Summer doesn’t ask permission before it changes how you write. The schedule loosens. The light stays out longer than your attention does. Some of you will use the extra hours. Most of you will watch them disappear into everything except the page, then wonder where July went.

This July has a particular flavor to it. Mercury has been retrograde since June 29, moving back through Cancer, and it doesn’t lift until July 23. If your drafts have felt foggier than usual, less like you forgot how to write and more like the words keep arriving sideways, that’s not something to ignore and push through. Retrograde seasons don’t create your stall. They make it loud enough to finally notice.

I’ve been studying evolutionary astrology, deep enough now to have an advanced certification in it. And the one thing that has stayed with me through all of my coursework is that a planet never changes what it’s asking for. Mercury always wants the same thing: a clear channel for your mind to move through. What changes is the sign it’s moving through, and what that sign does under pressure. People talk about Mercury retrograde like it’s the apocalypse. Retrograde just slows the whole system down long enough to show you where the channel was already narrow. It’s incredibly prescriptive if you’re open-minded enough to view it that way.

Camp starts July 13, while Mercury is still moving backward. By the time I teach my session on July 31, the retrograde will have lifted for exactly one week. Good timing, for once.

I’ll be at Novel Summer Camp this year as a camp counselor, teaching a session called Write Like Your Element. It’ll be both diagnostic and interactive. You’ll find your element through your sun sign, then we’ll go through what each element does when a draft stalls, sign by sign. Air doesn’t stall the same way for every Air sign. Fire doesn’t either. The strategy each sign reaches for under pressure is specific, and so is the way back in.

Your sun sign is your identity, and in the realm of writing, it’s always asking the same question: what does it look like for you to be fully yourself on the page? Your element is the family of answers you’re working with. Your specific sign is the particular strategy you reach for. When the draft goes quiet, it’s because the strategy hit something it wasn’t built to handle. It needs a different move, not more force, and definitely not more guilt.

I won’t walk through all four elements here. That’s what the session is for. I’ll say this much though: the unlock is never “try harder.” It’s smaller and stranger than that, and it changes by element. You’ll leave with a writing exercise built specifically for where your draft stalled, and something concrete to do after the session.

If you’ve got a manuscript that’s gone quiet, or you’re starting something new and want a real framework for understanding how you work instead of borrowing someone else’s, come find me on the campgrounds. I’ll be the one with a red name badge, talking about the sky like it’s a craft book.

Novel Summer Camp runs July 13 through August 7. It’s a free, 4-week writing retreat, no packing required.

When you sign up, you also get access to the full NovCamp experience, including:

• Educational webinars from camp counselors (like me!) — craft, genre technique, and professional development

• Daily writing sprints to build momentum every day

• Cabin groups — small, matched cohorts for accountability and friendship

• Campfire story circles — weekly showcases to share and celebrate your work

• S’mores social hours — casual, pressure-free community hangouts

Sign up for Novel summer Camp

About the author

High Priestess Lakeisha is the founder of The Story Temple, a spiritual writing sanctuary for Black writers healing their relationship with their voice. She is a developmental editor with close to 10 years of experience across fiction and nonfiction, an initiated priestess, a certified evolutionary astrologer, and a shadow work facilitator. Her editorial roots are in fantasy and speculative fiction, the genre space where she first saw the patterns she would later have language for.

Lakeisha’s work holds craft and spirit as one practice. The Elemental Writing Energetics framework reads the manuscript. The Elemental Shadow Wounds framework reads the architect behind the words (the writer). The Story Temple exists on a single premise: writing is a spiritual practice, and a free sentence is a prayer being answered.

Morrison knocked the gaze off the shoulder. Baldwin showed what the eyes could do once it was gone. Àṣẹ 𓂀✧⟡

The way you carry something you’ve been holding for a long time. Three years of work. Three years of drafts, of revision, of knowing something was wrong and not being able to articulate it well enough to fix it. She had received editorial feedback in the past. Genuine feedback. Careful feedback. The kind that points out the structural problem in act two and the place where the main character’s interiority goes flat in the final third. She revised, yet the flatness was still there.

She said: I know what’s wrong on the page. I just can’t seem to change it.

This, or some version of it, is the sentence I’ve learned to listen for because it almost always means the problem isn’t on the page at all.

— ✦ —

There’s a distinction I’ve come to think is essential, and nobody really talks about it:

A craft problem lives in the manuscript. It can be seen, diagnosed and revised. Developmental editing and manuscript assessments are built to do this. They find the structural fracture, the pacing failure, the place where emotional logic breaks down. These are precise diagnostic tools and I believe in them completely. How could I not? I’m a developmental editor.

A voice wound lives in the writer. It shows up in the manuscript. You can see it at the sentence level, in the hedged interiority, in the flattened desire, in the scene that softens right before it gets true. But you can’t fix it from the manuscript side. You can revise the symptom, sure. But the wound stays.

Most writing programs treat every problem like a craft problem. They give you better notes, more sophisticated feedback, finer-grained tools. And if the problem is structural, that works. But if the problem is a voice wound, if what’s holding the manuscript hostage is a Silence wound or a Worthiness wound or a Performance wound sitting underneath the pages, an editorial letter isn’t gonna move it. You will revise into the same flatness every time. Why? Because you’re working on the wrong layer.

The Shadow & the Pen is a session that works on the right layer.

— ✦ —

We didn’t talk about act two of her magical realism novel.

We pulled cards instead. I asked her what she was most afraid her manuscript was saying about her. Not about the main character, about her as a writer. She went quiet for a moment. Then she said something that she may have written in her journal, but hadn’t said out loud to anyone before: that she was afraid the book was too much. Too specific. Too spiritual. That no one outside of her community would understand it, and that she’d been writing with that fear for so long she’d stopped noticing it.

The card that came out was the Hermit. Meditative. Solitary. Interior. Holding the light inward, not outward.

I said: what if the book isn’t too much? What if you’ve been writing it for people who were never meant to receive it?

She started crying. Not the kind that means something broke. The kind that means something finally got named.

We didn’t return to the manuscript after that. Instead, we talked about who she was writing for, and why the imagined white reader had moved into her creative process like a tenant she’d never invited and never quite figured out how to evict. We talked about the spiritual elements she’d been softening like the rituals and the ancestral presence in the story because she was afraid of being called ’too niche,’ which is a phrase that means: too Black, too specific, too unapologetically yours.

By the end of the session she’d made one concrete decision: she was going to write the next chapter for her grandmother. Not for the market. Not for an agent. But for the woman who appears three times in the book and who she’s been keeping at arm’s length because she didn’t know if it was a good idea to put her grandmother fully on the page.

— ✦ —

Tarot is a diagnostic tool. I want to be clear about this because I know some of you came through secular literary culture and the word ‘tarot’ still activates the part of your brain that wants to qualify, to footnote, to make sure the people in the room know you’re also serious and rigorous and not just being woo.

The cards work.

Here’s the mechanism, without mysticism: a tarot card is a mirror that doesn’t lie. It surfaces what you already know but haven’t let yourself say directly. The image, the symbolism, the question it opens… these create a container for the unconscious to speak in a register that linear thinking can’t often reach. It isn’t supernatural. It’s a different kind of diagnostic. Numerology works the same way in terms of pattern recognition. The numbers in your name, your birth date, the timing of when you started this book. They act as a map. These tools aren’t looking at the pages of your manuscript. They’re looking at you.

And for a writer whose block isn’t in the craft but in the wound, that matters a great deal. Because you can’t revise your way out of a wound. But you can name it. And once it’s named, it loses the power that unnamed things have: the power to run your writing sessions from the inside without you ever seeing them clearly enough to push back.

