When a Story Surprises the Writer

I recently completed my final personal edits of Light Still Stands and sent the manuscript forward. I expected to feel relief when I hit “send.” Instead, I found myself unexpectedly emotional.

What surprised me most is that I worked on this project for only a little over a month. It was not years in the making. It came together quickly and intensely, almost urgently. Yet in that short span of time, it reached deeper into me than I anticipated.

During those weeks, I was hyper-focused in a way that felt both energizing and consuming. I stayed up late into the night refining chapters and revising themes, sometimes sleeping only three or four hours before getting up to do my actual job the next morning. I would tell myself I was finished for the evening, only to return to one more scene or one more edit. The story followed me into the early hours when I should have been resting.

All of this unfolded while life continued at full pace. I am taking graduate classes. I am producing a Lenten series podcast. I am balancing professional responsibilities. I am also preparing myself mentally for upcoming surgery and the reality of being away from work for a time. None of those commitments paused while I was writing. I simply layered this creative sprint on top of everything else.

Looking back, I can see how much I was carrying.

And yet, I do not regret it.

Somewhere in those late nights, something deeper was happening. I was not just shaping dialogue and structure. I was wrestling with themes of steadiness, surrender, grief, control, and trust. Light Still Stands explores what remains when circumstances feel fragile and how light can endure in uncertain seasons. When I stepped back from the manuscript, I realized those questions were not only fictional. They were personal.

The emotional response I experienced after finishing was not doubt. It was release. It felt like my body and spirit finally catching up to the intensity of the past month. Even in a short, concentrated window of creativity, God was doing deeper work in me than I recognized at the time.

Over the past year, I have sensed God inviting me to live more intentionally. Not reactively. Not driven solely by productivity. Not fueled by the pressure to keep producing the next thing. Intentionally. Finishing this novel and feeling its weight confirmed that invitation. I do not want to move directly from one intense season into another without space to reflect on what has changed within me.

Because of that, I am choosing to pause from beginning any new creative projects for a season.

This is not stepping away from writing. It is choosing to steward it well. My current projects will continue moving forward. Commitments already in motion will remain steady. The Lenten series will continue. Ongoing responsibilities will be honored. But I will not be launching anything new while I process what this experience uncovered and prepare both physically and mentally for what lies ahead.

Intentional living does not always mean slowing down; sometimes it means sprinting when called to do so. But it also means recognizing when it is time to breathe. This past month reminded me that even a brief season can carry deep impact. Now the faithful response is not to rush forward, but to pause long enough to listen.

Sometimes the most surprising projects are the ones that shape us the most.