It can be daunting to share your creation because then it no longer belongs entirely to you. People judge, ignore, misunderstand, don’t notice, or … love it.

Many of us wait to feel confident before we send out our work, but I’ve learned you can give your confidence a boost by finding courage to do the thing that makes you uncomfortable. As creators, a significant part of the job is learning to be seen, often before we feel ready.

As someone who loves working with archetypes, here are a few that can show up in your energy when you’re thinking about sharing work:

• The Perfectionist – Just one more tweak before I let them see it. This is the part of you that believes work must be ‘finished enough’ before it can be shown. It is also a respectable way to hide in the disguise of good intentions.
• The Emerging Creator – I have something worth sharing. This part acknowledges you have something to say, but you’re still learning to claim space for it.
• The Brave Beginner – I don’t have to know everything before I begin. You’re willing to be visible before you feel ready.
• The Disruptor – Who said I need their approval? The part of you that does not believe you need external approval before you’re ‘allowed’ to put your work into the world.
• The Resistor – I’ll do it… just not yet. The part that finds reasonable reasons to delay creating or sharing your work. There’s always something else to finish, learn or prepare before you can take the next step. Often resistance is fear in disguise.

Do any resonate with you at the stage you’re at now?

Here are four strategies I find helpful:

1. Share before you feel ready: if you wait until you’re 100% happy with everything you make, you may wait forever. There’ll nearly always be a detail you could add or change.
2. Separate your work from your worth: someone not liking your story, illustration or photograph isn’t the same as someone not liking you. It can feel personal, but it isn’t a verdict on your value as a person or creator.
3. Don’t try to make everything impressive: not everything has to demonstrate your talent. Sometimes what you share shows how you work, what you’re working on, what you’re thinking about or what made you laugh.
4. Give yourself a smaller audience: you don’t have to leap from hiding your work in a notebook to broadcasting it to the world. Start by sharing it with one person, then a few, then publicly. Confidence can be built in increments.

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

Readers arrive late for a story that’s already underway.

In the same way, we’re born into action. Not only do we inherit family surnames and recipes, but we’re also handed unfinished conversations, habits, patterns, traumas and expectations, all in the hope we’ll continue the narrative.

And look, here I am, talking about middles before I’ve introduced beginnings.

“A whole is what has a beginning and middle and end.” – Aristotle, Poetics

Childhood messaging repeatedly reinforces this idea. For example, a child explaining to a caregiver what happened in a fight is encouraged to share the scenario from the beginning. In school, we colour diagrams of story mountains and then label exposition, rising action, climax and resolution, as if stories were as predictable as geological formations.

As any writer will tell you, stories – like cats and houseplants – rarely behave according to instructions.

“What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.” – T.S Eliot, Four Quartets

That said, as creators and consumers of stories, we know that context and timing changes everything. A closed door means one thing in chapter one and something else entirely in the final pages. The same event can be a tragedy, initiation or plot twist, depending on where it sits on the timeline.

This also feels close to lived experience. Jobs end and new identities emerge. Relationships dissolve and unexpected opportunities arrive. Children grow up and a different version of parenthood begins. Endings keep disguising themselves as beginnings, which feel more like a process of germination than an absolute starting point.

Often we begin something new in our life during a moment of tension or change, hoping to discover the rest of the story along the way. When we recognise we’re in what writers affectionately call ‘the messy middle’, a season of uncertainty feels less alarming. This is the time that characters (and often their authors) become confused, change direction, lose certainty and reach a crossroads. Yet it is the middle that turns out not to be a failure of structure, but ultimately the backbone that empowers the story and its characters.

And the ending, that place where nothing further is expected. The end, or is it? A story ends when the author stops typing, or does it end days later when a sentence or image returns to the reader?

It can be disorientating not knowing where we are in our own story and whether we’re in the midst of a prologue, plot twist, dark night of the soul, or chapter transition. Is it a beginning, messy middle or an ending of something? Perhaps the question we can gift ourselves is: Where do I think I am in my story right now?

Once we’ve bookmarked the chapter, we can stop demanding certainty from the plot and begin to trust the process of becoming, as the larger narrative unfolds.

Photo by Eilis Garvey on Unsplash

The name March originates from the Latin Martius, which honours Mars, the ancient Roman god of war, representing courage and action. And, like March, dragons – among the oldest mythical creatures in storytelling – also stand at liminal edges, inviting us to step forward into new seasons and worlds.