— ✦ —

Uranus moved into Gemini for the first time since 1942. Gemini is the sign of language, of voice, of the multiplicity of what we allow ourselves to say and how we allow ourselves to say it. Uranus is disruption, sudden revelation, the dismantling of structures that have outlived their use.

I’m not going to make grand predictions. But I will say this: we are in a moment that is asking Black writers specifically — writers who have been writing under surveillance, in the censored register, for the centered white reader — what happens when the old structures stop holding? What happens when the old guard falls? What voice comes through when the architecture of approval starts to crack?

That isn’t an abstract question. Or even a hypothetical one. It’s a writing question. It’s a manuscript question. And it’s the question sitting underneath every session I hold.

— ✦ —

The Shadow & the Pen is a 90-minute session for the writer who knows something is wrong but can’t get to it from the manuscript side.

We work with your manuscript and with you. We pull cards and look at your personal numerology. We name the wound that’s been running your writing sessions. We find the layer underneath the craft problem: the voice problem, the permission problem, the white reader on your shoulder who moved in and never left.

If you’ve been revising into the same problem. If you know what’s wrong and can’t change it. If you’ve gotten good notes and the block is still there, this session is for you.

I’m a developmental editor. I know how to read and assess a manuscript. But I’ve learned that the most important reading in the session is rarely the pages.

— ✦ —

Bookings are open

With love and fire,

High Priestess Lakeisha

𓂀✧⟡

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Write From the Wound just moved into that room.

It’s now live on Podia. A proper course home where all seven days live together in one place, along with the Welcome Guide, the Tarot and Oracle Basics reference, and the Resource Library. Everything you need to do this work the way it was always meant to be held, at your own pace and available whenever you need to return to it.

I want to ensure you (inner)stand what this course really does.

One of the writers who went through the original version wrote to me after Day 1:

“I have a flowing connection with writing my truth, but when it comes to publishing online, that white gaze thing takes me down. Doesn’t matter that I’m a contributor to a dozen anthologies and have a memoir out.”

She has the credentials. She has the publications. A very real body of work. And the wound was still there, still doing its job, every single time she went to press publish.

By the end of that first day, she pulled the High Priestess, her first time in all her years of pulling cards, and wrote:

“I’ve found HOME. Where I belong. Safe, no turning back, cannot unknown what I’ve always known, have kept sacred and private inside me, hidden for 73 years.”

That’s what seven days can begin to move.

Let me be very clear: this is not a productivity course. There are no word count goals to meet, no writing sprints to keep up with, no advice telling you to block time on your calendar.

Write From the Wound is seven days of shadow work for Black writers. Each day contains tarot guidance, excavation prompts and somatic practices that move the resistance out of your head and into your body where it can finally shift.

The block you’ve been living with is not a discipline problem. It’s not a laziness problem. It’s not an issue of needing better writing skills either. It is a protection pattern. A pattern that was learned and/or inherited, and it’s quietly running underneath every draft you’ve started and stopped.

This course helps you identify and name it. And then begin writing from the other side of it.

If you were one of the first people to go through this journey when it existed in email form, check your email. I sent you something personal.

For everyone else: the door is open.

Begin Write From the Wound — $47

With love and fire,

High Priestess Lakeisha

Writing is spiritual practice. Reclaiming your voice is an act of sovereignty.

𓂀✧⟡

She had paid $2,600 for what her editor called “comprehensive editing” on her 75k-word manuscript. Eight weeks later, she got her book back with corrected grammar and a few consistency fixes. Basic copyediting. Not the structural work she had paid for. Not the work her manuscript actually needed.

Her beta readers were still saying the same things they said before she spent the money. I got lost halfway through. The ending felt rushed. I didn’t understand why the main character made that choice.

“I don’t get it,” she told me. “The editor said they fixed everything. But agents are still saying no, it needs more work.”

The structural problems that were preventing an agent from picking it up? Still there. She’d been charged developmental editing prices for surface-level work. And she had no way of knowing the difference because nobody had ever explained it to her.

When I wrote about this in an essay1, I received comments from white editors who said it was her fault. That she should have known what kind of editing she needed before she hired anyone. That she should have done her research.

What they didn’t say — what they never say — is that white writers make the same mistake. I know this from experience because I’ve had white writers as clients too. Writers of every background overpay for the wrong edit, misread what their manuscript needs and/or put trust in the wrong person. The difference is that when it happens to a white writer, it’s an unfortunate experience. When it happens to a Black writer, it’s evidence of something they should have known.

The publishing industry operates on insider knowledge that Black writers are not systematically given access to. We are expected to navigate a system built on assumptions about what we already understand, and then blamed when we make expensive mistakes inside that system.

Something took root in me after working with her.

Not immediately. Not loudly either. I wasn’t enraged or anything like that.

It was more like a question I couldn’t stop asking: What would it look like to build something specifically for us? A container where Black and Brown writers weren’t navigating a system designed to exclude them? Where the knowledge wasn’t gatekept? Where the work could just be the work?

I didn’t have the answer back then. This was during the height of covid and the lockdown. I had lost my corporate job because of the crisis, and started my business to feed my family. The Story Temple was the furthest thing from my mind. But the question stayed. It put down roots before I had language for what it was asking.

I teach three wounds here in The Story Temple. The Silence Wound. The Worthiness Wound. The Performance Wound.

The worthiness wound is the one that’s most active for me right now.

I want to be precise about what I mean when I say that. I don’t mean I struggle to believe my work has value in the abstract. I know it does and you can’t convince me otherwise. I mean the wound shows up in my body before my mind catches up. In the moment before I send the invoice. In the hesitation before I say what I actually charge. In the part of me that has historically worked twice as hard for half the acknowledgment and called that normal.

In my writing. In my business. In my relationships. In every room where I had to decide whether I was going to take up space or make myself smaller so someone else could be comfortable.

Society does not fear Black women because we are dangerous. It fears us because we are powerful, and fear is how power gets managed when it can’t be controlled. The conditioning that tells Black women we are less than, that we have to prove our worth to be accepted, that our presence requires justification — that conditioning is not accidental. It is structural. It is intentional. It is by design.

The worthiness wound is what happens when that conditioning gets inside. When you start to believe, even partially, even in the quiet before-sleep hours, that maybe they’re right. That maybe you are too much. That maybe you should wait until you’re more ready, more qualified, more certain, more [insert whatever this is for you].

This is why shadow work is important. I know my worth is priceless. I know it in a way now that I didn’t know it when I started this business. But healing is not a destination you arrive at and stay. New things come up. Old patterns surface in new situations. You heal, then life gives you something that tests whether you truly healed it or just learned to talk about it differently.

Here is what I have learned: you can build something real while still healing the wound it grew out of.

You do not have to be fully healed to begin. You do not have to have resolved every question about your own worth before you create a container that is about worth. Sometimes the building — the creating — is part of the healing. Sometimes Spirit gives you the assignment before you feel ready, because the readiness comes from doing the thing, not from waiting until you feel like you deserve to or are qualified enough now.

I pulled cards this morning. Mind. Body. Spirit.

Eggshell pots. Spring hike. Germination.

The Germination card says: Trust in and fully embrace the emerging path to who you truly are.

This week, an essay I wrote got one like. And that one like was me cuz I always like my own stuff. A restack of a single sentence from someone else’s article got about fifty likes and is still making the rounds. The notes I’ve been writing carefully, with intention… some of them are going out into what feels like silence.

And then someone replied to an email I sent yesterday:

It costs a lot. And I wonder what would happen if we just let all of US out onto the page. What else would shift around us?

It helped remind me what germination really is.

It’s not the moment the plant breaks through the soil. That’s visible growth. That’s what everyone celebrates and screenshots and calls progress.

Germination is what happens before that. Underground. In the dark. When the seed is doing everything it needs to do to become something, and there is no visible evidence that any of it is working.

