H.S. Harding's Blog
February 25, 2026
A Day in My Writing Life (The good, the bad, and the coffee-fueled chaos)
Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
This seems to be a popular question: What does a day in my writing life actually look like? I wish I could paint the romantic picture—the struggling author in a cozy coffee shop or a sunlit home office, sipping something artisanal while meticulously polishing every word into a masterpiece. It’s not like that. Not even close. It’s much, much messier.
I’m too old to live off my parents and too young to retire, which means I still have to work a regular job. Writing isn’t paying the bills yet (though if you want to change that, Operation Forgotten Spire is available now—shameless plug complete). I won’t lie: summers get a little closer to the stereotype. As a teacher, I get those glorious months off, which gives me more flexibility to write. But since I’m not paid for that time, a second job is still a necessity most years.
The rest of the year? Routine chaos.I get home from work, let the dogs out, change clothes, tackle the dishes, prep supper—life stuff. I might steal a few minutes to jot something down right then, but honestly? Not much gets done in that window. The real writing happens late evening, once the house quiets and the day’s noise finally fades.
My goal is 500 words a day. Why 500? It’s a nice, round number that feels attainable without being overwhelming. Some days I hit 2,000 words in a burst of inspiration. Some days it’s 50, and I’m just happy something made it onto the page. But averaging 500 keeps the momentum going. It works whether I’m drafting fresh material or grinding through a third revision.
The bigger point, the one that matters, is the old advice: Write every day. Even if it’s one line you delete tomorrow. Even if it feels pointless in the moment. Keeping the story fresh in your mind is what keeps it alive. Skipping days turns small gaps into big ones, and suddenly the whole thing feels distant and cold.
So that’s my unglamorous reality: a full-time job, dogs, dishes, supper, and squeezing words in when the world finally gives me a quiet corner. No dramatic montages. Just showing up, day after day.
If you’re chasing your own creative thing amid the mess of real life, know that you’re not alone. The stereotype is nice, but the messy version is where the real stories get made.
I’ll keep showing up here every Wednesday. If you’ll keep showing up too—even just to read quietly—that small bit of connection makes the late nights feel worthwhile.
Until next time—stay safe out there.
H.S. Harding
This seems to be a popular question: What does a day in my writing life actually look like? I wish I could paint the romantic picture—the struggling author in a cozy coffee shop or a sunlit home office, sipping something artisanal while meticulously polishing every word into a masterpiece. It’s not like that. Not even close. It’s much, much messier.
I’m too old to live off my parents and too young to retire, which means I still have to work a regular job. Writing isn’t paying the bills yet (though if you want to change that, Operation Forgotten Spire is available now—shameless plug complete). I won’t lie: summers get a little closer to the stereotype. As a teacher, I get those glorious months off, which gives me more flexibility to write. But since I’m not paid for that time, a second job is still a necessity most years.
The rest of the year? Routine chaos.I get home from work, let the dogs out, change clothes, tackle the dishes, prep supper—life stuff. I might steal a few minutes to jot something down right then, but honestly? Not much gets done in that window. The real writing happens late evening, once the house quiets and the day’s noise finally fades.
My goal is 500 words a day. Why 500? It’s a nice, round number that feels attainable without being overwhelming. Some days I hit 2,000 words in a burst of inspiration. Some days it’s 50, and I’m just happy something made it onto the page. But averaging 500 keeps the momentum going. It works whether I’m drafting fresh material or grinding through a third revision.
The bigger point, the one that matters, is the old advice: Write every day. Even if it’s one line you delete tomorrow. Even if it feels pointless in the moment. Keeping the story fresh in your mind is what keeps it alive. Skipping days turns small gaps into big ones, and suddenly the whole thing feels distant and cold.
So that’s my unglamorous reality: a full-time job, dogs, dishes, supper, and squeezing words in when the world finally gives me a quiet corner. No dramatic montages. Just showing up, day after day.
If you’re chasing your own creative thing amid the mess of real life, know that you’re not alone. The stereotype is nice, but the messy version is where the real stories get made.
I’ll keep showing up here every Wednesday. If you’ll keep showing up too—even just to read quietly—that small bit of connection makes the late nights feel worthwhile.
Until next time—stay safe out there.
H.S. Harding
February 18, 2026
What putting myself out there really means to me as an author
Welcome back, friends.
And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
“Putting yourself out there” is one of those phrases we toss around all the time. Coaches say it. Friends say it. Therapists probably say it. But what does it actually mean?
When I was coaching football, I used it to push athletes: Don’t hold back. Leave it all on the field. Football—for most people—is a finite thing. You play in high school (if you’re lucky), maybe college for a few, and then it’s over. The clock is always ticking. There’s a built-in time limit, so you'd better show up fully while you can.
