LIMITS

By Clay Stafford

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I was raised to believe that when I came to an obstacle, it was a personal shortcoming if I did not push through, a personal failure if I did not succeed, and a personal cowardice if I gave up. Those beliefs inhabited the marrow of my bones and festered in the recesses of my brain. I had no natural limits, none of us did, or so I thought and was bred to believe. Even giving credence to such an absurd suggestion felt irresponsible. I knew I and everyone else could overcome anything if we only pushed hard enough. There was no skill we couldn’t learn, no talent we couldn’t expand, no mountain we could not climb. I not only judged myself; I judged everyone. I taught it to my students and in my lectures. We all needed to be responsible for the optimal performance of our lives. It was called being dependable, being responsible, rising to the challenge, working harder and smarter, and pushing through. The push was always highly emotional, causing stress and conflict not only in me but in all my relationships, where others’ performances fell short, but I knew it was worth it. It brought out the best in all of us. Like a winning coach, I pushed myself and those around me. And when they pushed back, I viewed their lack of participation as denial and even laziness. Emotionally wrought, I could never see the mental clarity lost in this thinking. From the dejected faces of those I lived and worked with, it seemed I failed in the very presence that I thought I was being, the one I thought I was protecting. Even in that, I strove to do better.

The satisfaction of control brought me peace, or so I thought. I put myself in charge of my destiny. I oversaw my own future, and nothing could get in the way of that, and very little did. I offered every problem and relationship a doorway that could make things easier for me and everyone around me, but if it was blocked, I had no qualms about going through the wall. Pushing longer, harder, and stronger was, to me, a form of commitment. Staying with a problem until the end of the day, even if that day ran into the night, or even several days without sleep, was applaudable devotion and intention. Accepting limits or growing tired meant one had no self-respect. This was how a meaningful life was to be built; the lives of the great men and women I read in biographies exemplified that. They pushed through because they had something all of us could acquire: character. They built meaningful lives; I would, too. Endurance, discipline, and refusal to quit were the framework of success. Refusal to quit meant refusal to retreat, like cowards, like those who were weak. Even rest itself, I told myself, could wait. “I can sleep when I’m dead” was not uncommon coming out of my mouth in reply to those who were close to me and cared, as I popped my trucker’s caffeine pills, drank my ten Cuban coffees, and my gallon of daily tea.

The cost of this thinking and living with such force didn’t show up immediately. It took decades. That’s the deception we take to heart when we believe the deceitfulness chocked at us by the sycophants of the famous. The famous lied to the watching world, the obsequious flatterers lied to readers of books about great men and women, and then I took those as truths and lied to myself. Sure, the lies gave me extra waking time, or something that resembled it anyway. I learned how to stretch the day thinner, how to draw more from myself than I thought I could. The point that activity didn’t always equal accomplishment, though, was often lost on me. What I gained in hours, I lost, though I didn’t realize it, in life and relational clarity. After decades of this rat race, my attention to the important things, not just the walls to burst through, began to dull. My decisions about where to focus slowed. Simple things began to take longer, though I attributed that to age. Regardless, the very life I had always believed I was protecting by defining my own fate began to resist me.

I began to see, or rather I began to feel, that the very wall that I could not seem to push through was myself. Nothing dramatic happened to show me this. Fatigue didn’t announce itself to me publicly. Nothing in my life collapsed. Feeling tired all the time wasn’t bad; it was my baseline. Yet, focus began to take on the persona of irritation toward my work, myself, and the people around me. I no longer set out to tackle only the big things; small problems now carried more weight than they should have, and small mistakes by others began to irritate me. Life began to feel painful, even at times undesirable. Everything became such a big deal. I found that where I used to slam through walls, I began to make choices not out of intention, but out of relief. I became drawn to whatever would end the discomfort the fastest.

Being successful, I began to wonder, why did I feel at rock bottom? Being high in my profession, having relationships others would envy, having built the life I envisioned, something had to change, though I didn’t know how to give it a name. My choices began to become ill-guided, not from indifference, but from dullness. The part of me that once noticed nuance grew silent. Subtle distinctions in life, work, and people disappeared. I lost my sense of when effort was required and when time was the truer answer. I could still function, but I was compensating, now relying totally on force on everything where attention and inspiration once worked cleanly.