Dragons protect caves, gateways, treasure, or sacred knowledge. They are threshold guardians, inviting characters to confront their fears, especially those buried deep below the surface, so they can claim the reward.

“People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons. From within.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin

Perhaps the enduring power of dragons to fascinate us lies in the truth of Le Guin’s observation that dragons are not only elemental creatures, but also creatures of the human psyche, becoming destructive when ignored, or imprisoned.

If our dragons represent deep forces within us, then denying their existence does not make these forces disappear. It only drives them inward where they consume energy and distort our sense of self.

This month for your equinox reflection, why not ask yourself these 7 questions to see what your dragons are trying to share about the patterns holding you back from stepping fully into your power.

1. Where do I need to feel safe in my life?
2. What part of myself wants to be accepted?
3. Where am I ready to reclaim my power?
4. What needs compassion or release?
5. What truth wants to be spoken?
6. What illusion am I ready to see through?
7. How can I reconnect with my deeper sense of belonging?

The equinox offers a time for you to come back into balance. To remember that every dragon guards a treasure that you can access, once you acknowledge the dragon. Perhaps this season’s gift is to ask your dragons:

• What gift have you been protecting for me all along?
• What are you trying to awaken within me?

Photo by Dan Cutler on Unsplash

Day-to-day life is not much different. We set a direction, start climbing our mountain, and then something/someone pulls us off-trail. Sometimes it’s chosen, other times it’s forced, but often it doesn’t feel optional at all. Yet, almost always, it becomes meaningful.

Side quests in books (and life) are usually delays, detours, pauses, chance decisions or distractions, but they are important in the sense that the character will emerge as someone capable of the main quest. While they can be unexpected, inconvenient or uncomfortable, they are never wasted. A side quest can be a temporary job, a healing period, a pause to care for someone, a new relationship, a project ‘just for now’, or a personal crisis. There may even be times when the side quest transforms into the main path – when detours reveal a path we hadn’t previously considered, but it turns out to be exactly right, more aligned and more honest.

Matt Haig’s book, The Midnight Library, is a beautiful example of how much impact a side quest – or making one different choice – can have on a life. In the book, Nora finds herself between life and death in a library of infinite possibilities. Each book she opens lets her experience a life she could have had – careers she never pursued, relationships she didn’t build, and adventures she never took.

“Between life and death there is a library, and within that library, the shelves go on forever. Every book provides a chance to try another life you could have lived.” – The Midnight Library, Matt Haig

Not everyone will understand your side quest/s. Some may think you’ve ‘lost the plot’, or you’re ‘wasting time’, but these comments reveal their fear, not your truth. People who misunderstand your detours are usually:

• afraid of taking their own
• uncomfortable with ambiguity
• invested in you staying predictable
• projecting their insecurities
• unaware that growth often looks chaotic before it looks clear

Your role isn’t to convince them. Your role is to continue your story. Side quests don’t need outside approval to be valuable. Not everyone understands your internal timing, personal transformation, or story arc.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.” – The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost

Think of a detour you’ve experienced recently…

• How did it revisit a lesson from your past in a new way?
• How did it turn out to be meaningful?
• What is one thing your side quest has taught you that will guide your next step?

If you’re ready to integrate your side quest and get back on track:

• Acknowledge what it gave you – insights, clarity, stamina, a boundary, a relationship, skills, or perspective.
• Take a small next step – you don’t need the whole plan.
• Release the idea of ‘lost time’ – you weren’t lost, you were learning.
• Re-enter your path with new insight – your main journey may not be the same, and that’s perfect because you’re not the same person.
• Let the transition be gradual – heroes don’t leap from the side quest to final battle.

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

The sudden or unusual appearance of a specific bird, or the repeated presence of a certain colour or number is more than coincidence. These symbols act as messages from the universe, reflections of our inner landscapes, and invitations to pause, notice, and interpret.

A symbol can be anything. What makes it symbolic is the meaning we attach to it. A worn-out book can represent childhood comfort. A red scarf may evoke love or longing. Wisdom traditions teach that symbols act as bridges between worlds. A shell, stone, or seed can become a talisman of protection or transformation. Animals, plants, and patterns can offer guidance if we pay attention. Even the symbolic imagery in dreams can serve as messages from our deeper consciousness, sparking creativity or spiritual insight.

