The Walk

I almost didn’t go outside to record this episode. I was sitting at my desk, staring at my to-do list, convincing myself that staying put was the responsible thing to do. After all, I had committed to finishing twenty scripts by the end of the week for a new podcast series about the saints. And I was already behind. The temptation to keep pushing was strong. But I’ve learned, the hard way, that when your body starts sending warning signals—like poor sleep, flushed cheeks, constant tension—you ignore them at your own risk. So I put on my coat, hit record, and went for a walk. As I talked, I realized how much pressure I had piled onto myself. Not just with the podcast project, but with the Advent story I’m publishing daily. At first, both felt doable. The saint scripts were supposed to be short, around six minutes each. I estimated two hours per episode—research, writing, recording, editing. It sounded reasonable. Until I discovered that many of the sources contradicted each other, and some of the research had names or events that were completely made up. I ended up spending entire mornings rewriting one script from scratch, checking the smallest historical details. Meanwhile, the Advent story, which I thought would be a light and cozy creative outlet, started demanding more structure, more consistency, and a lot more energy. I’m no longer writing just for myself—I’m sharing each chapter publicly, which adds a whole new layer of pressure. I find myself triple-checking every plot point, worrying about continuity, trying not to introduce something that will break the story later on. The real issue, I think, isn’t the workload itself. It’s my unrealistic expectations. I always seem to start with an ideal version of how things should go, and then try to bend reality to match that. But it never quite works. I plan with best-case scenarios in mind, and when things take longer—as they always do—I’m left scrambling, overextending myself, working late, and wondering why I feel so depleted. There’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to let people down. That still believes the only way to be valuable is to deliver, no matter what it costs. But I’m learning, slowly, that there’s a difference between challenging yourself and pushing yourself past the breaking point. Between being committed and being chronically overcommitted. This episode became a way for me to pause and look at the bigger picture. To admit that I can’t sprint through every day, and that working smarter means respecting my limits, not denying them. I don’t want to give up on either project—the saint series is deeply meaningful to me, and the Advent story supports a cause I care about. But I also don’t want to lose sleep, energy, or health trying to prove that I’m faster or stronger than I am. So I walked. I talked. I tried to be honest with myself and with you. And I came away with this small reminder: you can’t give what you don’t have. Rest matters. Pacing matters. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take the walk you almost skipped.

A huge project is on the horizon: a daily podcast about the lives of saints that promises to be story-driven rather than just factual. Each episode will be a brief but immersive look at a saint's life, requiring extensive writing and production work. Alongside this, a cozy fantasy Advent story is being crafted as a fundraiser for an author in urgent need of surgery. Fr. Roderick shares the struggles of managing creative burnout and the nuances of maintaining a sustainable work rhythm while balancing multiple storytelling endeavors.

It’s pitch dark outside as I’m recording this. Advent has begun, and while the Christmas lights sparkle on leafless trees, I’ve been working like a madman indoors—writing, pacing, writing some more. Because today, on the 30th of November, I did something I’ve never done before: I finished writing a full novel in just 30 days. Not just any novel. A story that feels like the best thing I’ve written so far. The last few days were a blur of writing marathons, church duties, a Comic-Con surprise, and trying to babysit a thousand spinning plates. There were times I was sure I was behind. Turns out, I was actually way ahead—I just hadn’t had the time to notice. That’s the power of moral commitment. When you push forward, even when it feels impossible, sometimes you find yourself standing on the summit without realizing how far you’ve climbed. This month taught me that: I can write an epic story in a month. I must continue making space for personal, playful storytelling—even when professional projects threaten to take over. Balance doesn’t mean doing less. It means choosing well and walking daily (literally and figuratively). Now here’s the wild part: December starts tomorrow. I could write a cozy Advent story next—24 mini chapters, one per day. A magical, heartwarming tale set in the same universe as my novel. I even have the plot ready. But should I? That’s the question. My heart says yes. My calendar screams no. But you’ll find out soon which one wins. Head over to my Substack and subscribe if you want to read along as the next story unfolds—or doesn’t. That might be the story too.