Then came denial, and the emotional cost that followed. Each time I overrode the yokes, big and small, that pulled me down, I taught myself not to listen. Signals that I used to welcome began to annoy me. They were inconveniences to my peace. Discomfort became something to suppress, to submit to silently rather than with understanding. Gradually, all trust eroded, not just in my body, mind, emotions, or energy, but in myself in general. A faint impatience began to settle in, yet flat, a sense that I was now pushing through life, all parts of it, still accomplishing, but rather than moving with it, things were no longer flowing.

As a result of shutting out the world and the world within my own head, my world narrowed. Limits began to change perspective. Everything became about getting through the day. Curiosity, my lifeblood, even began to fade. I knew something needed to be done, but that was the problem. I had everything I could ever want. Recovery from that seemed crazy and certainly ungratefully indulgent. Surprise began to have no place or excitement. My world was perfect. I was not in crisis, yet I was living as though I were. Survival mode replaced presence without my consent. Everyone around me felt it or felt the brunt of what I would not share.

I think the most dangerous part was how ordinary it all felt. Nothing told me to stop. Nothing told me to slow down. Nothing hinted at any type of collapse. Nothing told me I needed to stop bashing walls. No one told me I had a problem, or if they did, I didn’t hear. What I was doing, though, was operating below capacity, and I’d been doing it for way too long. I focused on my limitations to the point of obsession, at the expense of seriousness and gratitude about what I could control. There were limitations that I could not power through, I realized after too many years. And because I didn’t realize this earlier, all limitations, even challenges, began to operate out of the same intensity. Out of the blue, it hit me that if I couldn’t power through certain things that didn’t erase who I was or what I could become despite them. I realized that maybe those walls were there for a reason, that maybe I was meant to be something I didn’t consciously see myself as. The realization was slow and painful, but my life began to change. Centering took the place of warfare.

My limits took on a new light. They were never obstacles; they were misconceptions on my part. They were even guardians of who I was meant to be. The sad thing is, I had been deluded and deluded myself for a lifetime. I recognized the pundits of the super life were frauds. I began to respect those limits. At first, I didn’t respect limits dramatically or perfectly, but rather honestly, and, when I did, something softened inside me like the Grinch’s frozen heart. Efforts on things that were within my limits became cleaner. Decisions within my framework grew quieter and more precise. Life began to deepen again, rather than merely expanding. I began to do less because I stopped slamming into walls and instead spent my time doing more. That was the paradox. In fact, I did better at everything I did. The cost of refusing to stop at natural limitations had been the gradual loss of the very capacities that made my efforts meaningful in the first place. Limits and walls became not challenges to defeat, but invitations to stop long enough to acknowledge, honor, and preserve those things that did matter within the sphere of life I’d been given in which to live. Limits became no more than a beautiful river in my life, a life without a boat, that asked me to choose the path to the left or to the right when it told me in so many ways I could not cross but promised adventure no matter which direction I chose.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

LISTENING

By Clay Stafford

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I always believed that human glory and life’s meaning were found in the senses: what I saw, touched, felt, heard, smelled, and tasted as I sped down the passing lane of accomplishment. These things provided the richness of living, complementary to the mountainous regions of sentience, the arcs and trajectories of being, and the hills and valleys of experience, the satisfaction of the present moment, and the excitement of things to come. Moving through those elevations and absorbing the delight of each moment seemed attainable only through effort and discipline, verified by visible signs of progress. Passivity, I believed, would not allow fate to deepen. Nor would acceptance or routine. I was not born intentionally appreciating what surrounded me. It was up to me to seek it out. Without intention or constant effort, something in me dragged me downward, turning me negative, and closed my eyes to the beauty held even as close as a flower in my hand.