The roots are growing. You just can’t see them yet.

I think about my client who paid $2,600 for the wrong edit. I think about what it took for her to reach out to a stranger, to explain what happened, to trust that someone in this industry might be different. That wasn’t her being naive. That was a root. She was still reaching toward something even after being burned.

I think about every moment the worthiness wound told me to stop. To wait. To be more ready. To prove something first. And how I kept going anyway because Spirit kept giving me the assignment and I kept saying yes even when I wasn’t sure. Even though I knew I hadn’t healed the wound.

Some will say this is confidence. I call it faith. And those are two different things.

Confidence says: I know this will work.

Faith says: I don’t know if this will work, and I’m doing it anyway because it’s what I’m being called to do.

The Story Temple is meant to exist. As a beacon. I know that the way I know things before I can explain them. The roots are growing. Even when the numbers are quiet. Even when the algorithm is doing what it does. Even when I am writing into what feels like a void and the void doesn’t write back.

The spring equinox is tomorrow. I’m going to keep watering these roots.

with love from the waters,

High Priestess Lakeisha

13 people completed the journey. Their ancestors showed up. Wounds that were buried for who knows how long opened. Transformation happened.

It’s been beautiful to witness them, and I already know what the next iteration of WFTW will be based on their results. It’s also been a transformative experience for me as well. I’ve been learning about what it actually takes to hold this kind of space.

Someone in the program asked for my insights on interpreting a card that kept showing up for them. This card showed up three times across different days. If you work with tarot, you know the cards get when they start stalking you. This particular card was literally on their ass, and they wanted to know what it meant.

I could’ve just told them.

Given them the traditional meaning. Applied it to their situation. And made them feel “helped.”

That would’ve been clean and easy. Faster. I’m sure they would’ve felt grateful.

But it wouldn’t have truly served them. And if you know me, I’m not here for likes and performity. I’m here to serve — from the heart.

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Here’s what I noticed in their email to me:

They had an prior experience where a tarot facilitator asked them to describe what they saw in the very card that kept coming out. Another woman in the group told them they were wrong.

That created a wound.

Now, they’re asking me — another facilitator — to tell them what the card means.

The asking is the wound.

They’re waiting for permission to trust their knowing. Waiting for an external authority to validate their interpretation. Questioning themselves every time they pull a card.

And if I just gave them the answer, I would perpetuate that pattern.

I would become the external authority they’re learning not to defer to.

I could’ve “rescued” them:

• Just interpret the card

• Give them the “right” answer per traditional meanings

• They feel helped

• Move on to the next email

That’s easier. That’s faster. That takes less energy.

Instead, I chose liberation — to truly serve:

• Reflect the pattern back to them

• Show them how the card appearing three times is the real message

• Show them how asking what it means is the wound

• Give them an assignment: Pull the card again. Sit with YOUR knowing. Write what it means to YOU. Don’t ask permission for it to be right.

That’s harder. That’s slower. That takes more energy.

When someone asks you to give them the answer, they’re really asking you to rescue them from discomfort of doing the work themselves.

And rescue feels good:

• Takes less time

• They feel “helped” immediately

• You feel useful

• Everyone walks away satisfied

• No discomfort to hold

But rescue doesn’t create transformation.

It creates dependency.

They leave feeling helped but still questioning themselves the next time. Still waiting for someone to tell them if they’re right.

They haven’t learned to trust their own knowing. They’ve just learned to trust YOU instead of themselves.

Liberation requires something different.

When I chose to reflect the pattern instead of interpreting the card, I had to:

• Take time to SEE the pattern (what’s actually happening here?)

• Craft a response that points them to their knowing without rescuing or making them feel bad

• Trust they can do the work themselves

• Hold them capable even when they’re asking for answers

• Accept they might not like it (they asked for rescue, I gave excavation)

That takes more energy than just answering the question.

Because now I’m not just responding to an email. I’m holding space for transformation.

I’m witnessing the wound. Naming the pattern. Pointing them back to their own wisdom. Trusting their capacity to excavate.

That’s why holding space is exhausting. Beautiful and fulfilling, but exhausting nonetheless.

Answering emails ain’t hard.

Choosing not to rescue someone — choosing to hold them capable of their own liberation — takes way more energy than just giving them what they’re asking for.

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As responses continue to come in, I have to choose:

Am I teaching the framework or doing the work for them?

Am I pointing them to their knowing or replacing it with mine?

Am I holding them capable or treating them as incapable?

Am I facilitating or becoming the external authority they’re learning not to defer to?

That decision costs something.

The easier path is there. Just answer the question. Make them feel helped. Move on to the next email. But that’s not how I choose to serve.

You can build the perfect container. You can write the clearest teaching. You can provide every tool they need.

But you can’t do the excavation for them.

And you shouldn’t.

Because the moment I start interpreting their cards, I become the pattern I’m trying to help them break. I become the external authority they’re learning not to defer to.

My job isn’t to give them the answer.

My job is to teach them how to find it themselves.

To point them back to their own knowing. To reflect the pattern that’s keeping them stuck. To hold them capable of doing their own excavation.

This is what they don’t teach you about creating spiritual offerings.

Course creators talk about funnels, upsells, downsells and email sequences. They waffle on about strategies and conversion rates. Tech platforms and automation.

Nobody’s talking about this part:

The daily choice between rescue and liberation.

The energy it takes to not give someone the answer they’re asking for.

The trust required to hold people capable even when they’re asking you to do it for them.

The boundary work of saying “I won’t interpret this for you - here’s how to trust your own knowing.”

This is the hidden curriculum of spiritual business.

And it’s the work that actually creates transformation.

And in case you’re wondering… this is the same pattern that shows up in writing.

You know intuitively: This dialogue needs to stay in AAVE.

Workshop says: “Clean it up, make it more accessible.”

You question yourself: “Maybe they’re right, maybe I should...”

You abandon your knowing.

You know intuitively: This character’s passivity is survival strategy.

Feedback says: “Give her more agency, make her fight back.”

You question yourself: “Maybe I’m just avoiding conflict...”

You abandon your knowing.

You know intuitively: This needs to be stated directly, not hidden in metaphor.

Beta reader says: “Too on the nose, trust your readers.”

You question yourself: “Maybe I’m being heavy-handed...”

You abandon your knowing.

IT’S THE SAME DAMN PATTERN.

Trusting external authority over your own knowing. Asking for validation. Waiting for permission.

This is what Write From the Wound excavates.

Not just with tarot cards. With everything.

Your writing. Your voice. Your creative decisions. Your response to feedback.

Seven days of learning to trust your first hit. Your intuition. Your body’s wisdom. Your knowing.

Even when external authority contradicts you.

Even when someone tells you you’re wrong.

Even when rescue feels safer than trusting yourself.

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Building the container wasn’t the hardest part. Teaching my framework wasn’t the hardest part. Creating the emails and the assignments and the structure - none of that was hard.

The hardest part is choosing not to rescue people when rescue would be so much easier. I’m a problem-solver. It’s what I do.

But that choice — reflection over rescue, liberation over dependency, holding them capable over doing it for them — that’s what creates the transformation I’m offering.

And it costs me something. Every single time.

But it’s the cost of building something real. And I gladly pay it.

Something that liberates instead of creating dependency.

Something that trains people to trust their own knowing instead of deferring to external authority.

Something that teaches: your first hit is right, your intuition is valid, your knowing matters.

This is my work.

And I’m learning what it takes to truly hold it.

Not just the teaching. Not just the content. Not just the framework.

The daily choice to reflect instead of rescue. To hold capable instead of carry. To point back to their wisdom instead of replace it with mine.

That’s what liberation requires.

And that’s what I’m learning to hold.

My invitation to you…

This is what Write From the Wound teaches.

Seven days of excavating the patterns that make you abandon your knowing.

