How to Write A Novel When Loss Keeps Crashing Down

When loss levels you, creativity can be the thing that lifts you again.

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Unsplash

Accept that being stuck is part of the journey.

I know that now.

But for a long stretch, I was deep in it—stuck in a way that seeps into your bones. Not the cute, temporary kind of stuck, but the heavy, foggy kind that makes even breathing feel like work. My brain felt half-submerged. Sluggish, soggy… let’s just call it sloggy.

It wasn’t all my doing. Life had been dealing me one emotional curveball after another, the kind that slowly rewires your nervous system:

Empty nest.
COVID layoff.
Aging parents.
Pre-grief (my dad).
Grief (also my dad).
Pre-grief again (this time, my mom).

Try to get unstuck.

I’d recently clawed my way out of a particularly long stuck period and eventually picked up my novel project. Again.

Just as I was about to review my outline (for the trillionth time), I froze.

There’s this other shoe that’s been hovering over me, and it could drop at any moment.

The first shoe? My dad’s stroke, four years ago. He was eighty-eight. Overall healthy… until that particular day. Suddenly, not so healthy.

It took months, but I eventually adjusted to the slower-moving version of my dad—complete with walker and more tangents. That’s when the wake-up call hit: I wasn’t immortal either. And if I was ever going to write that novel, I’d better get going. I was pushing sixty. Time was ticking.

My creative itch returned. A storyline started to take shape in my imagination. The characters came to life—pages of details about what they looked like, where they came from, what made them tick.

Eventually, the storyline in my head made it onto the page in the form of a seventy-four page outline.

I was ready to write that first chapter.

Expect one step forward, two steps strokes back.

Then—boom. My dad broke a hip.

Next came rehab, where he got confused and assumed I was there to break him out every time I visited. He’d wheel himself around, collecting his things. I’d have to break the news gently: No, Dad. Put your toiletries back. You’re staying until you get better.

After his release, he was more fragile. Slower. Smaller. The moments of dementia stretched longer, showed up more often.

I increased my visits and phone calls, just in case.

While the dad I knew slowly faded, my novel’s characters did too—drifting into ghosts. The outline became a tangled blur of forgotten ideas.

Time marched on. Eventually, I adjusted. Again.

The novel called to me once more. I reconnected with my characters, and started re-reading the outline, tinkering with it as I went.

Then—boom. Another stroke.

This one stole more from him—his speech, his mobility, his ability to feed himself.

Believe you can pick up the pieces even though your heart is breaking.

My dad had to go into a nursing home.

That’s when it became clear my mom wasn’t quite herself. Confused and forgetful. Overwhelmed. Struggling to make decisions.

As the only local child, I stepped in. Found the facility. Helped my mom through it. Visited my dad weekly, always wondering if each goodbye would be the last. Stopped by to see my mom too—just to make sure she was okay on her own at their apartment.

Writing? Out the window. Again.

But that had to be okay.

This was real life, not a story I could revise. These two characters—my parents—would soon be gone. It was more important to be with them. While I still could.

I would write again. Eventually.

It was hard. So hard.

Seeing my dad’s spirit dim. Watching his frustration build when he couldn’t speak. Stepping out his his room when staff came in for diaper changes that required a mechanical lift.

Did he ever imagine he’d end up like this?

Meanwhile, my brother and I begged my mom to give up driving, To let me take over their finances. She refused. Stubborn as ever (no offense, mom). Fiercely independent. In denial.

Trust that you’ve got the strength to face that second shoe. And that this is just temporary.

My mom had been losing weight. Blamed it on stress. Around Christmas, a chest X-ray flagged something after a case of bronchitis. She kept postponing the follow-up scan.

I assumed she was being difficult. The truth was, she simply didn’t remember she needed one.

Her doctor finally scheduled the scan. A large mass showed up. The oncologist said the word: cancer.

My mom was convinced it was just scar tissue from having whooping cough as a child. I wanted to believe her.

The biopsy was set for an early morning in Milwaukee, so we got a hotel the night before. She kept asking why we were there.

The next morning, the nurse pulled me aside and questioned her ability to make medical decisions. She warned me the doctor might decide not to go through with the biopsy.

I coached my mom hard before the doctor came in. Walked her through everything, again and again. I didn’t want to have to make this trip twice. And I needed answers.

When the doctor came in, he grilled her. She looked to me for a few of the answers. Somehow, she passed. He did the biopsy.

A few days later, we heard the diagnosis: lung cancer. Odd, because she never smoked.

On the way to the follow-up, she asked where we were going—and why.

I told the doctor about her recent fall. About her growing confusion. They ordered a brain scan.

My mom was thankful I was there. And I was thankful for this caregiver app I didn’t know I had inside my soul.

Be prepared for writing a story you hadn’t planned.

The results came back fast. Too fast.

The cancer had spread—to her brain, her lymph nodes. It was putting pressure on her heart. She had two blood clots. One in her neck, the other in her chest.

“You have months. Maybe weeks,” the doctor said.

My mom was a ticking time bomb.

Somehow, in the midst of my dad’s slow unraveling, we hadn’t noticed that my mom—eighty-four—was aging too.

The second shoe was now in place, hovering precariously over my head.