For me, work and sacrifice were never separate. I approached my work the same way I approached my love of conduct: as a builder, a creator, someone constructing what I envisioned and leaving nothing to chance, mitigating the risk of even a moment lived without purpose. Committed to experience and beauty and the love of spirit, I lived with the belief and what felt like proof that if I worked hard enough, planned carefully enough, and remained devoted to improvement, the more profound human aspects, such as spirituality, intellectual pleasure, and emotional fulfillment, would arrive on their own. I only needed to lay the tracks. I assumed understanding, timing, and wisdom would naturally follow once the visible work and confirmation to my senses were undeniable. What I did not realize was that the skill that mattered most, the one that would ultimately transform my existence and my relationships, was not something I could see, touch, feel, hear, smell, or taste. It was not visible at all. It belonged to the category of things I assumed would take care of themselves if I were disciplined enough to live an examined, well-lived reality.

Whether innate or shaped through observation as I grew and matured, I came to believe that vitality was shaped entirely by purposeful intention. When something failed to work, maybe a relationship, a decision, or a season of my lifestyle, I tried to fix it the only way I knew how: by adding more effort, more thinking, more explanation, more force, more control. Wasn’t it my responsibility to build an existence I could eventually look back on without regret, one I could reach the end of and say, well done? For me, clarity came from that assertion, from believing meaning could be pressed into place if I pushed hard enough and demanded transformation. It was unsettling to discover that my diligence, the very trait I trusted most, was often working against me.

At one of my lowest points, I realized that one’s lot was more than experience, sensation, and action. Viability, I found, communicates just as clearly when it is encountered quietly, indirectly, and without urgency. Being a fixer revealed its limits in moments that required no solution, situations that asked for no action, and questions that had no immediate answers. I flailed there. I didn’t know how to stand still. I wanted so much more from destiny than what I believed I had been given that I failed to notice what was already present. When this recognition arrived, it did so subtly, yet with quiet unease. The problems that continued to trouble me were not rooted in lack of effort or achievement. They stemmed from failure to listen to things that did not need to be, but were, without asking for my attention.

Hearing and choosing when not to attend was what I had missed. Discernment. Not paying attention for approval or instruction, but being attentive for boundaries, for signals, for the difference between what wanted to be rushed and what needed time. I had to hear the quiet truth that some things were not asking me to act, repair, or improve; they were asking me to stop interfering. And yet, I wasn’t taking heed.

To my surprise, taking into account itself became an act. It was not passive. It required restraint and patience. Concentrating asked me to tolerate uncertainty without rushing to resolve it. It asked me to leave unfinished things unfinished, to resist tidying them up or wrapping them up prematurely. Keeping my ears open meant trusting that clarity sometimes arrived only after I stopped demanding it.

At first, this felt unproductive. From the outside, monitoring resembled hesitation, pausing instead of advancing, waiting instead of fixing. When I stopped pushing, I felt lost. In doing nothing, I wondered what I was doing at all. There were fewer markers of progress, no surge of momentum, no thrill of accomplishment. Slowing down felt uncomfortable in a world and in my own world that rewarded decisiveness and speed. And yet, something began to change.

When I took note instead of forcing outcomes, the quality of my decisions shifted. My perceptions changed. I stopped shaping results that didn’t truly fit. I recognized when something was complete rather than refining it beyond necessity. I learned, often uncomfortably, that others did not always want solutions; they wanted to be heard. Silence, I discovered, could carry weight without being filled, and tuning in altered my understanding of doubt. Uncertainty became information rather than a shortcoming. Things were not broken; they were unresolved, and that distinction mattered. It gave me patience I had never practiced before.

I came to understand that the apparent inactivity of focusing was itself a form of action. It was not instinctive. Like any skill, it was built slowly through humility, repetition, and restraint. It sharpened not through effort, but by stepping back and allowing actuality to reveal itself without interruption. Once perceived, it grew. It became the foundation beneath every visible skill, every tangible accomplishment. Everything I did depended on this quiet test for its truest execution.

