seaside breakfast with friends and an Antarctic wind blowing. She had brought an extra beanie, plus the cafe offered blankets. Thoughtful humans.

• A neighbour told me about a nearby mudslide where a friend slipped at night and another neighbour carried her to the ambulance. Good people surround me.

Nothing epic. But when written with care, these moments connect us.

That’s the essence of storytelling. Noticing, capturing, sharing.

Here’s your challenge:

For the next three days, jot down three story seeds per day.
You don’t even have to turn them into posts yet.

Just practice noticing. And create a habit of capturing and reflecting.

Because you don’t need to invent drama. You don’t need to train as a professional writer.

You don’t need to wait until you “have something to say.”

You and your life are the story.

Now share it.

I could’ve easily spent $200 on "better" brushes and paint, thinking they'd make me a better painter.

But I would have been wrong.

Beware the Expensive Brush Mistake

I'm standing in the art supply store dreaming of making beautiful art. The salesperson is showing me these gorgeous sable watercolour brushes.

"Professional quality," she says. "The difference is night and day."

I consider buying the whole set.

But I remember that I have brushes that artist friends and family gave me, gathering dust at home.

So I start with them.

Because I’m not yet anywhere near “professional.”

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Fellow artists warn me about how expensive art materials can be. And I see their extraordinary work done with beautiful old brushes they’ve used for decades.

And I decide to take it slow. And learn enough to deserve such elegant tools.

Because, starting to paint at 60, the problem wasn't my tools. It was my complete lack of skill.

And now I’m grateful. I painted more with my cheap brushes than I ever would have with the expensive ones.

Because I wasn't afraid to pick them up.

Tools Don't Make the Artist (Or Writer)

This obsession with perfect tools isn't unique to painting, of course. Writers have it as well.

We convince ourselves we need the right software, the perfect notebook, total silence, or the right fountain pen.

Scrivener or Google Docs? Laptop or library? Standing desk or cozy couch corner? We spend hours researching instead of writing.

But think about Maya Angelou. She wrote many of her books on yellow legal pads in cheap hotel rooms. She'd strip the walls bare of artwork and mirrors, bring a bottle of sherry, a thesaurus, a Bible, poetry books, ballpoint pens, and a dictionary, and get to work.

The perfect setup was just her and the page. That was it, every day.

The truth is brutal: your tools are probably fine. Your excuses are the problem.

The Parallel to Writing Software

I’ve been there with my fellow writers, switching between apps like we're changing clothes. Trying out Notion, then Docs, then Roam, or whatever the latest online guru is suggesting this week.

Each switch comes with the same promise. "This will finally make me productive."

But it won't.

The app doesn't write the words. You do. The notebook doesn't generate ideas. Your brain does. That expensive ergonomic keyboard doesn't create compelling paragraphs. Your imagination does.

Stephen King wrote on a borrowed typewriter in the laundry room of his double-wide trailer. Did that stop him from writing? Doesn’t seem to have.

What Actually Matters: Showing Up Consistently

Here's what the art supply store taught me. Consistency beats perfection every time.

I learned more about painting in three months with a $5 brush than I did in a year of obsessing over the perfect paper and brushes.

The magic happened when I stopped preparing to paint and started experimenting more and watching what happened.

Same with writing. You find that delicious flow state when you stop preparing to write and start writing.

Your first draft will suck. Your hundredth draft might suck too. But somewhere between draft one and draft one hundred, you'll learn something the expensive tools can't teach you.

How to do the work.

As writer Steven Pressfield said:

“Don’t think. Act. We can always revise and revisit once we’ve acted. But we can accomplish nothing until we act.”

The Freedom of Working with What You Have

There's something liberating about constraints. When you can't blame your tools, you have to focus on your craft.

Start with whatever’s around your house. Or what you pick up in an op shop.

Write in the Notes app on your phone. Scribble in a 99-cent notebook. Use whatever computer you have.

The constraint forces creativity.

I know writers who produce thousands of words daily on ancient laptops. I know others who write on their phones during commutes.

