There are a hundred reasons why we keep things.

The Wind

The winds this year arrived in the Bay Area like a series of wrecking balls.

50 mph gusts. A roaring that sounded like it would rip the roof clean off. Some nights I'd wake at 2am to ominous, dark masses marching across the sky. Then the next time I woke - silence. Clear sky. An eerie stillness. A week later, the cycle returned.

I've always felt unsettled by heavy winds, maybe because I'm terrified of airplane turbulence. Wind pushes and pulls and doesn't give a damn about your comfort zone. It has an agenda. It's moving, going somewhere, evolving. Maybe I need to, too.

The morning afters reveal the evidence: trash cans tumbled, broken ceramic pots…but everything looks a little brighter. Shinier. Cleansed.

I recognize that energy. I feel it inside me too.

Flotsam

I have a kitchen shelf with a long, shallow drawer - a catch-all for rubber bands, pens, twisty-ties, paperclips. Eventually it gets so crammed full of household flotsam that it barely closes. It is then that I pull it out, empty it on the carpet, and face the truth of what I've been silently holding. Things important enough to keep but not actually use. How many areas of your life fit this description?

A small room in our basement has cycled through four different identities. Guest room. Meditation room. Yoga room. And inevitably, a holding place for everything we didn't have time to deal with. Last weekend we reclaimed it. Steam cleaned, dusted the corners, started from scratch and designed something habitable. Comfortable. Intentional. I want to stay down there all day now.

Clearing, I’ve discovered, has benefits far beyond beautifying your visual environment. Removing what you no longer need has this magical power to reshape your interior landscape — clarifying what you want, where you’re going, and what no longer fits. The same is true of the stories we’ve carried about ourselves as writers: I'll never be the writer I want to be. My work isn't good enough to compete. Inherited from earlier selves, carried forward out of nothing more than habit. Time to change those, too?

There are a hundred reasons why we keep things. And maybe none of them match who we actually are now.

The wind doesn't ask permission before it clears. And the space lets us choose who we want to be next.

Space

Here's the thing about clearing: the space itself can feel unsettling. Even when what you've released was dead weight, its absence can feel like emptiness. And fear of emptiness may be the very reason we hold onto things in the first place.

Writers feel this too. When I’ve finished writing a book, there’s a sort of sadness about it. A set of characters that has lived in me for maybe a year of my life. Where did they go?

But it’s from that creative void that the voice of a new character starts whispering. And there’s nothing like that feeling in all the world.

COMING SOON

Coming August 7th | Indies United Publishing | Kindle, Paperback

Watch the Book Trailer, and subscribe to my YouTube channel.

Speaking Engagements

On May 17th I joined Sisters in Crime NorCal at Book Passage for their Summer Mystery Author Showcase — reading from The ME Factor alongside a stellar lineup of crime writers.

The Alameda Library Mystery Book Club read my thriller, Switch. Two groups of engaged readers, two extraordinary conversations with live feedback, reader preferences, and what they want me to write next. Special thanks to librarian Rosemary Van Lare for this awesome opportunity.

And if you missed my recent interview on the Book Lovers Companion Podcast, we talked about marketing fear, authentic visibility, and writing from identity.

Listen to the episode here.

Substance and Shadow

This month on the Story Impact Podcast I interviewed Marie Judson — scholar, world-builder, and author of the Braided Dimensions and Lost Xentu series. Stay tuned for Berkeley Arcane, Book 5 of her Braided Dimensions series, coming in July.

Watch the episode here.

Kick back, it's summertime. Empty a random drawer in your house. And watch what happens.

Lisa