Today was a potato day. Not the comforting kind with blankets and movies, but the kind where your brain checks out and refuses to clock in. The kind of day where you sit at your desk and just can’t get into gear, no matter how many productivity tricks you try. I’ve had fewer of these days over the past year, but today, it hit hard. Still, even on a day like this, I didn’t end up on the couch. I went for a walk, even though the rain hadn’t stopped like the radar promised. It was cold, wet and muddy, but walking is one of those non-negotiable habits for me. I’ve learned that once I step outside, even if nothing else gets done, something inside starts to shift. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it sparks ideas. Today, it sparked reflection. As I walked, I recorded this podcast episode and talked through what’s been on my mind lately. Part of the fog, I realized, is because something big is happening behind the scenes. I’ve been sitting on the news for a while, but I can finally start hinting at it: a major new project has been greenlit by the Dutch broadcasting company I work with. I can’t share the full details yet, but it’s easily the biggest media commitment of my life. It’s a daily production project, and it’ll require me to write over 250,000 words across the year. It’s exhilarating and daunting at the same time. What makes this even more meaningful to me is how deeply aligned it is with my core mission: storytelling that reaches people where they are. It builds on nearly everything I’ve learned in the past 20 years—TV, radio, writing, podcasting—and finally weaves all those threads together into one sustained creative effort. But with something this big, I’ve had to draw some clear lines. Writing has become essential to me, not just as a creative outlet but as a way of living. Since January 1st, I’ve been writing regularly—almost daily—and I can’t imagine giving that up. That means protecting the space I’ve carved out for novels and creative work, even as this new project ramps up. I’ve realized I can’t do everything. So I’m making choices. Some side projects and social media channels may be set aside. Others might evolve into something more sustainable. If it’s not aligned with the long-term vision or fueling the mission, it’s time to let it go. And strangely, on a day when I couldn’t concentrate, I ended up doing some of the most important thinking I’ve done all week. Potato days don’t always look productive. But sometimes, they’re the reset your mind needs before stepping into something big. I’m standing at the edge of a creative year that could change everything. And I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who’s supported me on the journey so far. Your encouragement, your donations, your feedback—it’s what made this possible. So here’s to more walks, more words, and yes, even more potato days.

This week, the forest floor turned golden under my feet. The air was still, the sun low. One of those rare perfect fall days that remind you how good it is to be alive and outside. I’ve come to think of walking as a “non-negotiable”—something my body and mind need, like food or prayer. It’s my daily reset, my thinking time, and often, my secret writing tool. Because here’s the thing: I’m in the middle of writing a novel. Not just dabbling, but deep in it—54,000 words deep, to be precise. That’s two acts down, one to go. And I didn’t think I had it in me, not like this. Most days, I draft new chapters while walking, recording voice memos as I go. Yesterday, I came back with not one, not two, but three chapters. Nearly 10,000 words. I couldn't believe it either. There’s something about allowing a story to surprise you—especially when it grows from grief. One of the characters, a mentor monk, died in the story this week. That loss fueled the emotions, deepened the dialogue, and pulled out something raw and real. I didn’t plan it. But it made everything click. Of course, this isn’t the polished version. I call it my "horse-beep" draft. But that’s okay. I’ve learned the value of pushing forward, not perfecting too soon. If I stop to edit, I never finish. If I keep moving, I grow. Outside of writing, life’s been busy too. Masses, interviews, a fantasy book fair in Tilburg—an exhausting but inspiring mix. I met other writers, made new connections, and came home energized. Tired, yes. But motivated. This past year, I’ve written three novels and three story collections. That still blows my mind. And even with all that, I’m still learning: about routine, about skincare (yes, sunscreen even in November!), about habit-stacking and how to ride the wave of creativity without burning out. What fuels me isn’t just the dopamine of word counts. It’s the joy of becoming someone I never thought I could be. A writer with a real writing life. A creator who finishes things. There’s more to come. For now, I'm walking, writing, and wondering what happens next—both in the story and in my own life.

This wasn’t the month I had in mind. Originally, I planned to be walking the windswept hills of Scotland on a writing retreat—journaling by candlelight, breathing in crisp air, and letting new stories rise up from silence and solitude. Instead, I’ve been home. At my desk. Every day. With the soundtrack of jackhammers and construction noise just outside my window. Not quite the peaceful pilgrimage I had hoped for. But here’s the strange thing. Sitting in the noise, the chaos, the disruption... I started to realize something important. This tension between what I long for and what’s actually happening? That’s the very heart of what I’ve been writing about. In my new novel—a prequel to my Story Mages saga—a young man sets out to save the people he loves. His parents have been abducted. The girl he cares about is dying. Everything in him screams to act. But before he can begin his quest, he meets a monk who tells him: yes, you’re right... but first, you must wait. You must spend forty days in fasting and prayer before you are ready. That moment—of being asked to pause when everything in you wants to run—is one I know far too well. So much of my anxiety, I’ve come to see, isn’t caused by what’s happening. It’s caused by the feeling that I’ve lost control over what should be happening. And the harder I try to hold on to my original plan, the more everything slips through my fingers. It’s frustrating. It’s humbling. And strangely enough, it’s healing. Because when I stop trying to force things, and just start telling the story, something shifts. I stop thinking in terms of outcomes, success, income, approval. I start writing from a place of joy. Of trust. Of surrender. And that’s when the magic happens. So no, this isn’t the month I envisioned. But maybe it’s the month I needed.