They're not held back by their tools. The joy of creating itself frees them.

The Unconventional Advice

Stop shopping for solutions.

Instead of buying that new app, write for 15 minutes. Instead of researching the perfect desk setup, clear a corner somewhere in your home.

One of my favourite artists, Clarice Beckett, considered by some to be “an international master of modernism,” and “one of Australia's leading artists of the early twentieth century,” painted on the family kitchen table. And walked for hours on cold and dark Melbourne mornings along the beachfront, dragging her cart of easel and paints, to catch the morning light.

Instead of waiting for the right moment, start now.

The art supply store taught me that the best tool is the one you actually use.

An exercise book is better than Scrivener if you actually write in it. A napkin is better than a Moleskine if you fill it with your ideas.

The Real Secret

Here's what they don't tell you in the art supply store. Professional artists don't use expensive tools because they're good. They're good because they started with whatever tools they had and worked up to deserve quality implements. And know how to use them well.

The expensive brushes didn't make me a better painter. Painting made me a better painter. The cheap brushes that forced me to adapt, to learn, to keep going despite imperfection—those were the real teachers.

Your writing tools are fine. But your excuses aren’t.

(Believe me, I’m talking to myself here as well.)

Now, how about you stop reading about writing and go write something?

And if you’re ready to level up your writing and want actionable ideas and practical advice, join our community as a paid annual subscriber while it’s 20% off only until July 9.
Use this link: https://www.posts.wordsworthsharing.me/40990891

Americans know how to celebrate!
Having lived in the USA for 20 years, I know what a great party the 4th of July can be. I see the picnics, laughs, and barbies (that’s Aussie for barbeque, not the doll) and families getting together in the sun. We celebrate here in the summer in a similar style.

To celebrate with you from afar, I invite you to join my paid or Fearless Founding subscribers’ community at Words Worth Sharing and enjoy a 20% discount on the annual plan if you sign up by July 9.

subscribe and save

This is for you if you’re ready to take action to:

• Own up to being a writer, despite your fear.

• Grow your skills, take a chance on yourself, and be seen.

• Claim your authentic voice and connect with your readers online.

• Enjoy sharing your decades of experience and expertise with eager readers.
  

My focus is on women over 50, but everyone’s welcome here! You may be younger but you're preparing yourself for midlife in a few years. Or you’re a guy of any age who feels at home here. All good, pull up a chair!

All paid subscribers ($52/yr) receive:

• A pdf of my book “Write Your Book At Fifty” (inspiration to become an author)

• The Soul Starter Pack of writing prompts (gentle nudges to go deeper)

• 25% discount on writing challenges and workshops (periodically throughout the year, focusing on creative freedom and practical tactics)

• Paid-subscriber-only posts that focus more on implementing the practical solution than recognising the problem (free posts).

Fearless Founding members ($147/yr) also receive:
Access to 'From Private to Public: Your Creative Emergence” course, including a 90- minute live group session at 20% discount.

After July 9, Fearless Founding will be $176/yr.

“From Private to Public: Your Creative Emergence” is a14 lesson self-paced course to overcome obstacles, discover your signature style, and set up writing systems to add momentum to your progress.

JOIN BY JULY 9th and enjoy 20% discount!

Join for 20% off here

If you’ve been quietly collecting wisdom but keeping your words to yourself, this is for you.

Because your stories are worth telling. Your observations deserve to be shared. Your insights could change someone's day or life.

Yet something holds you back from making that impact:

• The fear of not being good enough.

• The doubt about whether your words matter.

• The uncertainty of where to even begin.

I’ve been there too. And I've watched hundreds of brilliant people hesitate at this edge of expression.

It’s such a waste.

Because what happens when your words meet a reader ready for them is a kind of magic. You become a catalyst for change in them. And you grow.

It’s that simple.

And it’s why I write.

And that's why I'm creating something new for you:

“From Private to Public: Your Creative Emergence.”

