Lia Declan's Musings

In the past two weeks, I’ve outlined seven different novels—each one complete in structure, emotionally resonant, and mythically scaffolded. And yet, when I sit with them, I feel only futility. The drafting feels hollow. The act of writing, once a ritual of escape and integration, now feels like pouring myself into a vessel that won’t hold.

This post isn’t a cry for help. It’s a naming of truth. Writing has been my sanctuary, my architecture of meaning. But the cultural ritual of reading is shifting, and I’m grieving what that means—for my shop, for my career, for my voice.

I’m not giving up. I’m restructuring. I’m listening. And I’m starting here—with fragments, reflections, and mythic threads. If you’re reading this, you’re witnessing the beginning of something quieter, but no less sovereign.