I broke the news to my dad—shoe number one—telling him, “We’ll take care of her.” His face twisted as if to cry. Then—nothing. Just a stroke of my hair as I sobbed on his arm. I felt like his little girl again.

Any other time, he’d have said: Lynn Anne. Come on. There’s no reason to cry.

But he couldn’t speak. And my heart broke even more.

My mom opted for no treatment, with our support. The odds weren’t good. She was now in a close race with my dad to the finish line. She even joked about it.

She finally allowed me to take over the financials. It was like reverse-engineering a spacecraft.

Soon, she forgot she had such a poor prognosis. Started telling people the cancer was in her belly. And I wasn’t about to correct her.

Writing? Come on. You have to ask?

Let life happen. Then write or [insert passion here] when you can.

Later in the month, I half-enjoyed a trip to Puerto Rico while sorting my parents’ IRA paperwork between hikes. We needed to wrap things up while my mom could still answer questions.

Time passed. My dad held steady. My mom didn’t change. But they were both fading—like my characters. At least I knew I could bring them back to life.

I got another reprieve with a Utah getaway. The trip was fully insured in case something happened.

My solo snowshoe mountain hikes brought some peace. A writing prompt from my stepdaughter reminded me—yes, I still got it.

Then April. My dad got COVID.

We masked up and visited. He didn’t meet our eyes, but locked onto his nurse like she was a lifeline.

A couple days later, she texted me a photo: he’d showered. He looked better. No fever. The Comeback Kid, my husband said.

Time for a visit. The night before I had planned to see him, I got the call. He’d taken a turn again.

I got up early and drove there. The hospice nurse called on the way. This was it. Why hadn’t I gone to see him the moment we heard he was better?

By the time I arrived, he was unresponsive. Eyes rolled back. Moaning between coughs.

I lost it.

That day deserves its own post (and there is a poem). But I was there.

I witnessed his last breath.

The first shoe.

I was the one who made the calls. Wrote the obit. Planned the celebration of life.

I grieved. Oh, how I grieved.
(And no, it’s not over. It’s just more manageable. Ish.)

And then… something shifted.

Remember: Creativity never dies. It just goes dormant.

I was stuck—waiting for that other shoe to drop. But I knew this novel need to get written before the themes stopped feeling relevant. And it wasn’t going to write itself. (No, it’s not getting the AI treatment).

I was determined.

I decided to attend a local writing group meeting. That (somehow) lit a fire under my ass, and not only did I write an essay about my dad—I wrote that poem I keep mentioning. And then I started this Substack.

A couple more essays followed. I even hired a coach to help me manage my time—and to help me keep writing, no matter what.

Because that other shoe? Still hanging in the air. Hard to ignore.

It’s been almost six months since they said my mom had “months, maybe weeks.” She’s... the same. No better. No worse.

Recently, I (once again) reconnected with my characters. Then, I cracked open the outline, planning to really dig in. For real this time.

Accept that being stuck will return now and again.

And just like clockwork, the fear crept in. What if I get halfway through this outline and then she declines? And I have to start all over? Again?

Should I really dig in now, before the shoe drops? Or should I just continue writing essays to keep the writing muscle warm until ….

That’s where I am: stuck in novel-writing limbo. Afraid to dive in.

So instead of editing my outline, I wrote this post.

At least I’m writing.

And I’m determined not to stop.

That’s the thing about being stuck—it feels permanent, but rarely is. Sometimes all it takes is a sentence. A spark. A decision.

I’ll get back to that novel eventually.

When in doubt read (or listen to) the words that move you.

I’ve pulled together some quotes for those moments when stuckness starts creeping in again.

You don’t have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.
—Martin Luther King Jr.

You can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one.
—Unknown

If you’re stuck, don’t just sit there. Get up and do something. So many people wait for the “right time.” That right time is now.
—Mel Robbins

Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.
—Arthur Ashe

Don’t wait. The time will never be just right.
—Napoleon Hill

Clarity comes from engagement, not thought.
—Marie Forleo

Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried—but you’ve actually been planted.
—Christine Caine

Every choice in life either moves you forward or keeps you stuck.
—Oprah Winfrey

Even if you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward.
—Victor Kiam

These were the words that actually resonated with me. And writing this helped me unstick—at least a toe and a piece of my heart. Ever so slightly.

I’m going to lean into shorter essays for now. Stay close to the page, but closer to my mom… while she’s still here.

And I’m learning to accept that life won’t magically smooth out after the other shoe drops. There will be more speed bumps. And somehow, I’ll find a way through.

Somewhere, be

6neath the grief, the doubt and distraction—that lifelong dream of writing a novel is still there.

It’s not gone. It’s just waiting for me to believe it’s safe to return.

© Lynn J. Broderick 2025 | All rights reserved

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If this resonated, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Have you been stuck, too? What helped you move again—creatively or otherwise?

And if you know someone who needs a little push, feel free to forward this their way. We could all use a reminder that stuck isn’t forever.

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More about Lynn.

Lynn lives in the Chicago suburbs with my husband, chasing my lifelong dream of writing a novel. When she’s not sharing memoir-ish stories and unfiltered thoughts, she’s blending smoothies, walking backwards, or staring at her phone waiting for a text from her Navy son. Read more about why she writes here.