In the creative world, the advice sounds similar but deeper: Bare your soul. Show the world who you really are. Let it all hang out.
That sounds noble… until you realize your life is pretty ordinary. No dramatic highs, no cinematic lows. If someone tried to make a movie about me, the audience would be napping by the opening credits.
So what does “putting myself out there” mean for me as an author?
It’s all of the above.
First, there’s the time limit. The stories in my head won’t outlive me. Once I’m gone, they go with me. Like those glory days on the field—once they’re over, they’re over for good. No do-overs. No second chances to tell the tale the way it wants to be told.
Second, it means being raw and honest. A piece of me slips into every character, whether I plan it or not. That flawless hero? Maybe that’s me allowing myself to be perfect for once, in the one place where I get to rewrite the rules. But the flawed ones—the angry ones, the broken ones, the quietly terrified ones—those carry real regrets, real fears, real observations from my own twisted little mind. Every story is a peek behind the curtain, even if it’s dressed up in fiction.
So here I am, putting myself out there. Not because my life is fascinating, but because the stories are—and because holding them back forever feels like the bigger loss.
If any of this resonates, take the risk with me. Put yourself out there, whatever that looks like for you. Bring your friends along for the ride. It’s scary, it’s messy, but it’s worth it.
I’ll keep showing up here every Wednesday. If you’ll keep showing up too—even just to read quietly—that means more than you know.
Until next time, stay safe out there.
H.S. Harding
And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
“Putting yourself out there” is one of those phrases we toss around all the time. Coaches say it. Friends say it. Therapists probably say it. But what does it actually mean?
When I was coaching football, I used it to push athletes: Don’t hold back. Leave it all on the field. Football—for most people—is a finite thing. You play in high school (if you’re lucky), maybe college for a few, and then it’s over. The clock is always ticking. There’s a built-in time limit, so you'd better show up fully while you can.
In the creative world, the advice sounds similar but deeper: Bare your soul. Show the world who you really are. Let it all hang out.
That sounds noble… until you realize your life is pretty ordinary. No dramatic highs, no cinematic lows. If someone tried to make a movie about me, the audience would be napping by the opening credits.
So what does “putting myself out there” mean for me as an author?
It’s all of the above.
First, there’s the time limit. The stories in my head won’t outlive me. Once I’m gone, they go with me. Like those glory days on the field—once they’re over, they’re over for good. No do-overs. No second chances to tell the tale the way it wants to be told.
Second, it means being raw and honest. A piece of me slips into every character, whether I plan it or not. That flawless hero? Maybe that’s me allowing myself to be perfect for once, in the one place where I get to rewrite the rules. But the flawed ones—the angry ones, the broken ones, the quietly terrified ones—those carry real regrets, real fears, real observations from my own twisted little mind. Every story is a peek behind the curtain, even if it’s dressed up in fiction.
So here I am, putting myself out there. Not because my life is fascinating, but because the stories are—and because holding them back forever feels like the bigger loss.
If any of this resonates, take the risk with me. Put yourself out there, whatever that looks like for you. Bring your friends along for the ride. It’s scary, it’s messy, but it’s worth it.
I’ll keep showing up here every Wednesday. If you’ll keep showing up too—even just to read quietly—that means more than you know.
Until next time, stay safe out there.
H.S. Harding
February 4, 2026
The biggest fears I had about sharing my writing experience
Welcome back, friends.
And if you’re new here—hello, truly. I hope you’ll stick around for a bit.
Creative expression is scary. I mean really scary.
I’m a combat veteran. I’ve been in situations that should have been the scariest moments of my life. Yet nothing, I mean nothing, has ever made my stomach knot the way putting my unfiltered thoughts out into the world does. Baring my soul to strangers? That hits different.
Why? Am I secretly terrified of judgment? Of what other people might think of me?
Not really. The people who know me in real life can tell you: I march to my own drum. I’ve never lost much sleep over opinions that weren’t mine to carry. So if it’s not fear of their gaze… what is it?
It’s the fear of what I might see when there’s no filter left.
So much of how we view ourselves is carefully curated. We polish the edges, hide the real cracks, and only admit to the safe, jokey blemishes—the ones we can laugh about with friends over drinks. (“Yeah, I’m fat, now leave me alone.”) We protect the deeper stuff without even realizing we’re doing it.
Fiction gives us the perfect disguise. We can pour our insecurities into characters and pretend they’re someone else’s problem. No, I’m not afraid of spiders… the character is. Wink. The page becomes a mask. A safe distance.
A blog doesn’t offer that distance. There’s no protagonist to hide behind, no plot to deflect onto. It’s just me—raw, off-the-cuff, no take-backs.
So here it is, friends. Me, unfiltered. Parental guidance suggested.
Thank you for being here, even when it’s messy. If you’re willing to walk this road with me, I promise to keep showing up every Wednesday.