The quietness began to permeate my continuation. I found myself longing for it. No amount of effort could replace it. No amount of planning could override it. Without lending an ear, progress dissolved into noise. A new reality had come. And in returning to the full circle, I discovered something unexpected: even stillness had direction. I had not underestimated listening because I considered it unimportant. I underestimated it because it was quiet.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

MAKING IT BEFORE IT HAS A NAME

By Clay Stafford

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There were periods when I began something simply out of interest, long before I understood why, and, oddly, the not-knowing at times unsettled me more than the effort itself. I am, by nature, a planner and a builder, and to be the best at that, one needs to know from the start what they are constructing. It’s a little irresponsible to build a skyscraper without planning and realize, too late, that you didn’t put the right foundation under the building. The longer I lived, the more I noticed a pattern that didn’t quite make sense to me: some of the most authentic things in my life began before they could be explained, and naming them too early seemed to shrink what they were trying to become, as if definition became a filter or a cell. I didn’t have that concept at the time, but the truth of it lingered as something I wouldn’t understand for years, something that existed long before I found the words to recognize it. I began to realize that some of the most important things in my life only revealed their meaning after I was already living them.

I can think of decisions, relationships, detours, and changes I made in my life that began without language, without an expressed idea, what a writer might call a “thesis statement.” Without a plan, I found myself moving toward people, places, projects, and experiences that couldn’t really be justified. Beginnings were always small, sometimes even unnoticed, like quiet shifts that pointed me away from what was familiar to something new and unknown without offering any clarity or expectations of what might come next. As it expanded into my life, my days, my consciousness, the absence of explanation began to feel like a kind of unnameable negligence, as though I owed myself, if not the world, some sort of rationale before I took the next step. The interesting thing about life, though, and especially adventure, is that nothing meaningful arrives with instructions.

Some beginnings took the form of restlessness, sometimes bordering on boredom. Others came from a pull I couldn’t seem to ignore. I didn’t think or plan my way into those moments as much as I moved my way into them by some magnetic, yet unnamed, attraction. Whatever meaning they carried waited there and didn’t announce itself at the start, like a wrapped birthday present asking to be eagerly opened with childhood innocence, but only when the birthday came. Meaning surfaced only after the momentum of action, movement, or interest, unexplained, but happening, after I gave up wanting certainty that my time or emotions were not wasted. I wanted assurance before I pulled the paper away from the birthday box, wanted to see what was inside before I undid the ribbon.

For much of my life, I resisted this uncertain stage. Maybe it was the way I was raised as a child, but it always felt safer to have clarity before action, certainty before motion. It was inherent in me to want to know the ending, what it meant, whether it was safe, and how I could justify myself if anyone should ask. Without clarity and the words, always the words, which may be why I am a writer, I always felt exposed, awkward in a way that left me sometimes rehearsing the answer, the justification, before I had completely made the choice, even as I was already traveling down an unknown path through a forest dappled with light, leaves flickering with moving brightness, the smell of wet earth rising, without the faintest hint of what it boded.

Being someone who plays chess rather than checkers, beginning something, anything, without clarity required a different posture than I was used to. Those moments asked that I enter them without strategy, even without ambition, but only presence. Being foreign to me, I didn’t have a name for what was happening then other than those moments, things, people, or ideas embraced something that kept me returning to those half-formed beginnings, unidentifiable hopes, and curious opportunities, and that returning to them by some magnetic, unexplainable pull mattered even, at times, if none of it made any sense.

In the worlds I circled, I looked to efficiency and expediency, even in relationships, and from the outside, this way of moving probably looked highly inefficient. In those unnamed spaces, false starts, reversals, and in-between states that didn’t add up clouded the clarity. I collected experiences that didn’t seem connected, yet over time, they began to mark the edges of something that appeared to form out of the mist. They revealed what stayed and what fell away. They traced a shape I did not realize I had been drawing, yet had been seemingly unconsciously engineering from the start.

It was later in life, after I had been married and even after I had a son, that I stopped using the phrases “happy accidents” and “bumbling through life.” Something began to shift when I stopped asking these innocuous beginnings to declare themselves too early. I let them happen. I felt less urgency to start justifying each step. I think part of it was because I had put myself into a world that didn’t require an explanation, a happy place of unconditional love and acceptance, something that came with marrying the right person. Because of this foundation, I didn’t rush decisions simply to escape uncertainty. I let things “percolate,” as my son coined, when he was near an adult. I noticed the quiet gravity of what I kept returning to when those things called to me from the fog, and how nothing real in those voices demanded immediate clarity or even a call back from me in return. Understanding, when it came at all, arrived later, subtle, without fanfare, and I began to let it happen in its own natural way.