Symbols are powerful because they translate complex emotions into simple, tangible forms, illuminating hidden truths. They compress experience. They help us process what may otherwise feel too big to hold.

Consider a few famous examples from literature:

• The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald – the green light becomes more than Jay Gatsby’s longing for Daisy; it embodies hope, desire, and the elusive American Dream.
• To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee – the mockingbird stands for innocence, and the moral truth that harming the innocent is wrong.
• Moby-Dick by Herman Melville – the white whale symbolises obsession, fate, nature, and the uncontrollable forces we chase, but can never conquer.
• Lord of the Flies by William Golding – the conch represents order, civilisation, and authority.
• The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams – Laura’s glass animals reflect her fragility and delicate inner world

 To engage with symbolism, why not try this simple exercise:

• Pause and observe: Notice anything that stands out today – an object, sound, recurring image, or a motif from the book you’re reading.
• Reflect: What can this represent in my life? What memory, feeling, or hope can it carry? How does it resonate? Can it offer insight, guidance, direction, or comfort?
• Record: Write down your reflections. A sentence or two anchors the symbol in your awareness.
• Follow the map: Over time, these moments form a map, revealing the subtle ways spirit, intuition, or imagination speaks to you.

Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

To squeeze more reading time into your day, why not consider these five underrated habits from the perspective of two reader modes: Do-Not-Disturb readers (who devour pages faster than they breathe in oxygen) and Slow-and-Steady readers who read in small snatches of time. To clarify, we’re not one or the other, but slip between modes depending on book, mood, circumstances and current capacity.

1. “Five more minutes please…”

This doesn’t apply too much to readers in Do-Not-Disturb mode, since five minutes barely registers. You have to know what happens next, so don’t be surprised if five becomes 55 minutes. In Slow-and-Steady mode, however, five minutes is a solid doorway to drop back into the story.

Why it’s underrated: Five minutes a day adds up to roughly 30 hours and 25 minutes a year. The secret here is how many five-minute gaps you can slot into your day.

2. “Give me my space”

Do-Not-Disturb readers have zero spatial awareness. They’ll read standing up without any discomfort. They don’t need space either.

The Slow-and-Steady crowd often benefits from creating a tiny sanctuary: a soft blanket, a scented candle, a mug of tea, or a pet to cuddle – anything that suggests: It’s reading time now.

Why it’s underrated: Your body remembers rituals even on days when your brain feels way too overwhelmed with life.

3. A nudge in the right direction

Let’s be clear. Do-Not-Disturb readers do not need nudges, but those in Slow-and-Steady mode sometimes appreciate a reminder – such as a bookmark left across a computer keyboard – to return to the story.

Why it’s underrated: Even the most devoted reader can benefit from a cue to take some time out of the day for reading pleasure.

 4. The one-page promise

For readers in Do-Not-Disturb, this is laughable. One page? Unthinkable. Stressful, even. You do not rest until you finish the book. Simple.

For those in the Slow-and-Steady lane, the one-page promise removes any pressure of ‘making good progress’. Before your day begins, choose a manageable reading intention, like one page. This shifts your reading into a promise to yourself: honourable and achievable. Some days you fly through a page and then a chapter or two. On others, you read eight lines. Either way, your connection to the book stays alive.

Why it’s underrated: Slow and steady often does win the proverbial race, and you get the satisfaction of showing up for yourself.

5. Reflect and recover

Readers in Do-Not-Disturb mode will reach the ending unnaturally soon and be left reeling because the book is now finished. They are bereft, lost, and already reaching for a rebound book to survive the loss. They embark upon a road to recovery. Here I’d recommend they reflect on what captivated them so completely, all while working through a survival kit that often includes tracking down every other book by the same author.

When Slow-and-Steady readers close a book, it’s not uncommon for them to pause. They savour the moment. They may work through a reading journal, or even leave the book to rest on the bedside table for a few days while they process things.

Why it’s underrated: A moment of reflection deepens the pleasure and helps the story linger longer.