Seven days of practicing trust — in your intuition, your body, your first responses.

Seven days of recognizing where external authority convinced you to question yourself.

Not just with tarot cards. With everything.

Your writing. Your voice. Your creative decisions. Your response to feedback.

The blocks aren’t random. They’re patterns.

And once you see the pattern, you can choose something different.

You can choose to trust your knowing — even when the guidebook disagrees, even when someone in the writing workshop contradicts you, even when the so-called expert says you’re wrong.

Tools for excavating inherited blocks, white gaze wounds, nervous system responses and the conditioning that taught you not to trust yourself.

JOIN WRITE FROM THE WOUND

Write From the Wound is a 7-day shadow work journey for Black and Brown writers ready to excavate what’s really blocking them. Created by me, Lakeisha, High Priestess of The Story Temple.

Questions? Drop a comment below or reply to this email.

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Tomorrow morning, Write From the Wound launches.

I pulled cards asking what I need to know about standing at this threshold.

Justice. Queen of Wands. 3 of Swords.

Then my oracle deck gave me: “Write for us first. You’re trying to make everyone happy. Diluting truth for white comfort. Choose your people first. Write for us.”

I sat with that for a long time.

Because this is the same card that came through on my birthday two weeks ago.

Same message. Same medicine.

The ancestors are making sure I hear this.

Don’t dilute. Don’t perform. Don’t translate. Write for us first.

On my birthday, that felt like permission.

Today, it feels like a directive.

Read more

I grabbed a deck to pull some cards before writing this.

The Empress was at the bottom as the underlying energy.

Behind her, the High Priestess (I couldn’t help but peek).

I smiled. Of course. Of course they show up on my 43rd birthday.

The Empress is the only one in the tarot deck. The evolution of all the queens combined.

There’s only one High Priestess as well, and she comes before the Empress.

This is what 43 feels like as I stand here at my desk.

I’m 43 years old today. Still have a 9-5. Well… sort of. I do quite a bit of freelance work along with taking on private clients to keep the lights on while I build this Temple. And some days that feels like failure. Like I should be further along by now. Like sovereignty should mean I should be done with contract work I don’t really care about. People like to talk shit about business owners who still maintain a 9-5 job in some capacity.

But then I remember: The Empress doesn’t perform sovereignty. She embodies it.

And embodiment means I’m building this Temple while working a job (remotely). Both are true. Both are valid. Doesn’t make me any less of a business owner.

So far, four people bought Write From the Wound during pre-sale.

Four.

Not forty. Not four hundred. Four writers who said yes to shadow work and $17 as sacred exchange.

And you know what? That’s enough. I know more will come. But I’m not chasing numbers. I’m building an institution. And institutions don’t get built overnight.

The Empress doesn’t rush.

She gestates. She nourishes. She creates in divine timing.

And then… she births empires.

My word for 2026 is sovereignty.

Sovereignty means I stop asking if I’m “allowed” to charge what transformation costs.

Sovereignty means I trust my knowing over what people say I “should” do to grow faster.

Sovereignty means I build The Story Temple on my timeline. My rhythm. My image.

And I center Black and Brown writers without apologizing or explaining why that’s necessary.

Here’s what I’m calling in:

Joy. As practice. As fuel. As medicine.

Abundance. Money, yes. But also ideas. Energy. Connections with people who get what I’m building.

Aligned relationships. Collaborators, not competitors. Community, not entitled people looking to extract from me.

Peace. The kind that comes from knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Stability. Sustainable pace. Foundation that holds when things shift.

And 200 writers served through The Story Temple this year.

That’s the number Spirit gave me when I asked. I didn’t question it.

200 writers whose craft deepens because this Temple exists.

At 43, I’m done playing nice. Nice gets you run over and run through — especially as a Black woman. Kindness is different from being nice. Kindness comes with boundaries. Being nice often doesn’t.

I’m a professional editor who’s read manuscripts, worked with real clients and can diagnose problems a lot of generic writing advice can’t name. I created a framework that works across all genres. I integrate spiritual practice and craft excellence without apologizing for either.

Some will call this arrogance.

But it is what it is.

And Spirit confirmed by showing me my own receipts — my journal entries, screenshots saved in my phone, my client testimonials — so I could believe it. So I could feel it in my body instead of just knowing it in my head.

The Empress doesn’t diminish her power to avoid threatening people.

She uses it to create. To nourish. To build.

I’m learning.

My ancestors have been loud lately.

What they keep saying is: It’s time to come out of the shadows and lead.

I’ve been building quietly. Learning. Refining. Getting the framework right before teaching it widely.

That was necessary. The 1 line in my Human Design needs that investigative foundation before I can teach with authority.

But this part of the investigation is complete.

Now it’s time to be seen. To be heard. To claim the teacher-leader role instead of saying “I’m just figuring this out alongside you.”

I’m not just figuring it out anymore.

I know what I know.

I’ve earned the right to teach it.

Even though I’m afraid.

Being afraid means I’m supposed to teach it.

Spirit and my Ancestors keep emphasizing: Focusing on the Black and Brown writing community is deeply important spiritual work.

This ain’t about niche positioning. It ain’t about marketing strategy.

It’s about spiritual practice.

Because we need to go back to our indigenous practices. We need to stop conforming for white comfort. We need to remember we come from traditions of oral storytelling, griots, praise singers and revolutionary writers who risked everything to tell truth.

We need writing education that belongs to us.

Building that — teaching craft that honors our voices, creating community that centers us, offering spiritual-meets-technical education that white institutions won’t — that’s sacred work.

Revolutionary work.

Liberation work.

And I’m honored I was chosen to do it.

In my spirit, I feel this year brings massive change for the collective. Systems breaking down. People waking up to what’s been broken all along.

My friend said we’re at a crossroads. Some will choose the path of The Wheel of Fortune. Others, the Magician. One path isn’t better than the other.

But I see chaos coming. Necessary destruction. Release.

And in that chaos, institutions that truly serve us become vital.

The Story Temple isn’t some cute writing group.

It’s an anchor, calling Black and Brown writers home to themselves.

Sovereignty is my word.

Liberation is my energy.

Every piece of writing I create: Does it free us or perform for them?

Every pricing decision: Does it reflect sacred exchange or shrink to avoid judgment?

Every teaching choice: Does it serve Black and Brown writers first or try to be “universal”?

Every collaboration: Does it expand what’s possible or require me to code-switch?

Liberation as filter. Liberation as compass. Liberation as practice.

True liberation isn’t just claiming my own freedom.

It’s building structures that make freedom possible for others. Those who came before us. Those who will come after.

The Story Temple is that structure.

Craft mastery without assimilation. Spiritual wisdom without apologizing. Community without code-switching.

That’s what I’m building with in 2026.

Today is January 4th.

My birthday.

In 15 days, I launch Write From the Wound on MLK Day.

Four people already said yes to exploring the underworld with me.

That feels like the perfect birthday gift.

Because it means my work is resonating. It means people trust me to guide them through shadow work they need to begin to write from a more liberated place. It means The Story Temple is becoming what I envisioned.

2025 was brutal. Personally. Professionally. Collectively.

Just ridiculous and stupid and brutal.

But I’m still here.

Still building.

Still believing.

And I celebrate myself for surviving it all.

So today I’m lighting candles on my altars in gratitude. Pulling cards for the year ahead. Making myself a steak dinner along with a red velvet cake with cream cheese icing. Resting before the WFTW launch begins. Thinking about how I’ve been a mother for 21 years (my firstborn’s bday was yesterday).

Trusting that 43 is the year everything I’ve been building comes into full form.

The Empress doesn’t rush.

She gestates.

She nourishes.

She creates in divine timing.

And then… she births empires.

Happy birthday to me.

Happy new year to us.

