Jennifer Shaw

On Christmas Day, my husband and daughter gave me this lovely zipper pouch with this message printed in soft brown on the front.

I thought it was a pencil pouch at first. Great! I love a nice bag for all my weird writerly things: writing utensils, highlighters, stickers, bookmarks, Post-Its, mini notepads scrawled with odd ideas or reminders, even a few bonus art cards left over from packs of Magic we sell in our shop, Mythic Moose.

Why the art cards count as bookish things I don’t know, but I guess I might use them as bookmarks one day.

Lately, I’ve wanted to make more things with my hands, so this gift was quite apropos given it actually turned out to be a storage pouch for a beginner painter’s watercolor set. We’d seen these sets complete with colors, brush, and workbooks in Newport in November, and I’d commented on how fun they looked. Of course Jer, being the attentive husband he is, went back to get a few for me before we left town.

The paint set has allowed me to dive right into another hobby, with no other desire than to work on something low-stakes and lovely. Or, lovely some day as my understanding and technique improve.

I’m having so much fun with it. Right now, I’m working on mixing colors to achieve specific shades while avoiding the appearance of brush strokes.

My family also gifted me two punch needle kits, which look considerably harder than the painting, but I’m eager to try my hand at these too. Again, for no other reason than to make something hopefully semi-attractive with my own clumsy hands.

I guess this is my version of the analog year and my pushback against an increasingly dark world where everything feels ugly and out of control.

On Christmas morning, though, what I found most appealing about that watercolor pouch was how oddly inspiring and perfect its little imperative was in terms of my writing.

Make pretty things.

Yes, I realized. This new year, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want to write pretty stories. Nothing more ambitious, nothing less.

With that, I reframed my entire attitude toward writing.

I didn’t want to fill out quarter-planning templates or develop SMART goals or in any other way be detailed or methodical about my writing objectives. I didn’t want to write out my ambitions as measurable checklists I could mark off (or not) when I did (or didn’t) achieve them. I didn’t want to work toward monetizing my writing. I’d done these things the year before, and I was over it. I needed something freer.

I battled a fair amount of creative anxiety last year. Disappointment, insecurity, and imposter syndrome were the main bugaboos, stemming mostly from the fact I had more rejections than acceptances, I went a long while without writing any new fiction, and my two official publications were met with relative quiet. I’d also come to realize just how hard writing well actually is, and how many extraordinarily talented writers are out there, even among the “amateurs” posting on social media.

I mean, my god. Who was I to think I had any business trying to craft stories for publication? Or even to share publicly? Who was I to possibly waste anyone’s time?

On top of that was subscription and advice fatigue. I follow so many book coaches and writing accounts that I’d gotten overwhelmed with all the advice, all those urgent do’s and dont’s. Don’t misunderstand me, they’re mostly great, but you can gorge yourself on too much of a good thing until you’re bloated and hardly able to move. I was paralyzing myself with all the things I’d learned, trying to write even first drafts that were unobjectionable, and I was developing a debilitating perfectionism. It was even giving me stomachaches.

All of it was stealing my joy.

It forced me to revisit why I began writing in the first place.

In 2022, living in a brand-new town far from home after uprooting my life, I was lonely and bored. I was no longer teaching, no longer forced to problem-solve or think in other creative ways as part of my career, and I was afraid my brain might rot.

Writing gave me a way to fill my days with thoughtful make-believe, giving me all kinds of characters and plots in which to escape. It also allowed me to strengthen my creativity in absolute freedom, which was so much better for my mind and heart than scrolling social media or watching bad television. It even gave me a way to output language, something I couldn’t do if I were only reading, which of course I love too (reading and writing absolutely go hand-in-hand; I don’t believe you can do either truly well without the other).

I also knew I was fortunate to have the time and means to pursue a creative endeavor, something all people need and few can easily afford, and I didn’t want to squander the opportunity. For personal enrichment, then, creative writing was a perfect hobby.

It was when I began taking that hobby more seriously that things became more complicated and emotionally challenging.

That is not to say I want to stop taking it seriously; I don’t. In fact, pursuing quality craft for the sake of the artistic and intellectual challenge alone is my favorite part about writing. I like striving to improve phrasing, concision, and structure at both the micro and macro levels. I enjoy cultivating images and specific voices. I love synthesizing inspirations and ideas to hopefully come up with something iterative and fresh. These are the aspirations that I find, in the moments when I’m tapping fingers to keys in a wonderful flow, genuinely fulfilling, the highest form of play. I don’t intend to give that up.

I just needed a step back from, well, all the noise. All the unnecessary pressure I was putting on myself. I needed to let go of the idea that all of this must be perfect and lead to something specific and conventional in order to qualify as positive and meaningful–an actual published book or publication credits in the right kind of magazines, for example.

Not that I wouldn’t love those things; of course I would. But right now, this year, I don’t want to sit down and write with those specific ends goals dictating everything and driving me crazy. I don’t want to commoditize my work, so to speak, especially when I don’t even know if such goals are realistic for me. I hope my efforts lead to a book I’m proud of one day, or a publication in Black Fox Literary, for example. Those would be wonderful results. But not at the expense of my joy.

So, the more I thought about it, the more attractive and clarifying “make pretty things” became. And not that I’m tossing in the towel when it comes to elements like proper scene structure, either. I’m not ditching the conventions of a working story for flowery upchuck or things I never finish. I just mean, I want to find beauty and enjoyment in what I actually feel like writing. I don’t want to write only for submission calls. I don’t want to write just for a certain “legitimacy.” Life’s too short.

Thus, “make pretty things” is my one big creative goal for 2026. When I sit down at my laptop, I plan to work on exactly what I’m in the mood for, whether it’s appropriate or good enough for anything else. Even if I can’t do anything with it when it’s done. I just want to feel like I’m striving personally for something that, ultimately, I find to be a thing of burgeoning beauty and meaning. Something that is hopefully better than what I wrote a year or two ago. That’s what’s healthiest for me right now.

This shift in attitude includes pushing myself to post more of my creative work directly to WordPress and Substack (which is nothing but a more polished, curated version of what I publish here). I believe sharing at least some of what we create is part of a healthy artistic life; we need witnesses to our work, even if it’s just one person. I’m finding that, after I get over the initial “vulnerability hangover” as Amie McNee calls it, it feels good to have someone like and even comment on the piece. It gives me closure, and I find it’s easier to move on to the next story or essay.

So, thank you for bearing witness to what I’m writing on this blog, which is basically my public diary. I appreciate the views, and I hope what you read is engaging and somehow meaningful more often than it’s not.

I waited to post this little new year manifesto on purpose. I wanted to make sure I still felt this way by the end of January.

I also couldn’t bring myself to post right after all the violence in Minneapolis. Writing about creative hobbies and lovely things feels superficial and insensitive in light of what’s happening in our country. I also know, though, that giving up the things we enjoy because we’re overwhelmed, saddened, or scared is letting tyranny win. So, I’m trying to balance my own pursuits while acting as a conscientious citizen.

Did you make any new year goals or resolutions? If so, how are you doing with them? As always, feel free to share anything you’d like in the comments; I love reading them.

See you next month!

XOXO,

Jenn