Not long ago, I made a discovery about myself that felt embarrassingly overdue. I had been in publishing for over two decades, had built a company, was coaching writers and closing deals, and I was still operating as though my energy was consistent, available, and renewable on demand. It wasn't and never had been. I had just been too busy, too ambitious, and honestly too stubborn to notice.

What I eventually noticed—once I got still enough to pay attention—was a pattern that had been running in the background of my life for years.

There is a steadiness I find in the women whose writing endures across time. Their work carries a keen awareness of the dynamics around them. They know the cauldrons of power—how they churn, where they constrict, and where and for whom they leave room for movement. Whether they are writing about something they know well or something speculative, their words are tuned to the systems in which they live. Among them are Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Harriet Jacobs, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Octavia Butler—writers separated by centuries and genres but united by a shared attentiveness to power.

Toni Morrison had a problem.

She wanted to read books that centered Black life—not as a problem to be solved, not as a footnote to white stories, not as explanation or apology. She wanted books the told of Black people who were fully human, complex, flawed, beautiful, struggling, triumphant. Books that highlighted Black interiority as the default. Books in which Black language, Black culture, and Black history were the center not the margin.

Those books didn’t exist. At least, not in the way she wanted them to.

So she wrote them herself.

And in doing so, she changed American literature forever.

In the 1920s, something extraordinary happened in Harlem.

Black artists, writers, musicians, and thinkers converged on a few square miles in upper Manhattan and created a cultural explosion that would reshape American art forever.

This wasn’t just a literary movement. It was a revolution.

The Harlem Renaissance—roughly 1918 to the mid-1930s—proved that when Black creators are given space, resources, and community, they don’t just participate in culture. They define it.

The lessons from that era are relevant for writers today.

Phillis Wheatley wasn’t supposed to exist.

Not as a poet. Not as a published author. Not as an intellectual.

She was supposed to be property. “Phillis Wheatley” wasn’t even her name.

And yet, in 1773—before the United States even declared independence—a twenty-year-old enslaved Black woman took the identity imposed upon her and, making the most of it, published a book of poetry that would make her the first African American and the first enslaved person to publish a book in the American colonies.

This shouldn’t have been possible.

The fact that it was—the fact that she made it possible—tells us everything we need to know about what it means to write when the world says you can’t.

Every February, we celebrate Black History Month. And every February, I’m reminded that Black history isn’t just history—it’s nourishment and strength for the present. It’s urgent. It’s now.

Nowhere is this truer than in literature.

Right now, across the United States, school boards are banning books by Black authors. Publishers are reconsidering diversity initiatives. The idea of “DEI” has become a political weapon. And yet Black writers keep writing. Black stories keep demanding to be told.

We’ve always written in the face of opposition and silencing. We’ve always created despite the systems set up to overlook, handicap, and ignore us.

This month, as I try to do every year, I want to invite you into the rich, radical, beautiful legacy of Black literature. Not as a distant history lesson but as a living tradition we’re all part of—whether as writers or readers, whether Black or not.

Black literary voices matter as they always have. And they matter more than ever right now.

There's a question I ask every writer I coach: "What are you reading right now?"

The answer tells me a lot.

Some writers rattle off three or four books—fiction, nonfiction, maybe a memoir, something outside their comfort zone. Their faces light up talking about what they're learning, what's inspiring them, how another writer's technique is shaping their own work.

Other writers hesitate. "Well... I'm reading a couple of books for research. And I just finished a book on writing. But I haven't really had time to read for fun."

And some writers—more than you might expect—say, "Honestly? I haven't been reading much. I'm too busy writing."

When I hear that last response, I know we've got work to do.

Because here's the truth: You cannot write well if you do not read widely.

I once had a coaching client who couldn't understand why her writing had stalled.

She had the time—she'd carved out two hours every morning. She had the idea—a powerful message about healing from trauma. She had the skill—her early chapters were beautiful. But somewhere around chapter five, the words stopped coming. She'd sit at her desk, stare at the screen, and feel... nothing. No inspiration. No energy. Just exhaustion.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said. "I should be able to do this."

I asked her about her life outside of writing. Full-time job. Three kids. Aging parent she was caring for. Church commitments. A marriage that needed attention. She was running on five hours or less of sleep, eating whatever was fastest, and hadn't taken a real break in months.

"When's the last time you rested?" I asked.

She laughed. "Rest? I'll rest when the book is done."

That's when I told her: The book will never be done if you don't rest first.

When we think of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., we often picture the orator—the man whose voice rang out across the National Mall, whose cadence moved crowds, whose "I Have a Dream" speech became the soundtrack of a movement.

But just as there was the preacher in the pulpit, there was the writer at his desk.

Dr. King understood something that every writer must grasp: words on a page carry a power that spoken words alone do not. They can be read and reread. Studied. Distributed. They outlive the moment of their creation and speak to generations yet unborn.

For the last fifteen years that I’ve been writing this blog, during this week, I’ve made it a point of necessary remembrance to meditate on Dr. King as a writer. I don’t always get a post out, but my focus is always there. His writing life teaches endless lessons to those of us who put pen to page with the hope of changing hearts, shifting culture, and moving people toward justice and truth.

Every January, writers everywhere make the same promise: This is the year. This is the year I finish the book. This is the year I finally start.

By February, many of those promises have quietly gone unkept.

It's not because they lack talent or calling, or even time. Most often, it's because they approach their writing practice the same way they approach New Year's resolutions—with enthusiasm but no sustainable plan.

I don't want you to start 2026 strong only to fizzle out by March.

I want you to start well—with intention, with wisdom, with practices that will carry you through the whole year. Not just productive weeks, but a writing life that honors the whole person God created you to be: mind, body, and spirit.

Here are nine strategies to help you do exactly that.