Finding the Story I Was Afraid to Tell

Five hours, four deleted chapters, and one reminder: the stories we’re most afraid of are often the ones we’re meant to write.

There’s a rhythm to writing I’d forgotten.

Not the kind where you put words on the page every morning at 6 a.m. because some craft book told you to. I mean the rhythm of showing up for your story. The muscle memory of it. The way it shifts how you see yourself when you slide into the chair and say, “I’m here. Let’s go.”

For me, that rhythm always lived at Panera.

When I had deadlines for my first three novels, that’s where I went.

When I needed to push through a messy middle or crank out a word count, I’d park myself there with coffee, a muffin, and five straight hours.

Something about the place flips the switch from “life mode” to “writer mode.”

So when I finally decided to stop circling my thriller and actually sit with it again, I knew exactly where I had to go.

So on Sunday, I made a date. With Panera. With myself. With writing. I packed up my laptop, a charger, a notebook, my Notion pages, and my AirPods (which are basically invisibility cloaks for noise—on, it’s blissful hum; off, it’s every toddler scream and clattering tray).

Choosing my table for the day… it may seem really silly, but it felt right. That was my spot. It felt strong. It had purpose.

And for five hours, I sat down with Girl in Pieces—and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just about remembering the book. It was about rewriting my relationship with it.

Reading Myself Back In

At first, I didn’t write. I just read.

Through those opening chapters, I remembered Nic’s voice—sarcastic, self-protective, built on survival mechanisms she uses like armor. I remembered her pain. I remembered the world I’d abandoned her in. It was easier to fall back into her story than I thought it would be.

Until I hit chapter seven.

That’s where I stopped cold. Something was wrong, and I could feel it. But I kept reading. Kept feeling…itchy.

Ten chapters sat there, pretending to be the next stretch of story, but I knew in my gut they weren’t it. They were filler. False starts. The wrong turn I took years ago.

So I did the thing I couldn’t do before.

I deleted them.

Scrapped four whole chapters and started sketching new bones.

By the end of the day, I’d rebuilt the scaffolding all the way to chapter twelve. Not polished, not perfect. But alive again.

The First Rule I Set For Myself

Now, I’m a planner, a plotter… I’ve never been good at sitting my butt down and just writing. I love the outline stage. I love getting the pieces of the puzzle together before I craft the words that hold them.

And diving back into a novel means there’s a LOT to focus on.

So I set myself a rule:

This is still draft one. My only job right now is to get the story down.

Not polished. Not pretty. Just down.

Out of my head, and onto paper where I can actually see it take shape.

That rule got tested fast.

Because the moment I hit chapter seven, I knew something was off. The words were fine. The scenes looked like scenes. But in my gut, I could feel it: this wasn’t the story.

And right now, my only goal is to find the story.

The Only Focus: Find The Story

Five years ago, I would’ve tried to force those chapters into working—rewriting them six different ways, pushing sentences around like furniture, hoping one configuration would finally make the space feel right.

But that’s exactly how I stalled before.

So this time, I followed my own rule.

Draft one doesn’t need perfect chapters. Draft one needs the right story.

And here’s the thing: this doesn’t just apply to fiction.

I was chatting with someone on LinkedIn the other day who admitted they were struggling to find a story that felt aligned and resonated with their audience. They were afraid they’d give up before they got there.

Sound familiar?

We all have a jumble of ideas in our heads. A sense of the essence. But we can’t quite figure out how to thread them together into something that feels strong, real, and shareable.

That’s what a first draft is for: not perfection, but pulling threads. Testing them. Seeing what holds.

If you think of story in layers, it looks something like this:

• Layer One: Find the story threads. Pull them together.

• Layer Two: Build the bones.

• Layer Three: Build the resonance.

• Layer Four: Build the moments.

That’s what those five hours gave me: the chance to delete what didn’t work and rebuild the bones without panic.

Here’s what that looks like in practice:

Compare that to a more polished section from chapter one, where Nic’s voice is clearer:

he difference is huge—and intentional.

Because right now, I’m not chasing pretty words. I’m chasing truth.

The draft is rough, but the rhythm is back. And that’s the only thing that matters in this stage.

The Tools That Keep Me Moving

If scrapping four chapters sounds terrifying, here’s the truth: it would’ve been, if I didn’t have a set of tools that keep me from spiraling.

Every writer has a toolbox that they use and pull from to keep them moving forward. Here are four anchors I rely on at this stage:

1. The Bracket Trick

My lifeline for draft one.

Anytime I hit a moment where I don’t know the exact words, or I can’t see the full scene yet, I drop a note like [more here] and move on.

