I sat down this morning in my writing chair—first thing—the way I used to, back in my days of drafting a novel in a month during NaNoWriMo. Whispers of dreams still curl around my shoulders, and imagination’s door gleams around the edges with golden light. Come on back, Naomi. Let’s play.
I miss this feeling. I would snuggle into my chair with a blanket on my lap, our puppy curled up close, and close my eyes. Where were we yesterday, and where shall we go today?
It’s a feeling very similar to being an actor in rehearsal. You’re standing offstage. You don’t have sets or costumes; you may not even have props yet. You’re picturing the place you’re about to step into. Not only the practicalities, like furniture and layout, but also the feel of the place. How will I respond to this place as I step into it? And what happened just before now? What am I carrying on my shoulders?
My training is in story theatre, which means that even the experience of finding the words as the scene unfolds is similar. I’m not carrying a script. I’m following the throughline of the main character’s feelings, discovering the moment action by action, event by event.
So, here I sit, in this room lined with bookshelves. I’m beginning, once again, to write. But this is also a new chapter, a new kind of writing.
Before I close my eyes, I take a moment to notice. I listen to the rare raindrops tapping on my California windows, missing Portland the way I always do when it rains. The rain and books make me think about wandering the stacks at Powells Books, both as a child, and even now, any time I go back to town for a visit.
My bookshelves tell the story of that lifelong habit of following my curiosity and collecting books along the way. From where I sit, I can see gorgeous picture books like A River of Words: The Story of William Carlos Williams written by Jen Bryant and illustrated by the singular Melissa Sweet. Some books hold journeys like The Vein of Gold by Julia Cameron and The Hero is You by Kendra Levin. Others are invitations to my creative self, like Journal Sparks by Emily K. Neuberger and Draw Your Adventures by Samantha Dion Baker. There are hefty tomes, like A History of the English Language, and cozy learning experiences tucked between two covers, like Tea Sommelier. And of course, there are the two shelves filled with every single book written by Madeleine L’Engle.
My books are there, too. Middle grade fiction, ghost-written mysteries, that beautiful Spilled Ink binder that won a gold medal during its very brief life in print. They bring me back to my own story, the one I’m sitting in exactly at this moment.
Where was I yesterday and where shall I go today?
What is this place I’m about to step into? Yes, the practicalities of it: what my professional life look like? And my creative one? But, also, how might this new chapter feel? How might I respond as I take first steps in—and, related: what happened before just now? What am I carrying on my shoulders?
It would be untrue to say that I haven’t written during all of the time between my last NaNoWriMo (I think 2018?) and now. I have been writing. And actually, I’ve been doing it on a rather large scale. I’ve been world-building.
Over these years I’ve been creating a body of work that didn’t look like novels at all: activity books, facilitator guides, talks, lesson plans, experience designs, and playful tools to help people think differently. All of it belonged to the same imaginative world, one I first began shaping to help young writers understand that not every kind of thinking is the same. I wanted to show them that moving intentionally between kinds of thinking can feel a little bit like magic.
Many people have explored these ideas—educators, neuroscientists, psychologists—but I came to them wearing my own history. I’m a story-theatre actor and director, a novelist, and a lifelong wanderer of used bookstores. Because of who I am, the world didn’t grow as a framework or a theory. It grew setting by setting, character by character, room by room.
And because this landscape wanted to be large enough to hold unbounded creativity—not just mine, but anyone’s—it took much longer than a NaNoWriMo writing month to explore. Mapping it, listening to its many voices, and watching its terrain become clear has taken many years.
That slow exploration was important, but it also had a cost. For a long time, it closed the door on my early-morning writing. I couldn’t find my way into a moment that felt right-sized for sitting down and improvising on the page. I missed that part of myself more than I realized.
I’m a novelist and an actor and a director. I like making things I can share. I like the feeling of discovering a scene as it unfolds. And for years my creative mind has been completely absorbed in something else. Something rich and meaningful, yes, but different from this comfortable, sentence-by-sentence way of being with story.
So coming back to this chair this morning felt, joyfully, like coming home.
My curious self can’t simply leave that be. I must ask: What changed? What opened the door for me to return from my very long journey and find my way back here? (Also, will the return hold?)
I can’t know the answers to these questions. However, here’s what I do know.
A couple days ago, I wrote the first draft of an Atlas of Illumineering. It’s a very small seed of what a book of this title might become. But this seed holds something important. It holds enough of the landscape that I’ve been mapping—in one place—that I no longer feel like Alice tumbling through Wonderland. It’s a snapshot of a living landscape that will certainly continue becoming, but that also can be held in my hand and shown to someone else.
It reminded me of the story of Walt Disney, on the night he stayed up with Harper Goff to build a model of Disneyland. What strikes me most about that story was Walt’s deep emotion. Goff says that Walt begged him to create the model, tears in his eyes. Yes, I’m sure the tears were partly because Walt was desperate to convince the investors that his idea was more than a hare-brained scheme.
But I think, at least in part, the model was also for Walt himself. He said, “Disneyland is something that will never be finished. It’s something that I can keep developing and adding to. It will be a live, breathing thing that will need change.” He didn’t want the model to set his idea in stone. He wanted a tangible representation of the vision he saw in his mind. He wanted to see his dream as a real thing in the real world, a creation he could keep building and collaborating on with others. He saw buildings and streets and a castle. He wanted others to be able to see them, too. It was time for the world he imagined to move outside his mind, to become a place where others could make their own memories, too.
The world I’ve built is certainly not Disneyland. It doesn’t hold roller coasters, movie characters, or resort accommodations. But, it is a world that I hope to make real for others in a way that goes beyond a story you might read or watch on stage. I want to open the doors so people can step inside and explore this world—make it their own. I’d be delighted to share how its characters and corners have helped visitors access ways of thinking that unlock possibility and potential. I’m positive that it’s a world that will continue to evolve as I explore, but also through the layers of every other visitor’s experience, too.
Once Walt had built his model and begun to break ground on the park itself, he started sharing stories of the experience on his television show.
Maybe this space can be my quieter-than-television, but just-right-for-me place to begin opening the door. Here, I can offer a peek into the world I’ve been exploring.
I want to welcome you in, yes. I hope you will feel invited to wander, to wonder, and to make this world your own. But right now, writing this way is doing something important for me.
It’s a way of returning to myself. I’ve taken the time I needed to imagine a world into life, to trace its borders and find its coherent throughline. Now, I’m remembering how it feels to be a writer who closes her eyes, steps into a scene, and follows the words where they lead.
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The snapshot of the living landscape is unfolding . Reading this brings me so much joy . I am Grateful for your commitment to illumineering; all the magic it has offered me and I trust will offer others .