This week, I finally found the source of the fruit flies in my house. Not in the compost bin. Not in the trash. But in a forgotten box in the pantry—above eye level—where a collection of rotting onions had turned into a buzzing fruit fly festival. It was gross. But also kind of poetic. Because I realized: those annoying flies were just symptoms. The real problem was hidden, out of sight, slowly decomposing. And that's exactly how I've been feeling lately—mentally flustered, physically drained, and emotionally stretched. Turns out, my life has a few metaphorical onions too. I’ve been pushing through fatigue, ignoring signs of overwhelm, blaming my screen time or workload—but the deeper issue? Likely a combination of ADHD, burnout, and my tendency to go full throttle until I crash. Here's what helped me start untangling it: Ask questions instead of assigning blame. My new physician doesn't rush to prescribe—she listens, asks, investigates. I’m trying to do the same with myself. Track the symptoms. A flushed face, skipped meals, screen binging—these aren’t flaws, they’re clues. Find the calming trifecta: Nature (my daily walks in the woods) Technology boundaries (with a little help from the ScreenZen app) Creativity (drawing, especially during Inktober, brings me back to earth) Most importantly, I’m learning that procrastination and distraction aren’t moral failings—they’re signals. If I want to clear the fruit flies from my brain, I’ve got to deal with the onions first.

I almost gave up on the story I was trying to write. I was tired. Mentally drained. Behind on my Inktober streak. And the word of the day—button—felt like it had zero story potential. What was I supposed to do? Write a gripping epic about haberdashery? But I’ve learned something over the years: creativity often asks for trust. Not confidence. Not brilliance. Just the simple willingness to begin. So I did. I started a story about a woman and her favorite vest. One of the buttons is missing, and she goes searching for it. At first, it felt pointless—even to me. But then something shifted. The journey took her to a remote, abandoned factory in northern China (don’t ask why), and somehow everything clicked into place. The supernatural showed up. The heart of the story emerged. And it all made sense. This week marked 29 years since my ordination as a priest. I almost forgot the date—again. But that moment, along with the story of the button, made me reflect on the twists and turns of life. There are so many moments when it all feels pointless. When things don’t go according to plan. When our dreams shift. Or fade. Or feel too big. Or too small. But here's what I’ve learned—whether you're writing a story or living one: You won't always know where it's going. You won't always feel inspired. You will be tempted to quit. But if you keep going, even with tired feet and half a map, you might find yourself in exactly the right place.

The roundabout outside my window is a construction zone again. Saws scream, bikes whiz by, even the cemetery mower joins the chorus. I catch myself tensing up—and that’s my tell. When every sound feels invasive, I’m not just annoyed. I’m overwhelmed. Last weekend didn’t help: hours of travel, a full day at a fantasy event, and then the social hangover. Good conversations, yes—but I’m still paying the energy bill midweek. Old me would have powered through, stacked on more goals, and crashed later. This time I’m choosing differently. I’m leaning on a few non-negotiables that calm my nervous system and keep creativity alive: A daily walk in the woods (often “working,” but always restorative). An hour of drawing after dinner—rough, imperfect, public. Progress over polish. A simple email triage (star what’s actionable, archive the rest) so my brain can breathe. Around that, I’m practicing the harder thing: boundaries. I love helping with community projects and church events, but when every month fills with other people’s priorities, my own mission—writing—shrinks. This episode is me saying it out loud and choosing a course correction: a two-week writing retreat instead of more “shoulds.” If you’ve been there—torn between what’s urgent and what you know you’re called to do—this one’s for you. I talk about reframing regret (“Next time I will…”), resisting the perfection trap, and making decisions ahead of temptation (from snacks to screen time to schedule). It’s not heroic. It’s hygiene. Creative hygiene. Hit play to hear the full story, plus the moment I finally decide—and why a loud roundabout might be exactly the nudge I needed.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about change—and how it sneaks up on us. It started when I looked out my window and noticed something was missing: the hedge that used to block my view is gone. Now, I can see the road, the roundabout construction, and a little more of the world. That simple shift made me reflect on how much has changed since I moved into this house, and even more since the parish built it in the 1950s. Time has transformed the view, the village, and me. The walls are the same, but everything else has grown, aged, softened. These days, I’m trying to slow down and listen more closely to what I’m really called to do. I’ve cut back on some things—podcasts about gadgets and movies, weekly live classes—and leaned into what truly gives me peace: writing. Every morning I wake up, journal, reflect, and ask: “Am I still on course?” That question, simple as it is, helps me make sense of all the noise. I’ve realized something else too: I no longer want to do everything. I just want to do the things that matter most. Writing stories. Walking in the woods. Celebrating Mass. Talking to real people, not just timelines and algorithms. These small habits—walking, writing, reflecting—feel like my real vocation now. This week on the podcast, I talk about all of this. About how change isn't always dramatic—sometimes it's just a missing hedge, or a conversation with an old friend that reminds you who you are. And about how I’m slowly finding my pace again, chapter by chapter, story by story.