The Joy of Seasonal Writing: Autumn’s Turn

Autumn is always when I turn back to long form. There’s a stillness in these months that draws me in: a sense of contraction and reflection that seems to invite writing that stretches beyond a paragraph or two. The world itself slows down: leaves darken, light fades earlier, the air holds that crisp, almost tangible anticipation of winter. I follow suit.

After a summer spent juggling ideas, outlines, and fragments, autumn feels like a return. My mind settles, the words deepen. I find myself ready to sit for longer, to think more slowly, to follow a thread of thought wherever it leads.

I don’t keep journals in the conventional sense. In fact, most of what I write eventually disappears. I cull, edit, and discard freely, letting the habit of writing matter more than the permanence of it. Yet something about that transience feels deeply nourishing. Writing regularly, even when no one will ever read it, has become a kind of meditation. It steadies my mind, sharpens my attention, and reminds me how much joy there is in simply noticing.

Long-form work in autumn often pulls me toward reflection and story. I explore threads that have lingered in my thoughts over the past months: small observations, overheard snippets, images that refuse to leave me. Sometimes a paragraph turns into a sketch, a sketch into a scene, a scene into the beginnings of something larger. Sentences slow down; paragraphs lengthen. I lean into the rhythm of the season: the way dusk arrives almost imperceptibly, the damp weight of leaves on pavements, the rustle of wind in the trees. Each detail becomes a small anchor, keeping me grounded in the present moment.

I don’t keep everything I write, and I don’t think I need to. Letting words go has become part of my process. It’s a reminder that writing is practice, not product.

This autumn, after nearly three years of living with my second novel (roughly three, because it’s hard to pinpoint when an idea truly begins), I am starting something new. It’s set in the Highlands, in a glen at Christmastime. The story is still taking shape, but I’m enjoying the process: losing myself in the landscape, exploring the terrain as deeply as the characters who inhabit it. There’s a kind of magic in that discovery phase, when everything feels possible and the world of the story is still unfolding.

I can’t wait to share more about it soon. But for now, I’m content to stay in this season, to write quietly, to follow the changing light, to let autumn do what it does best: draw me inward, slow me down, and remind me why I love this work in the first place.