It’s a gentle 2-week journey for anyone who wants to move from

1. Thinking about writing to actually writing

2. Private journaling to public sharing

3. Silent observation to meaningful connection

This isn't a shot at becoming viral or famous. It's to finally allow your words to reach the one person who needs them. And transforming from someone who appreciates other’s creativity to someone who contributes their own.

This isn’t another writing class where we nitpick over capitalisation and tense. It’s to celebrate the courage of creating, to allow imperfection, and to get feedback that helps.

What you’ll get on the way is:

• daily guidance delivered straight to your inbox

• simple 15 minute practices that build your confidence gradually

• exact templates for your first 3 notes on Substack

• step-by-step technical guidance (so simple anyone can follow it)

• a small private community of fellow writers taking the same tender steps

• one live group session where we’ll polish your words together

No big leaps required.

No tech frustrations.

Just small manageable steps from private to public.

If you’ve waited long enough to be heard, are ready to say “Hell, yeah!” to sharing your voice, join us beginning June 15 for $147 (Fearless Founding member rate).

Limited to 12 Fearless Founding members.

Subscribe now

(If you're already a paid subscriber, you'll receive full access to this course at no additional cost as my thank you for your early support. Comment “Im in!” on this post or DM in Chat. I’ll confirm your spot and add you to our list for this cohort.)

For everyone else, this is an invitation to join our first cohort at an introductory price.

P.S. If you've ever felt that writing in secret feels safe, remember safe can also mean stuck. Let your words find their way home.

You feel alone.

You doubt yourself.

You have second thoughts.

Then someone comes along and, with the simplest words and actions, tells you you’re doing okay.

You feel bolder. You keep going.

You did this for me when I had just opened this newsletter. You signed up as a paid member and gave me…

Read more

I asked my community (many aged over 50) the question:

“As a writer, where have you found AI most useful?”

The answers?

Surprising, smart, and a little bit spicy...

Thank you to everyone who commented. I appreciate knowing what you think.

And here’s the roundup 👇

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Most Loved AI Uses by Writers

Brainstorming
Need ideas? Stuck in your head? AI’s like a sparring partner for your creative block.
(“My prompts are conversations.” Yes, please.)

Outlining
From scattered ideas to structured flow. AI helps map the mess.

Title Punch-Ups
That meh headline? Becomes scroll-stopping.
("I use it to spruce up titles and get ideas for social media.")

Proofreading & Grammar
Especially for taming... the passive voice monster.
(We all have our weaknesses, don’t we?)

Quick Research Help
Market trends, reader pain points, background info. Not perfect—but fast.
("It can synthesize info in seconds." Yes!)

Language Aid
AI helps non-native speakers express ideas with clarity and confidence.

Resumes, Bios, Profiles
CV looking tired? AI gives it a glow-up. One writer even had it create a bio from scratch.

Not for Everyone

“It hallucinates.”
Some writers are wary, especially when accuracy matters.

“The energy + water use? Yikes.”
Others raise ethical concerns about sustainability.

“I can do it all myself.”
There are purists who prefer to write solo.

What’s the Vibe?

AI isn’t replacing writers—it’s helping us get stuff done faster.

Some of us treat it like an assistant.
Some treat it like a co-writer.
A few… would rather not touch it at all.

But one thing’s clear:

Writers are experimenting.
With curiosity. With boundaries.
With a healthy dose of skepticism.

Want to Try It?

Here’s a gentle dare:
Next time you're stuck on an idea, a line, or a title,
ask AI.

Try Chat-GPT. Experiment with Claude.

Not to take over.
Just to talk it out.

Treat it like a writing friend with infinite patience and energy.

Quick Poll: How are you using AI in your writing?

Choose the one that feels most true today:

• I use it for brainstorming + outlines

• Just titles, edits, and polish

• It’s my research buddy (but I fact-check!)

• I treat it like a creative co-writer

• I’ve dabbled but don’t trust it yet

• No thanks—I prefer to write solo

Leave a comment and tell me how it’s working (or not) for you.

I still remember the day I finished uni.

But I remember almost nothing of what I learned there.

