Changing the Tempo

The hardest thing to recognize in real time is your own speed. One moment you’re strolling through memories, jotting observations, enjoying the hum of a manageable blog; the next you realize you’ve broken into a run, arms pinwheeling, notebook pages fluttering behind you like startled pigeons. I didn’t plan to sprint. Truly, I was only out for a casual stroll that might lead to a marathon. The schedule simply expanded one checkbox at a time until the week felt less like a calendar and more like a conveyor belt that never switched off.

It’s time to change gears. Beginning next week, Still Stories will arrive once a week — every Monday — and the Slow Notes will curl up for a well-earned rest. The hope is simple: one carefully prepared piece instead of three hurried ones, room for deeper polish, and space for life to generate new scenes worth writing about.

The well needs rain

These essays are memoir. They rely on lived moments: road trips that went sideways, conversations that rang louder than the room, photographs waiting in dusty folders. Real experience ripens at its own pace. When I demand two or three full-length posts in seven days, the barrel drains faster than the storm clouds gather. I find myself asking whether a minor grocery-store mishap can masquerade as literature; I catch myself inventing dialogue I never heard just to fill lines. That is the moment to stop, step back, and let the well fill naturally. One Monday story gives six other days for living, noticing, and letting memory settle into something worth revisiting.

Other irons are glowing — and they need tending

Across the room my camera batteries sit fully charged, yet the memory cards remain unimported because Lightroom sessions keep losing to last-minute edits. I owe those pixels their day in the sun. Meanwhile, Rebecca Forster’s 9th Witness perches on my nightstand, spine uncreased, a polite rebuke each evening I choose to refresh a draft instead of opening chapter one. Reducing the blog’s output won’t erase my to-read stack — but it will stop me from stacking guilt on top of pages. I want time to click the shutter, adjust the color balance, and let a thriller pull me into its courtroom without glancing at the word counter.

Health is tapping on the glass

Recent weeks have given me a quiet but unmistakable memo: more water, less caffeine; earlier nights, fewer post-midnight paragraphs; walks that are walks — not voice-dictated drafts in disguise. I won’t itemize every ache that sparked this change, but I will acknowledge them. A writer is only as steady as the chair holding the spine upright. If that spine creaks, the sentences wobble. Shifting to one post a week is less a retreat and more an investment in future paragraphs that won’t slur their metaphors.

What stays and what rests

The Monday essay stays — same voice, equal parts porch rocker and newsroom, still enthusiastic about odd details like the click of a fountain pen. Slow Notes, however, will take a sabbatical. They’re not exiled; they’re napping in a drawer lined with graph paper. If the right short-form idea jumps up and down waving a flag, I’ll open that drawer in a heartbeat. Surprise “postcards” may pop up, but only when a story refuses to wait until Monday.

Benefits for reader and writer alike

• Cleaner prose. Extra days of revision mean fewer typos, calmer pacing, and metaphors that arrive fully dressed.
• Less inbox clutter. Your Monday opens with one lantern, not a string of them vying for attention.
• Shared anticipation. Waiting a week lets each story feel like an event rather than background static.
• Healthier creative cycle. A rested writer notices more, worries less, and brings sharper focus to every paragraph.

Questions nobody asked but I’m answering anyway

Are you running out of material?
No — just refusing to dilute it. The well still holds plenty once I grant it time to refill.

Will Slow Notes return?
When a topic truly belongs in that format, yes. Until then, they’ll enjoy their hammock.

Should I unsubscribe?
Only if a single thoughtful essay on Monday feels like homework. Otherwise, stay and sip.

You mentioned a story-trading circle once — should I start one?
Only if you’re moved to. Mine remains a private ritual; sharing it here isn’t a franchise pitch, just a window into how I keep the storytelling gears limber. 

Between Mondays

What will fill the six quieter days? Lightroom marathons turning raw files into finished images. Evenings lost in Rebecca Forster's 9th Witness instead of browser tabs. Walks that end with notebook scribbles, not step-counter screenshots. Routine self-maintenance — the unglamorous but necessary kind that never trends on social media yet keeps a writer upright.

How you can help

Stay subscribed — loyalty is the best vitamin for any creative spine. Share a favorite essay — word of mouth outpaces algorithms. Write back when a piece resonates — your replies steer future essays more than search-engine trends ever could.

Looking ahead

Life is jazz — same chords, endless improvisation. If the creative well suddenly overflows, perhaps I’ll sprinkle in an extra note. If a book manuscript demands full attention, the pace might slow again. Flexibility is one of the few renewable energies in writing.

Thank you for granting me — and Still Stories — the grace to reset the metronome. Narratives, like bread, rise best when we resist opening the oven door every five minutes. Here’s to Mondays — steady, deliberate, and bright enough to light the week ahead.

See you on Monday, lantern in hand.

— Lawrence