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