Except for these four lines from a poem:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

Written by the poet and painter, William Blake, in 1803.

I know them by heart.

And they were written 222 years ago.

Why did they stick?

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An English tutor might point out:

• the rhyming lines — a classic poetry technique

• the striking metaphors

• the contrasts

Yes.

But for me, the words weren’t just well chosen. Or melodic. Or imaginative.

They were like favourite songs.

I felt them. They touched my soul. They woke me up.

They were fine-tuning forks vibrating with something hidden deep within.

Words Sneak Readers Into Other Realities

Back then, as a teenager, Blake’s words were Truth.

Alternate reality.

They described what I craved. Experience that was timeless, unbounded, deeply seeing.

They were a map to a treasure I wasn’t sure existed.

But the fact that Blake wrote about it confirmed to me that it was possible.

And inspired me to make that vision real.

Words, mostly poetry, helped on my quest.

I found a trail of breadcrumbs telling me I was on the right path.

Like these words from Aldous Huxley,

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.

And from William Wordsworth,

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

And when writing a term paper on Taoism, I got closer to seeing how to make the vision an experience.

Because Lao Tzu, in the Taoist book Tao Te Ching, spoke about what it takes to see profoundly:

Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?

These words sent a clear message about the path.

I'd have to learn patience.

I'd have to clear the mud.

That's when I knew the journey forward was beyond words. It would be a quietening, awakening, silent inner path.

Words Carry Writers Into the Future

Millions of people have lived and died since William Blake (and even more since Lao Tzu’s time).

But little remains to allow me to know them.

And I do “know” Blake.

Even though he lived in England, 11,000 miles from me. More than 200 years ago.

I know he painted (as I do), and he yearned for a way of seeing further (as I did).

Because he wrote, and his words struck enough people over the centuries to be preserved.

So today in 2025 in Australia, Blake’s here.

And I learn from the word choices he made. From the colours in his art. From the range of his creativity.

Wordsworth’s around too and, while living in a twenty-first-century sunny city, I learn from him.

I heard that his regular long rambles in the Lake District inspired his work.

As do long walks in the Aussie bush for me. And when I walk, I keep my antenna up to catch ideas, as he did as well.

Words From the Past Still Buoy Us Up

So, when I look at my crammed bookshelves now, I see living writers. People who felt, sorrowed, delighted, just like we do.

And I’m grateful to them for taking the time to reflect, to write, to create. To speak their truth.

And I honour them.

Because a creative impact that crosses years, let alone centuries, is quite a legacy.

Yes, it's worth appreciating them for the beautifully crafted wordsmithing.

But we also recognize their gifts of vision, affirmation, kinship, and hope.

Reading them eases a burden.

Creates connection.

Helps us feel seen.

And be okay with who we are.

As writer Anne Lamott says in her book, “Bird by Bird,”

Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: They feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored.

That’s a talent, to restore buoyancy in someone hundreds of years after you’ve gone.

Whose Words Awakened You?

We don’t know how long our words will hang around or even who they impact now.

With AI and cloud storage, perhaps they’ll last for millennia.

But for now, let’s share stories of words that touched you from across space and time.

That detoured your life. That made it all clear finally. That helped you through.

And who was the messenger?

A famous writer from the past you’ll never meet but who feels as close as family?

A fellow creative who recently acknowledged you?

An encouraging teacher?

A mad outlier of an uncle?

I’d love to hear your story.

Because Words Worth Sharing has, at its beating heart, this gift of connection through words.

Ugly First Drafts must have been born after I left school. Because I don’t remember ever being asked to do one.

Unless they called it “practice” back then?

But that wasn’t “real” schoolwork. You never submitted it.

You only did your best when it was an assignment, an essay, or a test.

And that pressure ruined any chance of flow.

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The Graduate Paper That Saved Me

It wasn’t until I was doing a Diploma in Education that I discovered the joy of the Ugly First Draft.

Halfway through the course. Much of the material was dry and boring.

But this essay was on the subject of reading and our emotional response to it. Right up my alley as a lifetime obsessive reader.

