I Almost Didn’t Write This

In This Issue

A poem about beginning. A writer who locked away his clothes. Why clarity comes after, not before. And a prompt about the moment waiting wins.

Read on.

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Issue Theme: Waiting for an End

I almost didn't write this today.

Not because I didn't want to. But because I kept thinking, maybe later. Maybe when I've cleared a few more things. Maybe when my head feels quieter. Maybe when I'm sure what I want to say.

I rushed to my desk with a few hours left before this newsletter goes out, heart slightly racing, the room quiet in that way that makes your thoughts louder. And I realized something uncomfortable: how often I'm waiting for an ending before I allow myself to begin.

Waiting for things to resolve. Waiting for certainty. Waiting for the conflict to soften. Waiting for the perfect version of myself to arrive and sit down confidently.

Lately, that waiting has felt heavy. Like standing at the edge of a room, hand on the door, convinced that once something clicks into place, then I'll move.

There's a poem by Mary Oliver called "The Journey" that keeps circling my mind. It begins with a stark moment: "One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice." But the poem doesn't celebrate that moment as a triumph of clarity. Instead, Oliver shows us the cost of waiting. The night is already wild. The road is already full of fallen branches and stones. It was, she tells us, already late enough.

By the time the speaker in the poem finally begins—finally trusts their own voice—time has already moved without them. The world didn't wait for permission or perfect conditions. It simply kept moving. And the speaker, looking back, realizes they wasted time listening to voices that weren't their own, waiting for a version of themselves that would never arrive.

That's what this issue is about. Waiting for an end that never comes. And what it costs us as writers—the time we lose, the pages we don't fill, the voice we silence while we wait for conditions to be ideal. Because the ideal moment doesn't arrive. You have to begin anyway.

WRITING PROMPT

Write about a moment where waiting became the story.

Not waiting in general. Not waiting abstractly. A specific moment.

A character postpones a letter until after an argument cools down. A narrator delays returning to a place because they want closure first. Someone decides not to speak until they fully understand their feelings—and by the time they do, the moment has passed.

Anchor the piece around the tension between "almost" and "too late."

If you need a literary guide, look at how Oliver uses time as an active force in "The Journey." Time doesn't wait for us to feel ready. It moves regardless. The road is already full of fallen branches before we step onto it.

Let waiting itself act like a character in your piece—quiet, persuasive, and slightly cruel.

Write 500 words or less. End the piece at the exact moment the character realizes what waiting has taken from them.

FUNNY WRITER STORY

Victor Hugo was famously behind schedule while writing The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. The deadline loomed, and Hugo—who was prone to distraction—knew he couldn't trust himself.

So he did something extreme.

He locked away all his clothes. Literally. He asked his servant to take them and hide them, leaving him with only a large shawl to wear. With nowhere to go and no way to properly leave the house, Hugo had no choice but to sit down and write.

The novel was finished on time.

Sometimes the only thing standing between a writer and the work is the illusion that there will be a better moment later—preferably one that doesn't require uncomfortable commitment.

WRITING ADVICE FROM A FAMOUS WRITER

Joan Didion once said that the idea will not save you. The sentence will.

Her work reminds us that clarity doesn't arrive before writing. It arrives because of it. Waiting for emotional resolution, moral certainty, or a perfect internal state often delays the very process that would create those things.

You don't write because you understand.

You understand because you write.

The ending you're waiting for may only exist on the page—after you start.

WRITING MEME

Simple. Painfully accurate.

📬 The Ex-Puritan — Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction & More
The Ex-Puritan is a Canadian literary magazine paying for essays, fiction, interviews, reviews, and poetry. Submissions are open through December 25, 2025, or until slots fill. A strong fit for hybrid, critical, and experimental work.

✍️ Extra Teeth — International Prose & Translation
Extra Teeth accepts fiction, creative nonfiction, and translations for its print magazine, typically between 800 and 4,000 words. Selected submissions may also be considered for free mentorship opportunities.

🖋 Chestnut Review — Flash Prose & Poetry
Chestnut Review is open year-round, with a December 31, 2025 cutoff for its Spring issue. They pay $120 for flash prose or poetry and are known for championing concise, polished work.

📖 SmokeLong Quarterly — Flash Narrative Market
SmokeLong Quarterly publishes flash fiction, nonfiction, and hybrid narratives up to 1,000 words. During December, submissions are fee-free, making it an excellent paid opportunity for flash writers.

👻 The Deadlands — Speculative Fiction & Poetry
The Deadlands publishes speculative fiction (up to 5,000 words) and poetry with a surreal, liminal edge. They pay per word and actively seek diverse, boundary-pushing voices.

QUESTION FOR YOU

What piece have you been postponing because you're waiting for things to settle?

Not because you lack time—but because you're hoping for an ending before the beginning.

If you want, reply and tell me what you're waiting on. I read every response.

Until next time, keep writing—before time answers for you.