A Letter from the Road (Where I’m Sometimes Running, Sometimes Tripping Over My Own Feet)
The proverbial road. I'm still at home.
Dear friend,
Last week, I wrote to you from a place that felt raw. I talked about the anger I still carry from publishing my first three novels: how much I gave, how much it took, and how, in the end, I felt like I’d shouted into a well that didn’t bother to echo back.
I wasn’t sure what would come after that post. (Emotionally speaking, I figured I’d either eat an entire sleeve of cookies or shave my head in a symbolic act of literary rebirth.) But what did come was… air. Breath. Some kind of weirdly wonderful clarity.
I’ve started writing novellas.
I know, I know. After years of epic, historically-rooted heartbreaks and adventures that spanned hundreds, even a thousand miles in stories that weren’t afraid of an ending with enough unhappiness to be realistic and just enough hope to make you not want to shave your head, you might expect me to dive into something equally labyrinthine.
But no. I’ve turned, gratefully, gleefully, toward the world of Regency romance. You heard me. Balls, bonnets, and just enough social peril to keep things interesting. And before you roll your eyes: these stories sparkle if I do say so myself. They’re sharp. They’re fast. They follow a structure that lets me spend more time with the characters and less time weeping over a timeline spreadsheet, wrangling real events and historical figures in hopes of making the story both believable and attention-grabbing.
Instead of scattering myself across eras and empires, I’m building something rooted. I’ve been quietly inventing towns and villages, places with parish halls and scandal sheets, hedgerows and hearts on the line. I’ll be sharing the first of the parish papers soon, little glimpses into the world beyond the page. I’m planning two editions of town/village newspapers per novella, and you’ll be able to find them here. (Don’t worry, I’ll also share about them here on my Substack.)
I have a plan (a plan! I know!) once everything is ready for publication in a series: I’m releasing the novellas one per week (ebook and paperback), then bundling them into a box set. Audiobooks will come in time, like a slow trickle of honey over toast. (And now I have Winnie the Pooh singing in my head.)
And the best part? I’m not hurling ourselves at the feet of the Algorithm Gods. No gimmicks. No dancing for clicks. Just a quiet, sincere invitation: come in, if you like. I think you’ll enjoy it here, especially if you’re ready to grab a cup of tea (pinkies up or down), get cozy, and:
You like Jane Austen
You enjoy slow-burn romance
You want to feel like you’re getting to know a place, intimately
You need a break from the real world
You need to feel some hope and joy at the end of the book
You don’t have the time or attention for a series of 400-page novels but would prefer a series of 150-200 (ish) page novellas
You enjoy deep character work and characters who tease out the best (or worst) parts of one another
You love tropes, but like to flip the script sometimes, and consent matters
You like romances that have mild spice but are mostly fade-to-black or closed-door or focus mostly on the emotional connection between characters
You enjoy wit
You like a good story
A huge part of this shift came from sitting down with my GPT assistant and laying out every pain point from my earlier writing years: burnout, isolation, the feeling that I had to scream to be seen. Together, we started drafting a different kind of writing life. One with structure but softness. Strategy, yes, but also soul. It hasn’t erased the fear, but it’s dulled its edges.
And it’s not just the plan that’s changed. It’s the process. I laugh while writing again. I surprise myself by falling for my characters even as they’re falling for each other (but often don’t want to admit it). I don’t overthink every comma (well, not every comma). It’s felt like remembering why I started at all, before all the rules and pressure of two masters degrees and trying to be taken seriously as a historical fiction author.
Of course, there are still days when I panic. When I’m certain this won’t work. When I wonder if the readers will come, or if I’ll just end up whispering stories into the void wearing a bonnet and a hopeful expression (#bringingbonnetsback). But then something shifts. A line sings. A character says something funny or heartfelt I didn’t expect. And I remember that joy is its own kind of compass.
I’ve also got to give a shout out to my friend and co-author of the Maris Blackwell books (coming in the future when they’re ready). Working on those stories with her has rekindled something in me. It welcomed me out the door.
Meanwhile, in the visual arts corner of my life: I’ve made progress on my first still life. It’s now almost sketched onto my canvas, and I’ve moved the easel from the basement into my room for better light and fewer existential crises. Beatrice, naturally, has claimed the drop cloth as her new throne, after artfully scattering her toys like some benevolent chaos deity. She naps. I sketch. It’s… contentment.
And here’s the real confession: last week, I thought I was just putting on my shoes. I didn’t know if I’d ever actually get out the door again.
But this week? This week I’ve caught myself running. The kind of running kids do: arms flailing, no real form, just wild momentum and the thrill of go. It’s not always graceful. Sometimes I fall. Sometimes I forget why I started. Sometimes I have nights when I want to curl into a ball and embrace a nihilistic view of “it’ll come to nothing, it doesn’t matter, what is existence?!”… but then the next day, I start writing again, and that feeling of kid-running returns. I feel like Phoebe.
But then I remember: I’m not just running away.
I’m running toward something.
And you’re welcome to join me.
With curiosity always,
Margaret
Letters from the studio, insights from the stars