The teacher suggested we submit an essay written in pencil. A draft.

I don’t know if he knew what he was doing saying that. But it let pressure out of the valve. Turned the heat down. Allowed us some breathing space.

It worked for me.

I left it till the last minute. On a beautiful sunny Sunday in Sydney, there was no way I was going inside.

Then, when I finally sat down with my pencil and paper, the words fell out of me. I barely looked up for a couple of hours as I wrote six pages. I wrote it all in one go.

Then slipped it under his door on Monday morning.

A few days later, he handed it back to me, with a surprising D on the corner of the page.

Although I was used to seeing earlier letters in the alphabet, I was happy with what I’d written, so I didn’t feel gutted.

And then I turned to his final comment.

“You don’t need to rewrite this in pen to earn your Distinction. Reading it makes me feel running this course is worthwhile.”

What?

That was the highest mark I got in my entire student life.

Well, I learned something important that day.

Alignment and flow beat effort and grappling with words any day.

The Paralysis of Perfectionism

Now I know that the secret to a good draft isn't avoiding the mess—it's embracing it. Accepting that you, and your writing, aren’t perfect.

Because when you feel hesitant to start writing, it’s often due to perfectionism. What psychologists call “approach-avoidance conflict.” You want to write but you can’t stomach seeing your below-par work.

This standoff results in procrastination or writer's block. And you hear yourself saying,

“I’ll get to it later, after doing the laundry.”

Or “I won’t bother because I have nothing to say.”

Perfectionism

• Stops you in your tracks.

• Stifles your creativity.

• Suffocates any experience of joy.

As Anne Lamott said in her classic writing guide, “Bird by Bird,”

Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people… It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft.

Research backs her up.

A 2018 study, by Curran and Hill, was published in the Journal of Counseling Psychology. It found that perfectionism in young people has risen over the last three decades.

And, sadly, it correlates with increased anxiety, depression, and creative blocks.

The Authenticity of An Ugly Draft

My essay didn’t get a D because it was technically perfect or profound. It was because my pencil draft was honest.

Without the pressure of expectation, I wrote with no filters. And what I stand for came across. In other words, I was authentic.

Fortunately, we can learn to unleash authenticity.

Brené Brown, the social researcher, who writes about vulnerability and courage, explains that authenticity can be cultivated:

Authenticity is not something we have or don't have. It's a practice—a conscious choice of how we want to live.

Yes, being authentic takes courage and vulnerability because we’re showing up as we truly are. So we risk rejection.

But we also flirt with coming home to ourselves and being seen, finally. We give power to the deepest part of who we are by claiming it as ours.

This only happens if we write freely, without editing, so that our raw emotion is found in the words.

As writer Virginia Woolf wrote in her diary:

The roughness of the first sentences seemed to me a pledge of the genuineness of the rest.

An Ugly First Draft is the right foundation for work that rings true to our readers.

Unlocking Creativity Through Imperfection

Neuroscience explains why “ugly writing” fuels creativity:

When we silence our inner critic temporarily, we engage our brain's default mode network—the neural circuitry associated with imagination and creative connections.

The power of ugly writing is that it reconnects us with the joy of creation itself.

• We lower the stakes.

• We feel more free to be ourselves.

• We shake off the burden of expectation and judgment.

Writer Jhumpa Lahiri said it well in her book, “In Other Words:”

Imperfection inspires invention, imagination, creativity. It stimulates. The more I feel imperfect, the more I feel alive.

By allowing ourselves to write poorly at first, we create the safety needed for creative risk-taking. We allow ourselves to connect with the more edgy stuff inside.

The words may come out ugly, but they’re true. And that’s what makes us and our readers feel more alive.

Let’s bypass our inner critic/censor and cultivate the courage to write Ugly First Drafts.

The 3-Minute Ugly Writing Exercise

1. Set a timer for exactly 3 minutes

2. Write continuously without stopping

3. Follow this prompt: "The thing I'm afraid to say about this topic is..."

4. Important rule: No deleting, no editing, no rereading until time is up.

This exercise makes room for courage. It allows you to experience the freedom that comes with imperfect expression.