Let’s write free.

Next Reflection drops January 18 - the eve of the Write From the Wound launch.

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The questions were simple: What am I leaving behind? What am I stepping into? What will support my success?

What fell on the table gave me pause. It wasn’t surprising by any means. Well… maybe a little surprising. But only because I wasn’t expecting to receive confirmation so quickly. It named exactly what I’ve been feeling and gave me permission to do it — unapologetically.

And if you’re a writer ready to take yourself and your work seriously in 2026, this reading might be for you too.

Card 1: What I’m Leaving Behind – Queen of Wands

The Queen of Wands is magnetic, creative, charismatic. She’s fire embodied. People are drawn to her warmth, her energy, her generosity.

And I’m leaving her behind.

Don’t get me wrong, this energy is not bad. Trust me, honey, the Queen of Wands is a force. Not to mention fine as hell. But I’m leaving her behind (metaphorically) because I’ve been the Queen who serves others’ visions instead of building my own empire. The Queen who uses her fire to keep everyone else warm while burning herself out. The Queen who shrinks her sovereignty to maintain relationships that drain her.

What I’m actually leaving in 2025:

• Giving my creative fire away to people who don’t tend their own flames

• Shrinking to make others comfortable

• Saying yes when I mean no

• Performing palatability so people will accept me

• Any relationship — personal or professional — that requires me to be less

The Queen of Wands in the past position says: “You were powerful even when you were giving your power away. Imagine what happens when you keep it.”

Card 2: What I’m Stepping Into – The Chariot

The Chariot is about mastery. Control. Sovereignty.

It’s harnessing two opposing forces — the white horse and the black horse, which is symbolic of: light and shadow, personal and professional, soft and boundaried, masculine and feminine energy, and directing them toward a singular destination.

The Chariot doesn’t ask permission. The Chariot doesn’t shrink. The Chariot doesn’t stop for anyone who isn’t moving in the same direction. Period.

What this card told me:

I’m stepping into sovereignty in 2026. Not the Queen who serves – the Sovereign Empress who directs her own path with clear standards and unwavering focus.

I’ve decided where I’m going. The Story Temple as institution. Personal wholeness. Aligned relationships only. Clear boundaries in every area of my life.

The Chariot says I will get there because I’ve finally harnessed the forces that used to pull me in different directions.

The Chariot doesn’t choose one or the other. The Chariot harnesses both and moves forward with power.

This is my 2026 energy. Forward. Focused. Unstoppable.

When this card flew out, Spirit said “I heard you. I got you. Now go live it.”

Card 3: What Will Support My Success – The Hierophant

“Find your elders.”

That’s what the Hierophant said. Clear as day.

The Hierophant represents traditional wisdom passed down through lineage. Institutional knowledge and structure. Spiritual authority grounded in practice. Teaching that transforms students into teachers. Systems that outlast individuals.

What this means for me in 2026:

My success is supported by finding people who’ve already walked this path. Not just any mentors/coaches. Not the love and light folks who only focus on being in the feminine. I’m talking about elders. Real ones. People who built spiritual businesses that generate real money. Who maintained integrity while scaling. Who created institutions, not just audiences. Who hold both mystical practice and business acumen.

Sidebar: for those who didn’t know, running a business is very masculine in terms of energy. You’re making decisions, being strategic, taking action. Feminine energy comes into play when you’re using your intuition along with logic. When you’re paying attention to your emotions and how you feel when you’re running your business. This goes back to the Chariot. I’ve learned to master both.

But the Hierophant also whispered something else: “You’re becoming an elder too. The Story Temple is a Hierophant institution. You’re creating systematic teaching, building lineage, establishing tradition.”

The practical guidance:

• Join communities where elders gather

• Hire coaches who’ve done what I’m trying to do

• Trust traditional business wisdom alongside mystical guidance

• Build systems and structures, not just vibes

• Create something that will outlast me

The Hierophant reminded me: institutions require foundations. I’m not winging my way to my goals. I’m building systematically, learning from those who came before and creating something built to last.

The Shadow Card: Five of Cups

At the bottom of the deck — the shadow truth beneath everything — sat the Five of Cups.

The card of grief. Disappointment. Mourning what’s been lost while ignoring what remains.

I knew immediately that I wasn’t the mourning woman in this card.

Other people are.

The hard truth this card revealed:

Some people in my life are going to mourn the version of me that said yes when I meant no. That made myself smaller to keep them comfortable — especially when I begin publishing the Writing While Black pieces (expect the first one real soon). The version of me that gave my fire away to warm them. That let them have access without reciprocity.

2025 has been the year of the snake. I’ve shedded to the point of becoming unrecognizable to many. That Queen of Wands version of me died when I fully took my power back and made the choice to keep it for myself. She’s staying dead in 2026.

And some people are going to grieve her. They’re going to feel like they “lost” me. They’re going to be disappointed that the new me — the Sovereign Empress — has standards, boundaries, clear nos and isn’t available for their convenience.

The Five of Cups says: Let them grieve.

And I shall.

Their disappointment is not my assignment. They’re crying over spilled cups — the access they used to have — while refusing to see the full cups still standing. The authentic relationship that’s possible if they meet me where I am now.

But that’s their choice. Not mine.

What This Means for Black Writers in 2026

If you’re reading this and something is resonating, pay attention.

These cards aren’t just about me. They’re about what happens when you decide to take yourself and your work seriously. When you choose sovereignty over people-pleasing. When you stop performing and start building.

Ask yourself:

What Queen of Wands energy are you leaving behind?

Where have you been giving your creative fire away? Shrinking your vision to fit someone else’s comfort level? Performing palatability instead of showing up in your full truth?

What Chariot energy are you stepping into?

What would it look like to harness your opposing forces instead of being torn apart by them? To move forward with clear standards and unwavering focus? To stop asking permission and start claiming what’s yours?

What Hierophant support do you need?

Who are the elders you need to find (I’d be honored to be one of them)? What traditional wisdom do you need to learn? What systems and structures will support the vision you’re building? What are you creating that will outlast you?

What Five of Cups grief are you willing to let others hold?

Who will be disappointed when you stop shrinking and write your truth? When you set boundaries around your creative time? When you promote your work without apology? When you say no to what doesn’t serve you?

Can you let them mourn the version of you that’s gone without taking responsibility for their grief?

The Collective Message

2026 is asking something of us.

It’s asking us to stop playing small. To stop giving our creative fire away for free or cheap or to people who don’t value it. To stop performing for an audience that will never truly see us.

It’s asking us to step into sovereignty. To build institutions, not just platforms. To create work that matters, that lasts, that transforms. To find our elders and become elders ourselves. To create real community.

And it’s warning us: some people will not like this version of you. They will mourn who you used to be. They will be disappointed that you’re no longer available for their convenience.

Let them. They’ll be fine.

You’re in the Chariot now. You’re moving toward something real. Something yours. Something that requires all of you — not the shrunken, people-pleasing, fire-giving version, but the sovereign, boundaried, focused version.

The magician-coded wheel is about to start spinning and the path ahead is clear. Some people won’t follow. That’s not your assignment.

Your assignment is reaching the destination.

If you pulled cards for 2026, what did they show you?

Drop them in the comments. I’d love to see what Spirit is saying to other writers stepping into their power this year.

2026 is the year we stop asking permission. The year we write free.

See you on the other side of the portal.

— Lakeisha | High Priestess, The Story Temple

A few hours ago, I asked a simple question in my Notes: Since I’m an ambassador, would some support pieces for Novel November be helpful?

One person said yes.

That was all I needed.

Let me be honest with you: when it comes to fast-drafting challenges like this, most people who start won’t finish. This is a fact. And it’s not because they can’t actually write 50,000 words in 30 days. It’s because nobody’s teaching them how to sustain the creative fire without burning out.

