Khaya Ronkainen

In June, I mentioned I was taking a break for the summer — a break from words, a pause in the rhythm of drafting, editing, and rewriting. I thought, perhaps naively, that absence might spark inspiration. That I’d return with fresh scenes and unexpected ideas tumbling out of me, and new wings as my character had promised.

What I Found Instead

But that’s not what happened. The break didn’t hand me inspiration tied up neatly with a bow. Instead, it gave me something less romantic but more essential: motivation. The pause made me realise this story matters to me, even on the days writing this book feels slow, messy, and endless.

I’m learning once more that writing isn’t always a rush of brilliance. It’s more often the steady returning to a project, a recommitment. And for me, this long-in-the-making novel feels a little like coming home to myself every time I sit down to work on it.

Facing the Noise

As I wrote in a recent newsletter, when I returned to rework the manuscript’s final chapters, I heard my inner critic — whose voice I know well — begin to shout. It was so loud that I had to put the manuscript aside and address it first. That self-doubt is part of my process, the salt in the stew, that not only adds flavour but keeps me grounded and humble. Perhaps, I need it just as much as I need the words themselves.

This book has become, in many ways, my most joyful and painful artwork to date. Through writing it, I’ve experienced both pain and healing—sometimes in the same sentence. And yet, even with the hard days, the quiet and slow progress or the messy rewrites, it still feels like home. Maybe because it’s the place where I’m most fully myself.

More Than “Practice”

Writers are often told their first novel is just a “practice novel”. It’s something to learn on, but not to keep. I’ve never been able to accept this advice. While this book has given me invaluable lessons in the craft of novel writing, for me, this isn’t just practice. It’s a story that has insisted on being told, year after year. It’s the one that won’t leave me alone, and I most want to finish writing and let it grow its own wings. Because it feels like the story carries something essential, more so for me than anyone else.

Listening Past Doubt

That’s why the words I saw painted on a Lisbon wall, “Listen to your soul”, stayed with me. Because in the middle of doubt and noise, that’s what this novel keeps asking me to do. And maybe it’s what writing itself asks of all of us: to trust the story that won’t let us go, the one that leads us back to ourselves.

I’m learning to listen more closely to what my soul is saying beneath the noise of doubt. I’m also here to remind you that your story matters, because the truths that press on us to be told—the ones that refuse to leave us—are never “just practice.” They are the very stories that lead us home.

What about you? Amidst the world’s clamour, scepticism, and the ego’s defences, what are you truly listening to this season? Care to share a moment when you listened past your inner critic and found your way back home to yourself?

PS. In Lisbon, the views are breathtaking. Yet, the old, steep, and cobbled lanes will also leave you breathless. It’s street art that feels, to me, like the very soul of this city. Just look at that feature image! 🙂