Try it any time you sense you’re holding back.

Your Turn: Let’s hear from you!
What’s worked for you when it comes to writing an Ugly First Draft?

Have a look at that painting.

Any idea what it is? Is it even the right way up?

This is my output at my first watercolour class a few weeks ago.

It’s called wet-on-wet technique (WOW)!

What I love about the technique is the freedom and flow of the colours in water.

What I’m not so sure about is whether it looks anything like a scene in nature.

And do I care? Not a lot.

I’m there for the fun and to get into the flow.

And luckily the teacher is too.

It’s that non-judgemental, happy spirit of creativity that I love.

And that you can capture too. Every day.

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Creativity in Everyday Moments

So, as I hope you know, you don't need art classes to be creative.

You could be creative in your men’s shed.

Or planning your garage sale.

Or running your corner shop.

Anywhere you can try out something new and experiment a little is a creative opportunity.

Because creativity is about making a change and following our curiosity.

And there are countless ways you’re already expressing it.

For example:

• When you change up what to make the kids for breakfast on the weekend.

• When you consider if the sofa would look better on the other wall.

• When you choose a new haircut for the holidays.

It’s also a creative act when you find a different path to solve a work problem.

Or try out a new exercise to stretch your hamstrings.

Or brave a new opening on a hard conversation.

It’s everywhere in the everyday.

So, let’s set the record straight.

Creativity’s not only in snooty art galleries, modern theatres, and quirky bookshops.

It’s not the natural-born talent of special artsy people.

It’s not something you can’t cultivate.

It’s a natural thought process that already propels you through your day.

And it’s renewed with the choices we make.

In invention.

In imagining something different.

In my book, Albert Einstein got it right, saying,

Creativity is intelligence having fun.

Because creativity doesn’t always take itself seriously.

Creativity’s Fun

The more we let ourselves daydream and unfocus, research suggests,

the more likely we‘ll tap into our creativity.

Because being creative means staying open to new possibilities.

The opposite of staid routines and furrowed brows.

So the way to get there is to chill.

And watch how children spend their free time.

Because play and fun are the keys to unlock the fertile, fluid parts of our brains. Where judgment and criticism go to die.

So keep that childlike spirit when you doodle on your notepad. Or take a risk by switching the ingredients in a recipe. Or rearrange the garden pots.

Don’t fuss too much over whether you get it “right.”

If you keep your heart light and stay present, you’ll default to the joy of the creative process.

And stay in the sense of non-attached play we see in children.

Who build sandcastles and shriek with delight when the sea washes them away.

And go right ahead and build more.

Creativity’s Good for You

When I look around my art class, I see absorption. I hear silence. I see late bloomers, young and old hands.

People are quiet.

Lost in the page.

Absorbed in making.

And something stirs in the air.

And on the faces.

Beginnings. And excitement. And wonder.

Which has to be rejuvenating, right?

No surprise that, according to research, creativity is good for your health.

How?

• It enhances sleep

• It reduces depression

• It improves resilience

• It increases dopamine

• It improves heart health

• It reduces inflammation

• It enhances neural activity

• It helps process emotions

• It prevents cognitive decline

• It reduces stress and anxiety

• It increases cognitive function

• It helps with pain management

• It decreases the risk of dementia

• It improves immune system function

• It lowers blood pressure and cortisol levels

You can look up the research studies on these claims. They’re reputable (from American Psychological Association, Harvard Medical School, NIH, Mayo Clinic).

But these health benefits of creativity are a bonus for me.

My why is simpler than that.

I explore my creativity because it makes me feel good.

It makes me laugh. It frees my mind. It lights up my soul.

Making art adds to the beauty of my life.

It also reminds me how smart my hands and fingers are.

And it makes me grateful for the freedom I have to do this.

To sum up

Join an art class if that’s what floats your creative boat.

Or try out something different in your routine or path to work.