The real tension wasn’t in not knowing; it was in the impulse to decide too quickly what something was supposed to be. I saw clearly that each time I started something that seemed to fall into my lap with questions, to name it, to give it a beginning point before it lived, shrank it to match my description of it, rather than allowing it to slowly manifest itself, like the bloom of a flower, into its own possibilities, shape, form, and even my relationship with or appreciation of it. Slowly, through life practice and observation, I learned to wait a little longer. An egg is an egg, but if you wait, to one’s ultimate surprise, a chick may emerge. “Wait a little longer” became my mantra. I needed to allow experience to accumulate before drawing conclusions or judging. Even without my “input,” refinement happened, though it may not have been there in the start, as the Old Me would have desired. In contrast, when meaning did arrive, it arrived as something real, something that could be refined, the “happy accident” seeming predestined on its own. That is how the subconscious works. It is a land hidden, but a calculating world in its own right.

Many of the meaningful shifts in my life didn’t arrive as predetermined or mapped plans. I didn’t select them from a menu of options or make deliberate choices. They appeared first at the periphery while I was occupied with living and paying attention, and they continued even when I couldn’t articulate what they were, what I was feeling, or the purpose or endpoint. I guess what I got out of all this, so many years later, is that life isn’t always the execution of a strategy. Sometimes it is the slow uncovering of one. Venturing into the unknown before I understood the “meaning of it all” wasn’t carelessness or irresponsibility. It was a way, and continues to be a way, of staying open long enough for meaning to emerge on its own through movement and unveiling rather than planning and anticipation. Some of the truest parts of my life found their names only after I let them exist as long as needed without one, and I suspect that might be the only way I would have ever recognized them at all.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Creating Your Personal and Business Road Map to Success as an Author: Creating Situational Awareness of Time and Events Impacting Our Journey

By Pamela Ebel

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Article One of this series explored the hurdles faced when we begin the change to writing as a full-time endeavor. We considered why and how to avoid the ‘One Right Answer’ when setting our professional goals. 

Article Two examined how new goals may require major changes in our professional and personal lives. Their impact on our families, friends, and co-workers—many of whom will become the first audience for our writings—need to be addressed. To lessen that effect we discussed the need to explain the goals to these groups, include them in the decision-making process, seek their acceptance, and bring them along on the journey.

Now we’ll work to acquire or refine skills that ensure our goals stay relevant and achievable. 

Creating Situational Awareness

Situational Awareness is something most of us do every day. We look around carefully as we head to our car in a darkened parking lot; prepare for an important meeting by studying those who will attend and the topic(s) to be covered. The list of things we believe require us to be aware of certain situations is prolific. 

Still, when it comes to personal and professional goals, we often struggle to examine them with fresh eyes because, having committed to them early on, we’ve become victims of habit. To avoid this pitfall, let’s start creating situational awareness.

There are three parts to the process:

1. Perception–   Start by examining our current writing situation to see what key elements, events and/or individuals have changed since we set the original goals. This requires refreshing memories about what our professional and personal lives were like before beginning the journey. 

Next, we look at what changes have occurred. Did we quit the other career completely or did we move to part-time? Were there any major changes in our personal lives such as marriage, births, divorce, death, illnesses, relocation, which changed our plans? The answers may have altered our initial goals and immediate environment.

2. Comprehension– This step is often the hardest for us to tackle. When we delve back into the time, place, events, and the people that existed when we announced, “I’m going to be a writer full time!” what ifs abound. 

The results of those original decisions may or may not be satisfying. They are, however, the reality we must work with when deciding if goals need to be changed. Consulting with the people that were and are still a part of our decision-making process will help in comprehending the new situation.