The writing world gives you structure advice, plot templates and word count trackers. But nobody’s talking about the energetics of fast drafting. Nobody’s addressing what happens when your nervous system starts screaming at you in week two. Nobody’s giving you permission to rest without feeling like you’re “falling behind.”

This is my territory. The energetics of writing is what I teach and am known for. And fast drafting is an energetic challenge that requires more than plot points and daily word count goals.

What’s Coming: Four Weeks of Elemental Support

Over the next four Sundays, I’ll publish a support piece designed for exactly where you are in the challenge. I won’t be giving generic motivation. I also won’t be giving the classic “just push through” advice. That’s not my style. I aim to provide actual practical guidance that honors both craft excellence and your humanity.

Week 1 (Nov 2): Minimum Viable Structure

Just enough Earth element to stay oriented without over-planning. Includes guidance for both pantsers and plotters, plus the self-care foundations that will carry you through 30 days.

Week 2 (Nov 9): The Comparison Trap

How to stay in your creative lane when everyone’s posting their word counts. Why their pace isn’t your pace. How to protect your Fire element from the anxiety of “falling behind.”

Week 3 (Nov 16): When You Want to Quit

The week that breaks most people. How to tell if you’re tired or done. When to push through and when to pivot. What your body’s actually telling you when you want to abandon your draft.

Week 4 (Nov 23): Finishing Imperfectly

Why your ending doesn’t have to be perfect. What “finishing” actually means. How to honor your accomplishment without immediately diving into revision (please don’t do this).

Each piece will be roughly 1,000-1,200 words. Practical, direct, with specific self-care practices woven in. Because I simply CANNOT with the “survive on ramen and coffee and no sleep for 30 days” foolery some people are talking about. Be serious, y’all.

Why I’m Doing This

I’m a Novel November Ambassador, yes. But more importantly, I’m a priestess first and Spirit put me on assignment. Which means I simply cannot watch writers approach this challenge like it’s a productivity gauntlet that requires you to sacrifice your health and well-being on the altar of word count. Not on my watch.

Fast drafting is an energetic challenge. It requires Air clarity, Fire sustainability, Water connection and Earth structure all working together. It requires nervous system support. It requires you to remember you’re a human being with a body that needs rest, not a content-generating machine.

You deserve support that treats you like the whole person you are.

My December Workshop Connection

These four support pieces will carry you through November. Then on December 12, I’ll be teaching The Post-Draft Reset: Reflection Before Revision as part of Novel November’s “What’s Next?” series.

Everyone obsesses over crossing the finish line, but nobody talks about the crucial pause that must come after. You need rest and reflection before diving into revision. Not a race to immediately “fix” your manuscript while your creative body is still recovering from the sprint.

We’ll use elemental reflection and tarot guidance to process your drafting experience, identify your manuscript’s strengths and challenges, and create a simple revision roadmap. This way you can actually rest without the “where do I even start?” anxiety. If this is your first time doing a writing challenge like this, I highly recommend attending my workshop to reflect on the process. Even if you’ve completed a fast-drafting challenge in past, I bet you never even considered reflection before revision.

So mark your calendars. Full workshop details coming soon.

If You’re Joining Novel November

Tomorrow (Sunday, Nov 2) the first support piece drops: Minimum Viable Structure.

I’ll meet you here in the Temple Library with practical Earth element wisdom that gets you oriented without being overwhelmed.

And if you’re not joining the challenge? These pieces will still serve any writer working on a draft, moving through creative resistance or learning to honor both craft and sustainability.

Either way, I’m here to support you. Not with rigid rules or overcomplicated systems (I’m a laid-back Virgo moon girlie), but with elemental guidance that honors both writing craft and sacred creative practice.

Let’s do this.

Are you joining Novel November? What element do you think you’ll need the most support with - Air, Fire, Water or Earth? Let me know in the comments.

Wanna give it a try (it’s free)? Click here to sign up.

If you’re one of those writers, fear not. A solution has come.

This November, ProWritingAid is launching Novel November — a free month-long writing challenge designed to help writers turn blank pages into finished drafts.

I’m delighted to be a Novel November Ambassador for their inaugural launch.

The challenge itself remains the same: 50,000 words in 30 days. About 1,667 words daily. It’s ambitious, sometimes brutal, occasionally transcendent. There will be daily writing sprints, live workshops and a community of writers all chasing the same deadline. Participation is free, and your words support Room to Read, a literacy nonprofit bringing books and education to underserved communities worldwide.

In addition to hanging out in the community and performing my ambassador duties, I’ll be teaching a workshop in December for their “What’s Next?” series.

Workshop title — The Post-Draft Reset: Reflection Before Revision.

Here’s what I know to be true from hands-on experience editing and guiding writers (especially those doing a challenge like this): everyone obsesses over crossing the finish line, but nobody talks about the crucial pause that must come after.

You need rest and reflection before diving into revision. Not a race to immediately “fix” your manuscript while your creative body is still recovering from the sprint.

But before I get into the deets about my workshop, let’s talk about what’s happening right now in these final days of October.

The Preptober Frenzy

Every year in October, the writing world explodes with Preptober content. Elaborate plotting workshops. Complex character development systems. Detailed worldbuilding frameworks. Scene-by-scene breakdowns mapped to spreadsheets color-coded by subplot.

It’s a lot.

And for many writers — especially if this is your first rodeo — it can feel overwhelming to the point of paralysis. You start October excited about your story idea and end it buried under so many systems and structures you’ve forgotten why you wanted to write this thing in the first damn place.

If you’re familiar with my teachings, then you’ll know I have a unique way of viewing writing and storytelling. I see it through an energetic lens. Novel November is no different. Fast drafting is an energetic challenge that requires both practical planning and nervous system support.

Let me say that again because it’s important.

Fast drafting is an energetic challenge.

Thirty days of sustained creative output at this intensity isn’t simply about knowing your plot points. It’s about managing your creative fire so it burns bright without burning you out. It’s about staying connected to your story’s emotional truth when you’re exhausted. It’s about maintaining the structural clarity that keeps you oriented when you’re writing tired. And yes, you will be tired.

It’s about Air, Fire, Water and Earth working together to support your creative body through an ambitious task.

Most Preptober workshops focus exclusively on Earth — structure, craft, plotting mechanics. They’ll teach you story beats and character arcs and three-act structure until your brain feels full. But they ignore the other three elements that actually determine whether you’ll finish this draft feeling energized or depleted.

What Fast Drafting Actually Requires

After watching countless writers attempt and often abandon this challenge every year (only between 10 and 15% actually finish - this is an average), I’ve identified what actually matters for successful fast drafting. Not the elaborate systems. The essentials.

Air Element: Clarity on your story’s true north

You don’t need a 50-page outline. You need to know what your story is really about beneath the plot events. What truth is trying to emerge through this work? What makes this story yours to tell?

When you’re 20,000 words in and suddenly have no idea where you’re going, Air clarity is what guides you back. It’s your story’s magnetic north, the fixed point you return to when everything else feels uncertain.

Fire Element: Sustainable creative energy

You don’t need to plot every scene. You need to understand your natural creative rhythm and design a writing schedule that works with it, not against it.

Some writers blaze hot — they thrive on intensity and need to write in long, immersive sessions. Others burn steady — they do better with shorter daily sessions that don’t deplete them. Neither approach is superior. Both can complete 50,000 words in 30 days.

But if you’re a steady burner trying to force yourself into multi-hour writing marathons, you’ll flame out by week two. And if you’re a hot burner trying to restrict yourself to 30-minute increments, you’ll feel frustrated and constrained.

Water Element: Connection to what you’re creating

You don’t need elaborate character backstories for everyone. You need to care deeply about your protagonist and understand the emotional truth you’re exploring through their journey.