Your quiet presence already makes the scary part feel a little less lonely.
Until next week—stay safe out there.
H.S. Harding
And if you’re new here—hello, truly. I hope you’ll stick around for a bit.
Creative expression is scary. I mean really scary.
I’m a combat veteran. I’ve been in situations that should have been the scariest moments of my life. Yet nothing, I mean nothing, has ever made my stomach knot the way putting my unfiltered thoughts out into the world does. Baring my soul to strangers? That hits different.
Why? Am I secretly terrified of judgment? Of what other people might think of me?
Not really. The people who know me in real life can tell you: I march to my own drum. I’ve never lost much sleep over opinions that weren’t mine to carry. So if it’s not fear of their gaze… what is it?
It’s the fear of what I might see when there’s no filter left.
So much of how we view ourselves is carefully curated. We polish the edges, hide the real cracks, and only admit to the safe, jokey blemishes—the ones we can laugh about with friends over drinks. (“Yeah, I’m fat, now leave me alone.”) We protect the deeper stuff without even realizing we’re doing it.
Fiction gives us the perfect disguise. We can pour our insecurities into characters and pretend they’re someone else’s problem. No, I’m not afraid of spiders… the character is. Wink. The page becomes a mask. A safe distance.
A blog doesn’t offer that distance. There’s no protagonist to hide behind, no plot to deflect onto. It’s just me—raw, off-the-cuff, no take-backs.
So here it is, friends. Me, unfiltered. Parental guidance suggested.
Thank you for being here, even when it’s messy. If you’re willing to walk this road with me, I promise to keep showing up every Wednesday.
Your quiet presence already makes the scary part feel a little less lonely.
Until next week—stay safe out there.
H.S. Harding
January 28, 2026
Starting a Blog (Yes, Really This Time)
Hello, friends.
I'm going to try something that feels a little terrifying: writing a blog.
One of my lifelong habits—maybe even a fatal flaw—is that when a project truly captures my heart, I tend to pour every ounce of focus into it. I go all in, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Blogging, marketing, being consistently “social” online… those things have never made it onto my laser-focused priority list.
And yet.
There’s real value in sharing thoughts with the world, isn’t there? Creative expression is still expression, even when it’s imperfect and unpolished. Keeping everything locked inside forever feels like a quieter kind of tragedy.
If I’m honest, my hesitation has mostly come from a nagging doubt: Who would actually care what I have to say?
Writing a novel feels safer somehow. I can take my time, shape the story exactly the way I want, hide the messy parts, and eventually present something shiny and complete. A blog, though? It’s raw. Off-the-cuff. Exposed. That vulnerability makes my stomach twist in ways a finished manuscript never does.So if you’re thinking of joining me on this small, uncertain adventure, I have one gentle request: please be kind.
I’m planning to post every Wednesday. That’s the promise I’m making to myself—and to you. If I start to waver, I’d be so grateful if you’d nudge me back on track. Accountability from even a handful of gentle readers would mean the world.
And if there’s ever a topic you’re curious about—something you’d like to hear my thoughts on—please tell me. Truly. I’m happy to wander down just about any path you suggest.
Thank you for being here, even if it’s just out of quiet curiosity.
It already means more than you know.See you next Wednesday?
With gratitude,
H.S. Harding
I'm going to try something that feels a little terrifying: writing a blog.
One of my lifelong habits—maybe even a fatal flaw—is that when a project truly captures my heart, I tend to pour every ounce of focus into it. I go all in, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Blogging, marketing, being consistently “social” online… those things have never made it onto my laser-focused priority list.
And yet.
There’s real value in sharing thoughts with the world, isn’t there? Creative expression is still expression, even when it’s imperfect and unpolished. Keeping everything locked inside forever feels like a quieter kind of tragedy.
If I’m honest, my hesitation has mostly come from a nagging doubt: Who would actually care what I have to say?
Writing a novel feels safer somehow. I can take my time, shape the story exactly the way I want, hide the messy parts, and eventually present something shiny and complete. A blog, though? It’s raw. Off-the-cuff. Exposed. That vulnerability makes my stomach twist in ways a finished manuscript never does.So if you’re thinking of joining me on this small, uncertain adventure, I have one gentle request: please be kind.
I’m planning to post every Wednesday. That’s the promise I’m making to myself—and to you. If I start to waver, I’d be so grateful if you’d nudge me back on track. Accountability from even a handful of gentle readers would mean the world.
And if there’s ever a topic you’re curious about—something you’d like to hear my thoughts on—please tell me. Truly. I’m happy to wander down just about any path you suggest.
Thank you for being here, even if it’s just out of quiet curiosity.
It already means more than you know.See you next Wednesday?
With gratitude,
H.S. Harding