3. Projection– Identifying goals affected by time and events is the challenging part of this exercise. 

Looking back, we should note the goals that have been met and are still worth time and effort to pursue because…? Beware of keeping goals based on the ‘One Right Answer’ or on habits that are outdated. List the reasons that justify maintaining and supporting certain goals.

Then take a close look at the goals that don’t appear successful or relevant considering added information. Checking with those individuals who have been with us from the start and other writers on similar journeys will allow us to make predictions of what is likely to happen in the near future.

Wait! This process is asking us to recalibrate our futures based on guesses about known and unknown facts and situations? When would we find ourselves in such a predicament having been so careful at the beginning? What could possibly throw the ‘best laid plans’ into such disarray? 

One word that comes to mind – AI! 

From Federal Court decisions in search of a way to demand and determine the presence of the ‘Human Hand’ in a work seeking publication and copyright protection under the U.S. Constitution to copyright protection in general being threatened with extinction in the United States, our journeys are now filled with land mines of questions that may have answers or no answers, all of which threaten to blow up the carefully planned journeys.

All of the above information suggests that we need all the help we can get to navigate through uncharted waters. That brings us to the final discussion in this series—what are the Five Questions we need to know and answer to have a successful personal and professional writing career? Join me for the final discussion soon.

No One Wants You to Fail

By Judy Penz Sheluk

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The deadline is looming and you’re wondering, not for the first time, if you should apply for a Killer Nashville panel spot. The fearless side of you says, why not? Even if you apply, you may not get selected. After all, it’s your first conference. Maybe, even, your first book. Should you fill out the form and hit “Submit?”

In a weak moment (or perhaps one of false bravado) you decide to go for it. And now you’re second (and third) guessing the wisdom of that decision. Perhaps you’re even thinking of backing out—surely there’s a long list of authors more than willing to replace you, right?

Well, yes, almost certainly. And you wouldn’t be the first (or the last) author to have a change of heart. But before you send in your regrets, there’s one thing you need to remember:

No one wants you to fail.

Think about that for a moment. Have you ever sat in the audience while a speaker struggled? Of course you have. Did you snicker at their discomfort? Take pleasure in watching them bumble and stumble along? Or did you feel their pain and embarrassment, almost as though it were your own? My guess is you silently rooted for them, knowing they’d been rehearsing for days, if not weeks.

I’ll be honest. Public speaking in any form doesn’t come naturally to me—I think of myself as an introverted extrovert. In other words, I “can” be an extrovert when it’s required, but I’m happiest when I’m alone in my office making stuff up. Preferably in pajama pants, my dog lying under my desk.

It seems like only yesterday that I was nervously pacing the halls of the host hotel before my very first panel. It was 2015, my debut year at Bouchercon Raleigh, and the organizers had put me on a panel with Tom Franklin, the American Guest of Honor. 

Tom Franklin! Author of the Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter. It doesn’t get much scarier than that. But I took more than a couple of deep breaths and told myself I could do it.

Was I perfect? No. Not even close. But I survived to tell the tale. And you will too. Because the only way you’ll really fail is to never try. 

But hey, you’re an author. You already know that. 

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Judy Penz Sheluk is the bestselling author of Finding Your Path to Publication and Self-publishing: The Ins & Outs of Going Indie, as well as two mystery series: the Glass Dolphin Mysteries and Marketville Mysteries. Her short crime fiction appears in several collections, including the Superior Shores Anthologies, which she also edited. Find her at www.judypenzsheluk.com.

A note from Killer Nashville: We’d love to see your interest in panels for this year’s conference. Click here if you’re registered and would like to take part in a panel. 

Setting Goals

By Katherine Hutchinson-Hayes

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As a new year unfolds, many of us may sense the need to set objectives for our writing, regardless of whether we’re novices or experienced. There’s also a business aspect to our writing careers, which requires us to focus on how we present ourselves. To achieve this, we may need to polish our editing skills, improve our social media presence, attend conferences to network, and stay updated on the latest market trends.

