What does your desire to write look like? What is its taste? Its color? Its purpose? It is a living, breathing part of you. Let’s talk about it.

Writers, we’re built differently. While most recall writing as the homework assignments they loathed and would’ve paid to avoid, for us, the ritual of writing is necessary for truly feeling our lives.

Sometimes it takes recalling a scene in our own prose to celebrate and digest the first “I love you” or to give meaning to the blood-curdling scream we forced down in response to a final “goodbye.”

As writers, we live with a desire that stirs beneath the skin, refusing to let us rest until we surrender ourselves fully to it.

I think that surrendering control is why deep fear is such a natural part of the writing process. And depending on where we are in our relationship with writing, that fear can either be a majestic muse or a crippling cell.

I’ve known both spaces intimately, inhabiting each more times than I’d want to count. I know the surrender of letting the muse lead me in dance, and the wildness of summoning my own power to set creative prisons ablaze.

Now I innately have the sight to see something that often goes unacknowledged:

A writer’s grief.

It sits heavily like a rock in my chest every time I meet someone with it.

This grief creates a specific kind of loneliness in the heart of someone who desires to write but feels immobilized.

I’ve lost my writing voice to fear and expectations, too. And when I finally fought my way back to it—not just to have it again, but to use it openly and with sovereignty—it set off a war cry in me.

If you’re carrying this grief, I want to help you set yourself free.

Whether you want to keep your writing private or share it publicly is up to you. We don’t need to dwell on that just yet.

It’s okay that it seems crazy. It’s okay if it feels irresponsible, or if you can’t quite explain why you want this so badly. But there is something in you that knows. Something that has kept asking to be written, even when you’ve tried to quiet it, reason with it, or grow past it.

And maybe that longing has become so loud that you can’t yet hear what it’s been trying to tell you:

You haven’t missed your chance.

Your ability to write is going to be there as long as you’re alive. It’s a special kind of love that evolves but doesn’t vanish; that’s why you feel this way now.

As long as you’ve got a heartbeat, you’ve got the means to tell your story.

And if you’re ready for some help moving forward, I would love to help you understand what’s happening in the relationship between you and your writing.

What’s your story?

Tell me the version where you stumble through the details and pause just before you get to that one thing you “should” be over by now.

The thing you're embarrassed by because you're surprised it still hurts.

The thing that makes you question your talent, your imagination, or your right to take your writing seriously.

Because this grief can wear a lot of different disguises.

Sometimes the grief looks like not having written in years, while still missing it so badly you don’t know where to begin.

Or it looks like being the copywriter I was ten years ago: writing beautifully for work, having mastered a clear, concise style that gets the job done, then crying in frustration when your personal voice seems lost to you once the workday ends.

Sometimes it looks like believing a painful lie: You’re not that girl in high school scribbling poems in the margins of her math notebook anymore. You’re a mom with real responsibilities. You have to stay practical.

So you do.

You stay as practical as the secret drafts on your computer that you can't bring yourself to finish.

Believe it or not, I’ve worn a version of that one too.

I’ve also been the new CEO who watered down her content by following marketing strategies because she didn’t trust her natural writing style.

And I literally feel my body ache when I think about this next one.

But I see you, and I feel you, and I want to hold your hand if you’ve reached the point where you don’t even feel worthy of calling yourself a writer.

Breathe deeply for a moment.

And please take these words to heart:

You are a writer.

This is not traditional writing instruction.

Yes, I can help you write. I’ll sit with you and help make your pieces stronger.

But I'm interested in what is happening between you and the writing, too.

Because sometimes the problem isn't the paragraph where your flow becomes clunky.

Sometimes the paragraph is simply where a deeper truth is trying to emerge.

That's where we dive into your world, not just to correct the writing, but to teach you how to understand what’s coming up intuitively.

We can explore questions like:

Why does this particular paragraph make you want to hide?

Whose approval are you unconsciously writing for?

What would change if you stopped trying to sound like a so-called expert?

What if you wrote the scary thing you’re “not allowed” to say?

And sometimes the question is much simpler:

What do you want?

Not what would be practical.

What do you want to write?

These uncomfortable conversations are where the magic happens. Where I help you discover a voice that is so unapologetically you that people will smell your perfume on pages you never physically touched.

I know how to walk this road because I've walked it.

Writing has paid my bills in more ways than I ever imagined.

I've ghostwritten romance novels, written copy, run blogs on subjects ranging from beauty to finance, and written the occasional lawnmower guide because that's what happens when you're a newly professional writer trying to juggle building a portfolio and paying rent.

I've also had seasons when writing felt effortless under other people’s names, but nearly impossible under my own because my voice had vanished.

I knew how to make someone else's words work, but couldn't understand why my own felt so far away.

And when the strain in my relationship with writing hurt too badly, I quit and worked dead-end jobs that were so misaligned with what I truly wanted that I grew sick and depressed.