See how it feels to actively embrace change, try things, and make stuff.

And be curious about where else creativity is already showing up in your everyday life. See how you can do more of that.

Let go of the reins a bit.

And as you do, watch for the expected signs of better health and a lighter step.

Most people would rather die than speak in public.

So it’s no surprise that we’re also frightened to post our thoughts online.

But why? And how can we get over ourselves?

Think back to being a kid and believing you could do anything.

You’d grab a crayon and declare yourself an artist.

Pick up a stick and suddenly, you’re a knight defending a castle.

You didn’t wait until you were “ready.” You didn’t overthink whether your drawing was good enough or whether someone would judge your sword-fighting form.

You just did it because you could.

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The slow death of creativity

Then we grew up.

Somewhere along the way, we started hesitating. We learned that mistakes could be humiliating.

That older people had opinions.

• That being seen meant being judged.

• That we might not be good enough.

• That others are better.

• That we should keep our drawing between the colouring lines.

• That we might not be “creative.”

And we believed this back then.

And still do, decades later.

The idea of putting our writing out into the world is terrifying.

The same old doubts plague us.

What if no one reads it? What if they do? What if it’s not good enough?

The creative itch must be scratched

But there’s this persistent nudge inside to try something new. To have a crack, as we Aussies say.

To share what we feel. What we know. What we’ve learned.

To share our life and who we are.

To show up and be seen.

And this is when the self-talk returns loudly and tries to stall us.

• What if I’m not ready?

• What if I haven’t studied enough?

• What if I don’t know the online rules?

Well, here’s the truth: No one’s ever really ready.

That’s why we have to just start.

Because growth doesn’t happen in the cosy cocoon of perfection.

When everything’s neatly lined up, you’ve edited the work to death, and you’ve asked for five people’s feedback.

It happens with small and imperfect steps.

You move ahead in the messy, uncomfortable, exhilarating process of showing up—before you feel prepared.

That’s the fun part and when you’ll feel the energy of creativity flow through you.

And you won’t know yet if readers will love or hate what you write. Or completely ignore you.

That’s the risk you take as a writer.

And you’re not alone.

Doubt and fear are part of the game

Take Maya Angelou, for example. Despite writing some of the most powerful poetry and literature of the 20th century, she once said,

If someone as legendary as Angelou dealt with scary imposter syndrome, it’s no surprise that we do too.

But she didn’t let it stop her.

Or imagine your book being rejected by 12 publishers.

J.K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter manuscript was. She could have taken that as a sign. Instead, she kept submitting it, believing in herself, and trusting in the story she wanted to tell.

And we know what that courage did for her.

Then there’s Stephen King. Unhappy with his work, he tossed the first few pages of his novel, Carrie, into the trash. But his wife snatched it back because she saw something he couldn’t.

That book was rejected by 30 publishers but finally launched his mammoth career

Another successful published author, Holly Ringland describes her terror at exposing raw emotion in her new book.

That fear doesn’t just vanish once your words are shared and well received. It rallies itself to torment you again next time.

Staying open to all possibilities

So, even though you may not be shooting to become a world-famous writer, consider a different value you may add to the world.

What if your words help someone?

And what if your courage in pushing publish makes you

• Overcome loneliness.

• Find a community.

• Feel seen.

• Come alive.

Is that enough to take the scary step?

Interestingly, Brené Brown, the beloved social researcher says:

So, let’s move towards courage by being seen for who we are.

And to sidestep fear altogether, let’s embrace play.

Instead of worrying about being perfect, let’s be beginners again.

Instead of worrying about the result, let’s enjoy the process.

Here’s a radical thought.

Post your words. Share your thoughts. Be okay with imperfection. Reclaim the freedom you relished as a child—the courage that knew anything was possible.

Because it is.

I’ve posted my recent watercolour bird painting above to get over my fear of sharing as a beginner artist.

Now it’s your turn.

What’s one thing you’ve been afraid to share? Maybe today’s the day to put it out there.

If this spoke to you, subscribe below for more encouragement on embracing the creative journey.