Last point to ponder

Even on chaotic days, reading can thrive in the periphery of life. You don’t need long, empty afternoons or perfect lighting to set the scene. Don’t get me wrong – while that is blissful, there is a lot to be gained by gifting yourself a few minutes, some space, and a nudge in the right direction on those days when you need it most.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez  on Unsplash

“Once upon a time there was a little chimney sweep, and his name was Tom. That is a short name, and you have heard it before, so you will not have much trouble in remembering it.”
– The Water-Babies, Charles Kingsley

Lately, I’ve found myself turning over character names like shells from the ocean – testing their weight, feeling their texture, holding them against my ear to hear the echoes of my novel.

When it comes to names – in fantasy especially – I expect everything. Names are personality, destiny, history, myth and legacy encoded in a few letters. Whether they belong to people, places, animals or objects, the right names build the world. They’re not decoration – they’re scaffolding for belief and meaning. Fantasy as a genre has always understood that names are maps and symbols in disguise. These names are spoken in languages we’ve never heard, but somehow understand, creating something that feels older than the page.

Beyond their practical function, names carry an almost sacred energy. In many spiritual traditions, a name is more than a sound or label. It is a vibration, a frequency that holds the essence of a being’s soul and destiny. To speak a name is to invoke that spirit, to call forth the unique light within someone or something.

This idea is so literal in Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story when the fate of Fantastica (Fantasia in the 1984 film adaption) itself hinges on a name. The Childlike Empress, timeless and radiant, is dying. Her world is unravelling. The only way to save her, and Fantastica/Fantasia, is for a human child from the real world to rename her. A name, truly given from emotion, reawakens life and reclaims story.

The Water-Babies casts its magic through simplicity. Tom is simply Tom – short, familiar and chosen so you won’t forget him. Around him swirl Ellie, kind and gentle, and Mr Grimes, harsh and cruel. Then come the living lessons: Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby and Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid – names that double as guideposts through a moral landscape.

Names connect us – reader to character, character to world, world to story. When a name is right, it lingers, resonates and means. You don’t always remember battles or plot twists, but you do remember Katniss Everdeen or Violet Sorrengail.

Photo by Jay-Pee Peña  on Unsplash

New beginnings, no matter how promising, demand that we loosen our grip on something familiar. A role we’ve learned to play. A belief that once kept us safe. A comfortable routine or relationship. A version of ourselves we’re happy to keep, even if it’s become too small.

Characters, like us, resist change because:

• They doubt their capacity to meet the challenge.
• They cling to the known, even when it limits their growth.
• They grieve or feel guilt over what must be left behind.
• They fear not only failure, but the exposure that comes with transformation, or being truly seen.

This hesitation is the juiciness of storytelling. Tension gives a journey meaning because when characters push against the thing that will transform them, we see ourselves reflected. Our stuckness. Our delay. Our excuses. Our longing.

Thankfully, we’re not alone. Fiction is full of characters who resist, stumble, pause – and grow anyway. Some of the most memorable protagonists start their journeys kicking and screaming (or at least hesitating and overthinking). They resist the call. They cling to the familiar. They dig in their heels at the edge of something new. It’s this resistance that makes their eventual transformation feel real and relatable.

In many wisdom traditions, resistance isn’t a sign of fear – it’s a protective instinct. The ego, wired for survival, steps in and says: “Stay safe. Stay small. Don’t risk the unknown.” This resistance can feel like procrastination, anxiety, avoidance, or irritation, but underneath it’s often something else: a part of us trying to guard against shame, failure, or pain. It’s the soul pausing before a leap. The heart asking: “Am I ready for this?”

What if your resistance isn’t a problem, but a message to be heard? What if it’s pointing to something that needs compassion, not condemnation?

Transformation doesn’t always begin with bravado. It begins with a willingness to sit beside our fear instead of running from it – a choice to listen to our longing, even if it terrifies us. There are false starts, missteps, and retreats during times of change, but the story keeps moving and so do we.

The invitation is not about being fearless, but rather facing that fear by being faithful to the voice within. New beginnings don’t need to arrive with fireworks; sometimes they appear modestly, asking only that we open the door a bit wider.

Reflection Prompt:

• Think of a story where the main character resisted the call. What helped them move forward?
• What does this teach you about your own threshold?
• Where are you currently feeling resistance in your life?
• What could happen if you stopped trying to push it away and gave yourself permission to be curious about what it could be protecting?

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash