As a writer at the beginning of my career, I’ve thought about this a lot (especially with my debut on the horizon). If you’ve read any of my online work, you can see some things emerge: loneliness, loss, and the absence of a mother-figure (through death, or otherwise).

Even when it comes down to scene, I realized a short creative non-fiction piece I recently had accepted (keep an eye out in a few months 👀) shares a specific short scene with another short story of mine (namely, being in the kitchen when a maternal figure is cooking for you and their voice soaring).

Am I a bad writer? That is the inevitable and immediate thought. And in talking with my writing friends, I know is not a productive one. Especially in an industry that emphasizes author brand, it can feel like being trapped between a rock and a hard place. Do I write the same things, or do I not? That answer, for me, is simply to write. I didn’t necessarily aim to tell a grief story with Twin Tides, but of course it is.

I’ve also recently been observing my partner practice art. As a craft, he is drawing the same images over and over again. Perhaps slightly different, from a different angle or in a different way. But dozens of sketches of people, boxes, the way an arm sits in a particular position are scattered around our house. When I see him draw the same thing, I always notice differences. With each iteration, he learns more about himself as an artist and the very thing he wanted to bring to life in the first place.

As a writer who revisits the same themes and story repeatedly, I can draw on the same ethos. With each iteration, what new light is shed on my grief story? In the various versions of my mother that exist across my publications, what sides of her can I identify? What sides of me can I identify?

One of my recent hyperfixations has been baking sourdough bread, after buying a dehydrated starter online. I’ve made three loaves so far, each from slightly different recipes and yielding slightly different results. But ultimately, they are all bread. But, of course, my bread making doesn’t cause me any existential angst and it might be healthier for me to adopt the same mindset for my writing.

My second sourdough loaf

All this to say: with bread, art, and writing, repetition might actually be a requirement. If you have ever felt the anxiety over being a one-trick-pony perhaps take a trip to your local bakery. Cheers, and happy writing! ❤️