We quit what we're supposed to quit. Let's quit something, so we can refocus.

“If you surrender to the air, you can ride it.” - Toni Morrison

:: Write a letter to the version of you who quit.

Try it, then come back here. I’ll wait. Just give yourself a paragraph or two.

Photo by Artem Maltsev

Did you do it? If not, do it. I’ll wait. Take 5 minutes.

Photo by James Toose

I did this prompt earlier in the morning, and it uncovered something unexpected.

I am not anti-quitting. I’m all about it. Let’s quit.

Quitting does not mean taking breaks or slowing down to savor and recoup. Quitting means abandonment. And in my letter, I realized I never had that option when it comes to the things I am truly here to do.

What I have quit in my life are transactional relationships, bad habits (nod to Newport Kings in a box and Hot Pockets), the need to impress, reality TV shows, jujitsu class (should’ve never signed up), and a course pack of 52 Italian Language CDs (Sorry, Charles).

I’ve never felt that quitting something like writing or moving forward in life was an option.

We can’t quit what we’re supposed to do, can we? We can only take breaks. What we truly quit is all that doesn’t nag us and remind us that it’s still there. Certain things, like writing for me, will not let us go that easily.

Let me know your thoughts about quitting. Do you think there’s something you can quit to allow more space for what you love? What you do well and enjoy? What you have to offer others?

With that in mind, check out what’s coming next year …

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Beginning with my first Substack post in 2026, I’m launching a year-long creative challenge.

Inspired by my AYTL experiment (which I started in May to confuse everyone), this new journey centers on honest, compassionate self-check-ins with a focus on creation. It will take a bit of courage.

What gentle courage looks like

What happens when we show up for our creativity every single day?

In 2026, let’s write daily. No strict word counts. No genre limits. No pressure to produce anything polished. Just you, your page, and the practice of returning again and again. Write. Every. Single. Day. And watch what ideas, clarity, breakthroughs, or insights arise.

We’ll check in as a community, celebrate progress, and hold space for the days that feel messy. It’s a year of devotion, curiosity, and creative momentum.

To prepare, buy a notebook to track progress. This is not for your writing, but to write about your writing. (I know, I know, but just do it. It’ll be worth it.)

Hope you’ll join me. And paid subscribers will be invited to join quarterly Zooms to discuss what’s working, what we’re proud of, and how to cultivate more creative resilience.

Are you in? I’ll be posting as usual, but I’ll also include (candid) updates about my own writing progress and a prompt to move you forward.

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