Today, I saw a post that revealed it’s the last Tuesday of summer. I let out a big sigh.

This summer has been a blast.

Two amazing concerts.

A trip to Lake Michigan.

A trip to Chicago.

A visit to the Obama Presidential Center.

Exploring a new city for the first time.

Enjoying our new cat, Mabel, and helping her and Emerson work out their relationship.

Seeing Maria Bamford at the Comedy Attic.

Coffee and walks with friends.

Exploring the art museum with my daughter.

It’s always hard to let go of summer.

Summer is an expansive season. I’m a big fan of long, sunny days, wide-open landscapes, bright red tomatoes growing in the garden, and progress I can see.

I already miss the hummingbirds, and they haven’t even left yet. Fallen leaves are gathering on the ground.

It’s time to say goodbye.

Fall is about letting go.

And that brings me to writing.

Generating a first draft is like summer: full of potential, sunshine, fun, and adventure.

Revision is more like autumn.

Ripening. Picking. Pruning. Shaping. Dropping. Darkening.

As I revise my novel, I’m letting go of several things: scenes, lines, and the illusion that this would be easy.

Revision can place us in the trap of control. And that’s where perfectionism comes to feast.

My best writing comes when I’m feeling a strong emotion and channel that emotion onto the page. When I let go and let the words bypass my brain, my writing carries a visceral feeling that can captivate the reader.

Raw emotion is harder to conjure

when editing a fiction manuscript.

This is the construction and reconstruction phase. There are choices to make. Problems to solve. Things to strengthen. And when I’m trying to make something better, it’s hard to bypass the brain.

So that brings me to a question:

How does a writer bring a sense of expansiveness to the revision process?

How do I bring the spirit of summer into the autumn of this book’s development?

I don’t have an answer yet.

But I’m going to carry the question with me into this season of my writing.

.

Sunlight dapples through the window onto my desk. This April morning has quickly turned to noon, just as spring will soon turn to summer.

I set an intention to write a seasonal letter—a way to stay connected as I move through revising my second book. Spring asks, what is emerging for me now? That’s the question I bring to the page.

In a busy life, it’s not always easy to sense what’s emerging. In nature, it’s visible: greening grass, budding trees, blossoming flowers. I wait each year for the return of our first hummingbird. Even my houseplants reflect this tentative season—I moved them to the porch, only to bring them back inside when frost threatened. Spring emergence comes in fits and starts.

This idea reminds me of a quote by Martha Graham: there is a life force, a quickening, uniquely expressed through each of us. I feel that force in my call to write—this story, now.

And it’s in following that energy that I find myself turning toward Lily, my protagonist.

What is emerging in my relationship with Lily? Her story is rooted in my own experience at eleven—her anxiety in a time before it had a name, her fascination with the supernatural, how it both heightened her fear and opened her to something beyond it.

But where does my story end and hers begin? This is a novel, not a memoir. How do I shape it in a way that connects with readers? As I gain clarity about my own past, her life comes into focus. Through her, I create a space where my younger self can explore and find healing.

“If you block it,” Graham writes, “it will never exist.” Blocking that life force feels like a kind of death—like all the spring flowers withering at once. I know what it feels like to close that channel. I don’t want to do that again. I will keep showing up, no matter how long it takes, and continue shaping this story into what it wants to be.

“It is not your business to decide how good it is… It is your business to keep the channel open.”

Earlier this year, I took a class on revising a novel. It offered valuable tools—character development, story arcs—but it also introduced pressure: thoughts of querying, agents, publication. That pressure can constrict the very channel I’m trying to keep open. And yet, the stories that resonate most are often those created from a clear, unforced connection between writer and reader.

“You do not even have to believe in yourself,” Graham says. “You have to keep open… to the urges that motivate you.”

Keep the channel open. That feels like the truest directive. There is a connection between me, Lily, and the larger creative force that runs through everything. I can trust that.

So, what is emerging for me now? A call to reconnect with that flow. To show up for it. To honor this novel as a kind of contract between myself and the creative life force. This is the message of the season.

* * *

On a practical note, I’m considering forming a small focus group of middle grade readers (ages 9–14) to read my manuscript and join a discussion. Moms are welcome too. More to come in my summer letter.

I’ve been circling this space for a while now, wondering what it might become.

For now, I’m thinking of it as a place to write in a slightly different way—more quietly, more directly.

A few times a year, I’ll send a letter like this. Reflections on writing, on grief, on the natural world, and on the slow, often unseen process of becoming.

If you’re here, I’m glad.

—Kim