When writing gets hard — and it will get hard — Water connection is what keeps you returning to the page. It’s why you’re willing to wake up early or stay up late or skip social plans to spend time with these characters and this story.

Earth Element: A structure that supports rather than restricts

You don’t need a rigid scene-by-scene outline. You need enough structural clarity to orient yourself without feeling trapped by predetermined choices.

Think of it as having a map that shows major landmarks without dictating every turn. You know where you’re starting, where you’re heading and a few key points along the way. The specific route you take between those points can emerge as you write.

The Self-Care Nobody Talks About

I’m different from most writing teachers. I’m a priestess first. Which means I know and understand that your creative work doesn’t happen separate from your physical body, your nervous system or your spiritual state.

You can’t sustain 30 days of intensive creative output if you’re running on adrenaline and anxiety. You can’t channel story magic if you’re depleted. You can’t write transformation if you’re not tending to your own wholeness.

Most Preptober advice treats writers like productivity machines that just need better systems. I treat writers like human beings with bodies that need rest, nervous systems that need regulation and spirits that need nourishment. Your humanity matters more than your word count. Always.

Fast Drafting Isn’t For Everyone (And That’s Sacred Too)

Before I go further, I need to say something clearly: if the intensity of this challenge doesn’t serve your creative rhythm, you don’t need to force it. You don’t need to participate simply because this event is trending (I just checked… there are over 20k people signed up).

There is no single right way to write. Your slower, more contemplative approach is just as valid. Your need for extensive pre-writing before drafting is just as legitimate. Your preference for revising as you go rather than fast drafting is just as worthwhile.

The writing world sometimes treats this yearly challenge like a rite of passage every writer must complete. It’s not. It’s one approach among many, and it works beautifully for some writers while feeling torturous for others.

If fast drafting doesn’t align with your creative truth, that’s not a failure. It’s self-knowledge. Honor it and stand ten toes down on it.

But if you are someone who thrives on intensity, who finds liberation in permission to write messy first drafts, who discovers your story through the act of drafting rather than before it or genuinely just wants to try it — then November might be exactly what your creative practice needs.

What Comes After

Like I was saying at the beginning of this piece, in December, I’m teaching The Post-Draft Reset: Reflection Before Revision as part of Novel November’s “What’s Next?” series.

I came up with this because I’ve seen too many writers finish their November drafts and immediately dive into revision while they’re still creatively exhausted. Or worse, abandon their drafts entirely because they don’t know where to begin with revision and the overwhelm paralyzes them.

We’ll use elemental reflection and tarot guidance to process your drafting experience, identify your manuscript’s strengths and challenges, and create a simple revision roadmap. So you can actually rest without the “where do I even start?” anxiety.

Rest isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.

The Invitation

If you’re joining Novel November, I’m here to support you. Not with overcomplicated systems or rigid rules, but with elemental wisdom that honors both excellent craft and sacred creative practice.

Join Novel November (free): https://prowritingaid.com/novel-november

My December workshop details will be available soon.

And if you’re not joining November’s challenge? I see you too. Your creative path is valid exactly as it is.

With love and elemental wisdom,
Lakeisha | High Priestess of The Story Temple

Are you joining Novel November? What element do you need most support with during fast drafting — Air clarity, Fire sustainability, Water connection or Earth structure? Share in the comments.

Subscribe now

I’ve been quietly watching something for months now, and I need to address it directly.

There’s blatant entitlement happening in creative spaces, particularly on platforms like Substack. I see it in the comments. I hear it in conversations. I watch creators being shamed for valuing their work.

The cognitive dissonance is befuddling: “Information should be free, but creators should be paid.” “Knowledge shouldn’t be gatekept, but also, please create more valuable content for us.”

Creators are being told they’re elitist and sellouts for charging $8-10 a month for expertise they spent years developing. Writers are apologizing for putting their most valuable and personal insights behind paywalls. People are demanding individual article purchases for $1-3 because they don’t like the subscription model.

I’m tired of watching this extraction disguised as social justice.

Let me make this clear as I build The Story Temple from the ground up: I’m not running a newsstand where you can pick up individual pieces for pocket change. I’m building a temple — a sacred space where transformation happens for those willing to invest in the journey.

And there’s a big difference between the two.

The Audacity of Entitlement

Let’s explain what’s actually happening here.

Someone spends years developing expertise. They study their craft, work with clients, refine frameworks, make mistakes, learn from them. They pour their knowledge and lived experiences into carefully crafted pieces that could change how you approach your creative work or your life in general.

And the response? “This should be free. You’re gatekeeping if you charge for it.”

The audacity.

You wouldn’t walk into a reiki practitioner’s office and demand free sessions because “healing should be accessible.” You wouldn’t expect a master plumber to teach you their trade for nothing because “skills shouldn’t be hoarded.” My uncle is a master plumber, and if you came at him with this nonsense, he would laugh in your face — loudly.

But somehow, when it comes to creative and intellectual work, we’ve been conditioned to believe that expertise should flow freely with no exchange of value.

Underneath all the pleasantries and euphemisms, this is what’s really being said: “Your years of education, your trial and error as you move through life, your research and development — all of that is worth nothing. But please, give me more of it.”

It’s not progressive. It’s not justice-oriented. It’s extraction, plain and simple. Because if it’s really worth nothing, why do you want more of it?

Why Free Information Keeps You Stuck

Here’s something I’ve learned over the years working as an editor and writing guide who enjoys helping other writers improve their writing craft: free information creates consumers, not students.

I used to believe knowledge should be accessible to everyone. As a Black woman, I understood firsthand how information gets gatekept from marginalized communities. But there’s a difference between systemic gatekeeping and valuing specialized expertise.

When everything is free, nothing gets implemented.

Think about it. How many free resources have you collected over the years that you actually use? How many PDFs sit unread in your downloads folder? How many bookmarked articles remain unvisited? How many free courses did you start but never finish?

Free creates a hoarding mentality. You collect information like trophies, but you never actually use it because there’s no investment. No skin in the game. No commitment to change.

When someone invests in guidance — even at $10 a month or perhaps a $37 digital product — something shifts. They show up differently. They engage more deeply. They actually apply what they learn because they’ve made a commitment, not just to the creator, but to their own transformation.

The people complaining about paywalls are often the same ones with digital graveyards of unused free content. They want more information, not transformation. They want to feel like they’re learning without actually doing the work of change.

The $1-3 Article Trap

Then there’s this complaint I keep seeing: “Substack should let people pay $1-3 for individual articles instead of subscriptions.”

Let’s do the math.

After Substack takes their 10% cut and Stripe takes their payment processing fees (2.9% plus $0.30 per transaction), the creator gets approx. 85% of that $3. That’s $2.55. And if the article is priced at $1, that’s $0.85.

So what you’re really saying is: “The hours of research, the years of experience, the carefully crafted insights, the vulnerable shares, everything you put into this — all of that is worth less than a cup of coffee.”

Now put your calculators away, and let’s go deeper. This approach is very transactional. It turns sacred creative work into a vending machine experience. You drop in your coins, take your product and walk away. No relationship. No community. No ongoing transformation.

That’s a newsstand model. And I’m not running a newsstand.

When someone decides to dwell in the Temple (become a paid subscriber), they’re not buying individual pieces of content. They’re investing in their writing journey. They’re joining a community of people committed to sacred creative practice. They’re saying, “I believe in this work enough to support its ongoing creation.”

The subscription model allows me (and many other creators) to go deeper. To develop frameworks over time. To create work that builds on itself. To serve the people who are serious about writing their best work, and not just curious about today’s topic.

What You’re Really Paying For

When you invest in a creator’s work, you’re not buying information. You’re paying for:

Years of education and experience. The mistakes they made so you don’t have to. The frameworks they developed through trial and error. The research they did to distill complex concepts into actionable guidance.

