Dearest Reader,
Have you ever asked yourself who you are without the shiny bits? Without the titles, the accolades, the bio line?
I received a record number of replies to last week’s people-pleasing letter. This stuff resonates—deeply.
I’ve just landed back home after a short trip to Toronto for the Amazon First Novel Gala. It was such a joy to watch Valerie Bah absorb her win—such grace, such presence.
And while it was a lovely evening, I came home thinking about what we ask of writers today. What we expect of writers. What we quietly absorb about what it means to be one in this industry.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve found myself in conversation after conversation with writers, editors, folks in publishing, creatives from other fields—so many wondering: How do I fit? How do I show up? How do I stay true in this space?
In some smaller, beautifully shifting circles, the conversations feel alive with possibility. In others, there’s still a strong pull toward the “way things have always been.” That longing to fit the mold, to do it the “right” way—whatever that is.
Prizes, awards, accolades—they can be a delight, of course. But they do not make us who we are. And they certainly aren’t what sustains us. This is something I return to again and again with the writers who choose to work with me. You are more than your list of accomplishments. What can these wins do for you? There are HUGE pros, and for some, a few cons (and the cons are things writers are often too nervous to talk about, but they are there). Your work is more than the approval it gathers. Being a writer today must start with this: What does it mean to be human, first?
A few days ago, I read a beautiful piece on Substack from Kendra Coupland, a Black Vancouver yoga teacher offering private trauma-informed yoga and meditation classes, as well as public workshops and wellness retreats. She wrote about her relationship with yoga—how, in letting go of her thoughts around performance, the outward markers of “success” in the practice, she found her way back to what really mattered. She got curious. Her words stopped me:
“A person’s well-being is shaped by a complex web of influences: genetics, access to healthcare, poverty, violence, trauma, food insecurity, environmental conditions, and the impact of diet culture. Social systems of discrimination — including ableism, racism, sexism, transphobia, homophobia, fatphobia, and weight stigma — also play a significant role in shaping health outcomes.”
And I thought: this is exactly what we forget about the writing world too.
Writers do not enter this industry on equal footing. Our access to time, creative energy, networks, funding, mentorship, emotional safety—none of it is neutral. The forces that shape our well-being shape our writing lives, too. Let’s call this in. Let’s create space for it.
This is why I always say: your creative life doesn’t exist in a vacuum. You can master craft inside and out, but if you’re still carrying old narratives about what makes you “real,” or navigating systems not built for your well-being, it will touch everything.
This is why I care so deeply about helping writers start at the root. To name what’s shaping their experience. To release what no longer fits. To build from a place of truth—not performance.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how my role in this world has shifted over time. Yes, I still help writers with their books. But what I do—what I am committed to—is so much bigger than that. I teach writers to invest in themselves first. To see writing as a tool, a mirror, a way of being. Not simply a means to an end. And this, to me, feels urgent.
In a recent Ask Anything session, I said something I’ve been holding close: “When you strip away the books, the awards, the accolades—there you are. Wherever you go, there you are.”
So why do we still believe all writers should want the same experience? Why do we tie success to external validation from systems that were never curious about why we write in the first place?
I’ve been longlisted, shortlisted, awarded, invited. And while all of it has been meaningful, it’s not who I am. This is why I tested something at the gala. When submitting my latest bio I intentionally (and temporarily) stripped it of awards, prizes, lists. Just the bones of me. Maybe some noticed, maybe not. But it was a test—for me. To hear my name and my work read without the shiny.
I am still here ; )
These small tests plant seeds. And I keep planting.
The truth is, I still feel like an outsider at events like this—not because I’m introverted, but because I know I’m on a path not everyone sees or asks about. And when curiosity is missing, assumptions rise.
Kendra wrote:
“Whatever state I’m in, the opportunity to practice presence and self-observation remains… the more that I practice, the more I find I am coming into more integrity with the very core of my own being and making space for others to do the same.”
This, to me, is what being a writer could look like …
So, if you see things differently—if your path twists and winds—keep going. Root in your values. Share your message. Let some not get it. You’re not here for everyone. You’re here for those who feel the pull of your work, the shape of your voice. Treat how you show up like a first draft of a manuscript. Let it evolve. Test things out! You can always go back to that earlier version if you need to.
This is why I say: the greatest skill a writer can build is the ability to make aligned decisions—decisions that match your values, your life, your dreams, your limits, your truths. There is no one-size-fits-all. And the industry’s old narratives need not be yours.
I don’t often write about these things in wide-open spaces, but today I felt the nudge to share. Maybe this letter is a seed for you, too.
So I’ll end with this reflection, friend:
What old expectations or narratives might you release—so you can stand in the truth of who you are as a writer today?
I’d love to hear. Just hit reply if you feel called.
With love,
Chelene
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