Trusting What Shows Up First
Makari | The Notebooks: From Her Journal — The Drift Begins (formerly titled “I No Longer Fight My Schedule”)
Note to Self, and You
These Notebooks are where I think through writing by writing. Sometimes the projects follow a plan. Sometimes they don’t. This one’s about what happens when creative plans drift and why I’m learning to let them.
Twenty-seven days into my Kirenya Substack experiment, and I'm learning something unexpected about my creative practice: the moment you start publishing regularly, your own creative agenda becomes... negotiable.
I had plans. Lists. A careful editorial calendar sketched in my notebook with the kind of confidence that comes from never having tested theory against reality.
Then I sat down to do a quick character exercise—just dialogue, just practice—and ended up with something I wanted to share.
I’d opened my notebook with a simple desire: I want to develop characters through dialogue.
That was it. No expectations. Just curiosity.
But what came out surprised me—a scene with its own energy. Uncle Joe and Sam. A generational tug-of-words. Three versions later, I realized I didn’t just write a scene. I’d stumbled into a conversation about form, character, and the listening power of story.
And suddenly, I wanted to share it.
Meanwhile, all the important pieces I'd planned? Still waiting.
The Creative Hijack
This keeps happening.
I write what flows through instead of what I’ve scheduled. The planned work sits patiently in my notes while some new curiosity jumps the queue and demands immediate attention.
It feels like losing control.
It also feels… essential.
There’s a particular kind of creative anxiety that comes with this territory. You start a publication with noble intentions and a roadmap, and then your own creative process starts to... wander. Drift. Rewire the map entirely. Adapt.
It’s fun.
It’s scary.
It’s scary fun.
Am I off-course? Or is this just... perfect?
Everything I’ve posted so far is part of the drift:
The Notebooks? A drift.
From her Journal? Drift too.
Self-soothing minutes? You guessed it—drift.
Even this piece? Drift, mid-sentence.
The gurus would have a field day with this.
I don’t know what I should do from here.
Except maybe trust that an active creative practice has its own intelligence.
It knows what it needs to explore next, and it rarely cares what I scheduled three weeks ago.
The Resistance to Planning
I keep my notes. I think about those planned pieces. I reshuffle priorities and adjust timelines. But I've stopped fighting the drift.
Maybe this is what "practice" actually means: not the disciplined execution of predetermined exercises, but the willingness to follow creative energy wherever it wants to go, trusting that consistency of attention matters more than consistency of topic.
The planned work isn't disappearing. It's marinating. Developing in the background while I chase these spontaneous explorations.
Sometimes I think the delay makes them better—
they've had time to ripen while I was learning something else entirely.
At least that’s what I am hoping.
Publishing as Creative Pressure
Starting something like a Substack publication while you're still figuring out what you want to say creates this strange tension.
You're building an audience for work that doesn't quite exist yet—
while creating work for an audience you can only imagine.
You're making promises about consistency while your process keeps reminding you that the most interesting work comes from inconsistency—
from abandoning the plan when something more alive shows up.
Twenty-seven days in.
Zero subscribers.
Somehow, that still feels good.
Adaptation as Method
I'm starting to think adaptation isn't just what happens when your plans fall apart.
It might be the method itself.
Each piece teaches you something about the next.
Each format experiment (like that three-way scene breakdown) reveals new possibilities you couldn’t have planned for.
Each surprise topic that hijacks your schedule shows you what your creative mind actually wants to explore.
And then there was the dream.
Someone was talking about adopting a strange, awkward person—someone with weird habits and a curious way of being. I overheard and said, “…Adopt?”
The dream character turned to me—calm, clear—and corrected me: “Adapt.”
At the time, it struck me as odd.
Later, sitting with this pattern of creative drift, it returned.
Maybe I’m not drifting after all.
Maybe I’m adapting.
The musician reads the room and changes the setlist.
The writer listens for where the energy is strongest and follows it, even when it leads away from the outline.
Maybe The Notebooks was always meant to be a record of this kind of adaptive thinking.
Not just the finished experiments, but the decisions behind them.
The willingness to let practice reshape theory.
The art of creative drift.
Or is it adaptation?
Or maybe—
the art of creative flow.
Flow.
Yes.
I like that.
Publishing regularly has shown me things I hadn’t seen before—
how curiosity works,
how ideas unfold,
how unplanned pieces often carry more energy than mapped-out ones.
I’m learning to trust the detours.
To treat my editorial calendar as a suggestion, not a contract.
To let the work teach me what it wants to become.
That might be what all creative practices ask for, eventually.
The courage to let go of the plan when something more alive wants to lead.
The planned pieces will still be there tomorrow.
Today, I’m following the flow.
Your Turn
Speaking of flow and drift, what’s your experience been?
If you’re in the middle of your own spiral, here are a few questions to keep you company:
How do you balance structure and spontaneity in your creative life?
What has your work been trying to teach you about process lately?
When was your last creative detour, and where did it lead you?
What would it mean to trust what shows up first?
Wherever you are in your process or your practice, whatever you're tending, I hope these questions meet you with kindness.
I’ll be here, listening for what comes next.
The Notebooks unfold in the archive. This one wandered out to greet you. If you’d like more, come find us inside. ✍️
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