I built myself back up from rock bottom when I stopped trying to recover the writer I had been and finally met the woman I had become. And somewhere in becoming her, I found a writer I had never known before.

That's part of what led me to create my own dream writing job through my companies, Journaling is Self-Care LLC and Raymond Rose Publishing.

One of the biggest helps? I learned to listen differently.

To my desires.

To my intuition.

To the parts of me that had spent years being told to be reasonable.

And to my writing.

Through these trials and errors in my own life, I learned to become the person who can sit beside other writers.

The one who can see what you can't quite see yet.

The one who knows when to challenge you.

When to let you sit with something.

And when to say, “No. I think you're hiding here.”

These are the conversations I would like to have with you.

Very similarly to the ones I had with her…

I wasn't planning to offer this kind of work.

Not in this season of my life, anyway.

I thought mentoring writers would come later.

Then, a younger woman reached out.

She admired my work and had spent enough time on my website to quote my own articles back to me. She wanted to ghostwrite for my brand and was determined to prove that she could write in my voice.

My immediate answer was no.

I'd spent too many years losing and finding my own voice to hand someone else the pen.

But my intuition told me to take the call.

So I did.

And while she was pitching me, I was getting to know her.

It may seem odd, but I saw her future self, and I understood my assignment.

There was a story she wanted to tell from my perspective. While she explained how beautifully she’d write it for me, I saw a different story, one she was meant to tell from her own point of view.

I saw it in the quick references she’d tossed into her pitch and abandoned almost instantly, afraid to take up space herself.

I lovingly challenged her to leave her comfort zone behind. I said, “You can’t write this story in my voice. It’s not my story. There’s actually a different story you need to tell here, using your own name. You will write it as a guest blogger on my site.”

Then, I told her the story beneath the story she’d pitched.

Her jaw dropped.

She looked like she might cry.

I leaned in. I reflected the deeper truths that supported why she was the one, why this topic wasn’t going to reach my website if it wasn’t her in her own voice.

She was terrified.

And grateful.

Being seen can throw you off balance that way.

By the time our conversation ended, she promised to give her all to this first article, published under her name, with a byline and everything.

When she sent me the first draft, yes, we worked on structure and grammar.

But we also kept diving into the uncomfortable places where her magic lived.

I acted as the mirror, reflecting where she was still hiding, where she was apologizing, and where the story wanted her to go next.

And I served as the guide, holding the lantern while she walked through the unknown and learned to trust herself there.

After a couple of weeks, she became more fully herself on the page, and we were both so proud of her.

This young woman captured my heart because she came to me as the ghostwriter I had been at her age.

And, without either of us knowing it at the beginning, I was given the opportunity to become the wise older woman who could see something in her that I had once needed someone to see in me.

I never met that mentor for myself, and I see why I didn’t.

I needed to experience what I had so that I could become that woman—this woman—for other writers.

Every session is different because every writer is different.

Sometimes I'll be a mirror.

I'll notice the thing underneath the thing you're telling me.

The expectation you didn't realize you were trying to meet.

The fear hiding underneath "I just need better discipline."

The place where you're calling yourself stuck when you're actually afraid of what happens if you succeed.

I'll reflect it back and ask:

Why does that feel true?

Sometimes I'll be a guide.

We'll follow the thread.

We'll get curious.

We'll discuss where that belief came from, whether it still belongs to you, and what you actually want instead.

Sometimes I'll simply be your companion.

You don't need another person telling you what your writing should mean.

You might just need somewhere safe to think out loud.

To experiment.

To cry.

To laugh.

To sit in silence for a minute when you feel an answer bubbling up inside.

And sometimes I'll be your teacher.

We'll work directly on the writing.

We'll read it aloud.

Move things around.

Cut what isn't serving the story.

Strengthen what is.

We'll keep working until you’re proud of what you’ve created.

And sometimes, when the work is ready but you're not sure you are, I'll be the midwife.

I'll remind you that being scared doesn't necessarily mean you're not ready.

Maybe you’ll simply want me to sit with you while you press “publish.”

Maybe you’ll want me to lead you in meditation or breathwork for a few minutes before you cross that threshold.

Maybe you'll need to hear:

Go ahead.

And maybe you'll need to scream first.

I’ve got you either way.

Your first conversation is free.

I call it a Resonance Check because we're both human, and not every human is an energetic match.

I'm not interested in convincing you that we are.

We'll talk about you, your relationship with writing, what's happening right now, and what you'd like to be different.

Bring questions.

Bring a messy draft.

Bring the project you've been avoiding.

Bring nothing but a vague feeling that something isn't right.

I'm a notetaker, so there's a good chance I'll already have a couple of notes before we meet.

Feel free to do the same.

Ask me anything you need to know to decide whether this feels right for you.

And if it does, we'll talk about what working together could look like.

If it doesn't—or it simply isn't the right time—we'll send one another off with respect and good vibes.

No hard feelings.

No sales ambush.

Deal?