Stone by Stone, Word by Word

When I sit down to work on my fiction, the words still come. Maybe not always easily, maybe not always gracefully, but they come. The stories are alive. The characters still whisper. The world still opens its doors to me. There is still so much more I want to say.

But when I sit down to write for this blog — the place where I’ve posted 302 times in five years — I hit a wall.

It’s not a creative block in the way we usually imagine it. It’s not a lack of ideas or a failure of discipline. It’s a different kind of silence, a heavier one. It feels like I’ve said everything I know how to say — at least in this space, in this way. My life is not particularly interesting, and what’s noteworthy has already been shared on these pages. If I had a plethora of adventures to share, I would be busy doing that and not writing about the adventures in my head.

Blog writing and fiction writing are two very different beasts. Fiction invites immersion. It asks for surrender — to step into voices that don’t exist, to build cities no one has ever seen, to listen to characters who aren’t real but still feel true. Fiction is discovery.

Blogging, however, asks for something entirely different. It asks me to explain, to guide, to share, to put into words the messy, tangled process of creativity that I don’t completely understand myself. And after 302 posts, it’s hard not to feel like the well is running dry.

Every time I try to think of a new post, a small, insistent voice speaks up. You’ve already said that, it whispers. No one wants to hear about how hard writing is — again. You touched on worldbuilding two years ago. Didn’t you already write about struggling with doubt?

It’s not writer’s block in the traditional sense. It’s the fear of repeating myself — the fear of becoming noise instead of signal.

And if I’m honest, that fear weighs more heavily than a lack of ideas ever could. It’s easy to write when you feel like you have something new to offer. It’s harder when you worry you’re just rearranging the same old words in slightly different patterns.

But there’s something to be said for repetition, for the way life circles back on itself. No writer, no artist, no human being is ever truly done grappling with the same core questions. We return to them again and again, like waves returning to the shore — each pass a little different, shaped by new winds, new tides, new experiences.

Maybe repetition isn’t failure. Maybe it’s deepening.

A few days ago, I reviewed the word count of my blog. Post by post, line by line, I’ve written 298,400 words here.

To put that into perspective, that’s roughly the length of three full-length novels. It’s about the combined word count of The Hobbit and The Fellowship of the Ring. It’s enough to be a complete trilogy if the posts lived between two covers instead of on my website.

I didn’t set out to write three books’ worth of blog posts. I set out to connect — to share the strange, winding journey of being a writer. But somehow, step by step, I crossed a threshold I never really saw coming.

When you hear a number like 298,400, it sounds monumental. However, it didn’t feel monumental at the time. It felt slow. One post at a time. One small decision to show up even on days when I had no idea what to say. One more stubborn refusal to quit.

Most of the time, you don’t notice the weight you’re carrying until you stop to look behind you. And when you do, you realize the mountain you’re standing on wasn’t built overnight. It was built stone by stone, word by word.

Writing this blog has taught me that consistency matters more than inspiration. You don’t write three books by waiting for lightning to strike. You write them by showing up, day after day, especially when you’re not inspired.

Inspiration is fickle. It’s unreliable. But discipline? Showing up even when the muse doesn’t? That’s where the real magic happens. Creativity isn’t a lightning bolt. It’s a slow burn, a steady accumulation of effort over time.

I’ve also learned that voice matters. Somewhere in all those posts, mine sharpened. My point of view clarified. I became more myself on the page — not because I set out to, but because that’s what happens when you keep writing for long enough. The act of writing strips away the excess and the false starts. It leaves what’s true.

And maybe the most surprising lesson: there’s always more to say — just not always in the way you expect. Sometimes, the ideas run dry, not because there’s nothing left but because the frame you’re using to capture them has grown too small. Sometimes you don’t run out of ideas — you outgrow them.

In my fiction, discovery is endless. The more I write, the more I realize how much I haven’t yet explored. There’s always another hidden alley in Lucardia. Another ghost waiting at the edge of the map. Another secret folded into the dark.

But blogging feels different. It’s like standing at the edge of a well, dropping stones, and waiting longer and longer to hear the splash. Maybe it’s not that the water is gone. Maybe it’s just deeper now.

Maybe it’s not that I’m out of ideas. It may be that the format or frame needs to change. Maybe the vessel that once fit now feels too tight.

I’m beginning to think it’s time for a shift — not to stop blogging, but to start writing different kinds of posts. Perhaps it’s time to move away from explanations, advice, and the trials of being a struggling author. Maybe it’s time to start writing about the things that feed the fiction instead of the fiction itself—the strange corners of history that inspire my worlds. The philosophies and myths that shape my characters. The odd facts that spark my imagination. The questions that haunt the quiet hours. The places where wonder and doubt and curiosity collide. The half-seen doorways I find in the real world that open into the unreal one.

It may be time to stop thinking of this blog as a place to promote and start thinking of it as a place to explore.

I don’t have all the answers — but maybe the best writing doesn’t come from answers. Perhaps it comes from wonder. Perhaps it comes from questions we aren’t sure how to ask.

One thing writing nearly 300,000 words has taught me is the value of the long view. When you commit to something over months, over years, you begin to see the shape of the work in ways you couldn’t at the beginning. You understand that progress isn’t always visible. That growth often happens underground, invisible, until suddenly, something blooms.

It’s easy to chase quick wins — viral posts, high engagement, instant feedback. But the work that lasts? The work that matters? It’s the slow work. The unglamorous work. The work that piles up stone by stone, word by word, until one day you look up and realize you’ve built something real.

You don’t amass a body of work by acccident. It happens because you stayed when it would have been easier to quit. It happens because you believed in the act of showing up, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.

Writing teaches you patience. It teaches you humility. It teaches you resilience. It teaches you that nothing worth doing is quick or easy or guaranteed.

If I could offer one piece of advice — not as a blogger, but as a human being who has spent a lot of hours wrestling with words — it would be this: build your mountain stone by stone. Write the next word. Then the next. Then the next. Show up when it’s easy, and show up when it’s hard. Show up when you’re inspired, and show up when you’re not. Trust that the work is working, even when you can’t see the results.

298,400 words didn’t happen because I was brilliant or lucky or especially disciplined. They happened because I kept showing up. Because I believed, even on the days when it felt foolish, that the act of writing was worthwhile — even if no one read it. Even if no one noticed. Even if it led nowhere.

Because the truth is, it always leads somewhere. Even if that somewhere is simply a deeper understanding of yourself. Even if it’s simply the satisfaction of having tried.

If you’ve been here — whether you’ve read one post or a hundred — thank you.

This space has been as much for me as it’s been for you. Writing 298,400 words wasn’t a goal — it was a side effect of showing up, of trying to be honest, of trying to connect.

Here’s to the next chapter. Not a repetition. Not a retreat. A new direction fueled not by certainty but by curiosity.

And, just like that (this post is 1,532 words), I reach 300,000. Here’s to the next 300,000 words — whatever shape they take.

Cheers!

I’d Love to Hear From You

What would you like to see here in the future?

Short stories? More behind-the-scenes worldbuilding? Odd bits of history and myth that inspire my work? Letters from characters? Essays on darkness, power, storytelling, etc.?

Drop a comment — I’d love to hear your thoughts.