We can inspire and uplift our readers through writing, providing them hope, guidance, and encouragement. However, doing this requires more than talent and passion. We need a clear understanding of where we’re going and a well-defined plan. This includes identifying our target audience, developing a marketable brand, building a platform, and engaging with our readers through various channels. We should be willing to continually grow and improve our craft, seeking feedback and guidance and staying current with the latest trends and techniques in the industry. With dedication and perseverance, we can achieve great success as writers and positively impact our readers.

Setting goals is a crucial aspect of our journey as authors. It helps us to stay focused and keeps us motivated and accountable for our progress. By aligning our objectives with our values, we can ensure our efforts are directed toward what matters. To help us, here are tips to keep in mind while creating goals that are in line with our values:

1. Seek guidance: Starting with a strong foundation is essential. Whether seeking clarity on a specific goal or looking for general direction in life, mentors can be a powerful tool for gaining insight and inspiration. Before starting anything new, it’s wise to seek guidance from those with more experience and ask for help from them to lead us forward.

2. Establish a clear vision: Clearly define what we want to achieve. Once we comprehensively understand our end goal, we should write specific things we want to achieve. This should be measurable and achievable to track our progress and stay motivated. Setting clear and attainable objectives usually increases the chances of success and allows us to prioritize our focus.

3. Align goals with our values: It’s vital to ensure our objectives align with our beliefs to share our message with the world effectively. This means that before embarking on any writing project, we should take the time to reflect on our values and beliefs and ensure our aspirations are aligned. This way, we can create content that resonates with our audience and positively impacts the world. Ultimately, our writing should be guided by our desire to make a difference in the lives of those who read our work.

4. Break down goals into smaller steps: When we create aspirations for ourselves, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. However, we can make them more achievable by breaking them down into smaller, more manageable steps. We must create a detailed plan outlining specific actions to move closer to our aim. By breaking things down this way, we can feel more in control of our progress and motivated to keep going, even when faced with challenges.

5. Hold ourselves accountable: To take responsibility for achieving our goals, we set objectives and hold ourselves accountable to them. Another key tactic is to schedule regular check-ins with ourselves and those we trust to evaluate our progress and determine whether we are on track to reaching our desired outcomes. Through this action, we can identify areas we may need to adjust our approach or put in extra effort to stay on target.

6. Celebrate our success: Celebrating small achievements along the way helps to reinforce positive behavior and maintain our motivation to continue working toward our targets. We can learn from our failures by reflecting on what went wrong and using this information to improve our strategies. Adopting a growth mindset and viewing failures as opportunities for growth can turn setbacks into stepping stones toward success.

As writers, we can accomplish unprecedented success and leave an indelible mark on the world through our words. By setting goals, channeling our creative potential into our literary endeavors, and dedicating ourselves wholeheartedly to our craft, we can make meaningful contributions to society. Let’s relentlessly strive with unwavering passion and dedication to create works that inspire, motivate, and transform lives. Let’s unleash our full potential and reach the pinnacle of our literary journeys, leaving a legacy that’ll inspire future generations.

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Author, speaker, educational consultant, and editor–Katherine Hutchinson-Hayes, Ed. D., has had her hand in leadership for many years. She loves speaking to groups, delivering messages with quick wit and real-life stories. Katherine is a freelance writer/content editor, a content editor/writing coach for Iron Stream Media and a sensitivity reader for Sensitivity Between the Lines. She is a review board member and contributor to Inkspirations (an online magazine for Christian writers) and her writing has been published in Guideposts. Her work in art/writing is distinguished by awards including the New York Mayor’s Contribution to the Arts, Outstanding Resident Artist of Arizona, and the Foundations Awards at the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writer’s Conference (2016, 2019, 2021). She is a member of Word Weavers International and serves as an online chapter president and mentor. She belongs to FWA (Florida Writers Association), ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers), CWoC (Crime Writers of Color), AWSA (Advanced Writers and Speakers Association), and AASA (American Association of School Administrators). She serves on the board for the nonprofit organization Submersion 14 and is an art instructor for the nonprofit organization Light for the Future. Katherine is the host of the podcast Murder, Mystery & Mayhem Laced with Morality. She has authored a Christian Bible study for women and is currently working on the sequel and prequel to her first general market thriller novel, “A Fifth of the Story.”