Yesterday, that saved me in a confrontation scene between Nic and her fiancé. I had no idea how the argument would land, but I knew the aftermath. So I wrote what I could, left a placeholder, and kept going.

The beauty? Nine times out of ten, those [more here] brackets are signals. They’re telling me the story hasn’t revealed something yet. Forcing it never helps. Letting it sit always does.

2. The Open Loops List

Thrillers live and die by open loops—the questions you raise that hook the reader and demand answers.

When do you close them? When do you add more? That rhythm is the pulse of the book.

So I keep a running list in Notion of every open loop I’ve introduced, where it shows up, and notes about how or when I’ll close it. It’s messy, but it keeps me honest.

Because nothing kills trust faster than dropping a thread your reader has been holding onto.

3. Moment → Reaction → Consequence

This one keeps me from writing passive characters.

Every scene has to move through this loop:

• Moment: something happens.

• Reaction: the character chooses how to respond.

• Consequence: that choice changes what comes next.

I remind myself constantly: my heroine isn’t allowed to just be a passenger in someone else’s story. She has to drive it, through her own choices, good or bad.

It’s not just more interesting; it’s more human. Because every one of us is, ultimately, a victim of our own choices.

4. The Four-Part Spine

I don’t write to three acts. The middle always gets muddy for me.

Instead, I use a four-part spine: Setup, Response, Attack, Resolution.

It’s simple enough to give me clarity, but flexible enough that I don’t feel boxed in. Right now, I’m deep in the Response phase: where Nic has been shoved out of her normal world and is trying (badly) to fix things with the wrong tools, focused on the wrong goal, working against herself.

It keeps me grounded. I always know which “bucket” of story I’m in, so I don’t lose the big picture while I’m knee-deep in the weeds.

Each of these tools is about momentum. They’re the rails I build so the train keeps moving, even when the scenery ahead is foggy.

Because at this stage, the only real failure would be stopping.

What This Story is About

Since you’re along for the ride as I write this, it’s only fair you understand what the story is about — and where the idea came from.

At its surface, Girl in Pieces is the story of Nic, a woman who’s built what looks like the perfect life: steady job, loving fiancé, clear path forward. She’s done everything she can to bury the girl she used to be.

Until a PI shows up on her doorstep and cracks that version of her wide open.

There’s a serial rape trial underway, and the man on trial is the same one Nic reported as a teenager for sexual assault— but never pressed charges against.

Now she has to face the choice she’s spent her life avoiding: keep hiding from her past or risk everything to face it. And the deeper she goes, the more she starts to question whether the man on trial is guilty of all the current crimes he’s accused of… or if there’s someone else out there. Someone who hasn’t stopped. Someone who may have already have her in their sights.

And here’s the part I don’t talk about lightly:

This isn’t just a story I made up. It comes from a single thread of my own life.

The court case, the modern day story in this book — that’s all fiction.

But the point in history she hides from? I know that shadow.

Nic isn’t me. She’s her own person, with her own voice and choices. But that shadow she circles? I’ve lived with it, too. And for a long time, it’s part of why this book stayed half-finished. Too close. Too loud. Too much.

That’s the heartbeat of Girl in Pieces. Yes, it’s a thriller, with all the twists and turns you’d expect. But underneath it is something more. Something bigger. Something I’m finally ready to write.

What This Day Gave Me Back

Five hours at Panera didn’t just reconnect me with a draft. It forced me to sit with a story I’ve been avoiding. My own.

Because the truth is, walking back into this book meant walking back into that shadow. And for years, I wasn’t ready.

I’d convinced myself I needed distance. Or more craft. Or the perfect outline. Or even, that I didn’t need writing at all.

But really, I just needed courage—the kind that only comes when you finally decide to stop circling the story and sit with it.

On Sunday, that’s what I did.

And somewhere between deleting chapters, sketching new bones, and scrawling notes on a Notion page, I felt something I hadn’t in years: the rhythm. That pulse that makes me feel like a novelist again.

It reminded me I’ve done this before. That I’ve finished books. That I’ve lived through silence, burnout, and avoidance, and still found my way back.

And maybe most importantly, it reminded me why I can’t let this one go.

Because sometimes the stories that feel too close, too personal, too risky—those are exactly the ones we’re meant to tell.

Not because they’re easy. But because they’re true.

Thanks for reading.

Jeannie

And to end on a strong note, a snapshot of my Wyatt, on his perch on our back porch, my favorite place to sit, listen to the trees and the birds and find peace. I hope you have a spot that brings you peace as well.