You’re also paying for the ongoing work of creation. This is especially true if they’re not an educator. The time spent writing, editing, refining. The energy poured into each piece. The commitment to showing up consistently and sharing themselves.

And you’re investing in your own transformation as well. Because when you have skin in the game, you actually do the work.

The same people demanding free content are the ones who:

• Pay $15 for Netflix without blinking

• Drop $6 on a latte every morning

• Buy books they may never read

• Subscribe to services they barely use

• Expect fair compensation for their own expertise and work

That last bullet befuddles me. How can you demand that all information be free but also demand payment for your expertise? Why is your expertise worth compensation while the expertise of others isn’t? And don’t let the “expertise of others” be that of a Black or Brown person…

It reminds me of when George Carlin said, “ why is everybody else’s stuff shit, but YOUR shit is stuff?!”

Sacred Exchange vs. Extraction

The people who invest in the work of this Temple show up differently.

They don’t just read the guidance and information — they apply it. They don’t just consume the frameworks and practices — they integrate them into their writing projects and creative lives. I know this because they tell me.

That’s the difference between sacred exchange and extraction.

Sacred exchange honors the value of expertise. It recognizes that transformation requires investment, not just from the creator, but also from the person seeking change. It creates relationship and community around shared commitment to growth.

Extraction demands value without offering anything in return. It expects expertise to flow freely while providing no energy back to sustain the work. It treats creators like vending machines rather than human beings with bills to pay and lives to live.

I choose sacred exchange. Every time.

The Standard I’m Upholding

I’m not apologizing for valuing my work. I’m not justifying my prices to people who wouldn’t pay them anyway. I’m not catering to those who want transformation without investment.

I’m building something sacred. A space where writers discover the intersection of craft and spirit. A space where creative work is honored as the transformative force it can be. A space where people invest in their growth and actually do the deep work of change.

This isn’t for everyone. And I have no intention of shaping it to be for everyone.

If you’re looking for free writing tips to add to your digital graveyard, there are plenty of places to find it. If you want quick, transactional exchanges where you can grab what you need and leave, those options exist too. I’m not your writing guide.

But if you’re ready for sacred work… if you understand true transformation requires investment, commitment and community… then you understand why I’m building a temple, not running a newsstand.

The doors are open for those ready to step inside.

But only if you’re willing to honor the sacred exchange that makes this work possible.

The Story Temple is a sacred space for writers who understand that creative work is spiritual work. If you’re ready to discover the intersection of elemental wisdom and writing craft, upgrade your subscription and come deeper into the Temple. Your investment makes this work possible.

Wordfully yours,

High Priestess of The Story Temple

After a month of being on sabbatical, I’m slowly returning to The Story Temple with fresh eyes and a deeper understanding of how sacred creative spaces actually work.

During my time away, I’ve been reflecting on the different ways we connect with places of learning and transformation. I’ve been thinking and journaling about the temples, libraries and creative sanctuaries I’ve encountered — both physical and digital — and how they honor different levels of engagement.

Some of us are natural visitors — we come to the temple when we need guidance, absorb what calls to us and carry those teachings into our work. There’s wisdom in this approach, honoring your own rhythm and taking what serves you.

Others feel called to dwell here — to go deeper into the mysteries. To be part of the ongoing conversation about how elements shape our stories. You want to explore the intersections, to see how Fire works with Water, how Earth grounds Air.

And a few become elemental masters — writers who want direct guidance on their journey. Who crave the intimacy of small gatherings and personal insight into their craft. You’re ready for the deeper work, the individualized support.

All of these ways of being in relationship with The Story Temple are sacred. There’s no hierarchy, just different depths of connection based on where you are and what you need.

What I’ve learned from taking a step back is that trying to serve everyone in the same way actually serves no one well. Some people want to dip in and out when they need guidance. Others want consistent community and deeper exploration. And some are ready for intensive, personal mentorship.

Each approach requires different energy from me as a teacher and different offerings that honor that level of commitment.

I’m grateful you’re here, however you choose to be. And I’m excited to serve you better by honoring these natural differences in how we engage with transformative work.

How The Story Temple Is Evolving

I’ve been restructuring everything to honor these different levels of connection. Instead of trying to be all things to all writers, I’m creating clear containers for different kinds of engagement.

It’s not about exclusivity or creating barriers. It’s about intuitively and intentionally creating the right kind of support for where you actually are in your creative journey.

Starting in July:

Temple Visitors (free subscribers) will receive one substantial monthly transmission exploring writing craft through elemental wisdom. Deep, nourishing pieces you can implement immediately.

Temple Dwellers (paid subscribers) go deeper with monthly elemental intersection pieces, exploring how the elements work together in your writing, plus access to our premium community and complete archive.

Elemental Masters (founding members) receive direct guidance through monthly office hours with fellow serious writers and an annual Story Medicine reading to support your creative journey.

This feels aligned with how sacred spaces actually work. Different levels of initiation, different depths of practice, all valuable and needed. More importantly, it allows me to serve you better by creating offerings that match your actual needs rather than trying to make everything work for everyone.

The Story Temple has always been about transformative writing through elemental wisdom. Now it can be that for you in whatever way feels most authentic to your creative journey.

Some of you will visit when you need guidance — and I’m honored to provide that anchor point.

Some of you will choose to dwell here regularly — and I’m excited to explore the deeper mysteries with you.

Some of you will become elemental masters — and I’m grateful to walk alongside you on the path of mastery.

Whatever calls to you, I’m here to serve your writing and your creative spirit.

With love and elemental wisdom,

Lakeisha | High Priestess of The Story Temple

I’ve been sitting with this decision for a while now, and it’s time to share it with you.

I’m taking a publishing pause through June (and likely into July) to restructure how The Story Temple operates.

Real talk: I’ve been feeling overwhelmed despite controlling my own schedule. Client work has increased significantly - which is wonderful for keeping the lights on and food on the table - but it’s left me struggling to maintain the monthly rhythm I committed to for Temple content.

This month, I pushed myself to deliver Fire element content while managing a full client load. The result? I couldn’t finish the Fire essay I promised, and I felt that familiar creative burnout creeping in. The very thing I help writers avoid.

I realized I was violating my own principles about sustainable creativity.

I teach writers to honor their natural rhythms rather than forcing productivity. I advocate for quality over quantity. I encourage boundaries that protect creative energy. Yet here I was, grinding myself down trying to meet self-imposed deadlines that served no one when I couldn’t show up authentically.

So I’m practicing what I preach.

What This Means

• Moon Letters will continue (if I have the energy) - they’re part of my natural rhythm and I enjoy writing them

• Community Spotlights are pausing - I’ll reach out to those who’ve applied when the series resumes

• Monthly essays are on hold while I determine a more sustainable publishing schedule

• Client work remains my priority - it pays the bills and feeds my soul in different ways

What I’m Learning

Taking this pause isn’t failure. It’s an act of creative wisdom. It’s me giving myself permission to rest and get back into alignment.

Just because I can publish frequently doesn’t mean I should. I’m discovering that my Aquarius rising energy of serving community is better honored through depth than through constant output.

I’m remembering that sustainable fire burns steady and long, rather than bright and fast.

When I Return

When The Story Temple resumes full programming, expect:

• Deeper, more intentional content

• A publishing rhythm that honors both seasonal energy and practical sustainability

• The same spiritual-meets-craft approach you love, but delivered with more care for my own creative ecosystem

I’m grateful for a community that understands the difference between consistency and exhaustion. Your patience as I model healthy creative boundaries means everything.

The Temple isn’t closing - it’s just entering a period of quiet renovation.

Until the summer pause ends,

Lakeisha | Founder and High Priestess of The Story Temple

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