Category: The Writers Room

A place to talk about writing.

The Sound of Wind and Spirit

The Big Storm

There’s a big storm rolling through Metlakatla right now. Heavy rain. Hard wind. The kind of storm they’re calling an atmospheric river. It’s not gentle — it’s loud, restless, alive.

I drove up the mountain earlier just to watch it. From up there you can see the wind slam into the water. In some places it was whipping so hard it looked like waterspouts forming, twisting and dancing across the surface. My truck was shaking from the gusts. Sitting there, feeling that force push against metal and glass, you can’t help but feel small in the best possible way.

It never ceases to amaze me — the raw power of wind and rain.

Watching it stirred something spiritual in me. I started wondering what might be happening in the unseen realm at the same time. Sometimes I think the natural world mirrors deeper realities. Storms in the physical world often feel like echoes of movement in the spiritual one.

The Bible speaks about wind and water as symbols of the Spirit — unseen, unstoppable, life-giving, and powerful. You can’t hold the wind in your hand. You can’t command the rain to stop. You can only witness it and respect it. Maybe that’s part of the lesson. There are forces at work beyond what we see, shaping things in ways we don’t fully understand.

Storms remind me that power doesn’t always come quietly. Sometimes it roars. Sometimes it shakes the ground. Sometimes it rearranges the landscape. And yet, after every storm, something has shifted, something has been watered, something has been made new.

Sitting there watching the chaos move across the water, I didn’t feel fear. I felt awe.

And awe is a good place to be.

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Pondering History

Remembering lessons, legacy, and time spent on the water with Dad

Today I found myself pondering history—our history—with Pops, Alex Atkinson Sr.

He taught me, and so many in our family, how to salmon fish and how to hunt. He was full of knowledge and know-how when it came to those things, and he was always happy to pass that knowledge on. Most of what he knew came from his Pops—Grandpa Harris—so it wasn’t just skills he handed down, it was legacy.

I’ll never forget the chance I had to commercial fish with both of them when I was younger. That season stays with me. It was memorable, formative, and full of lessons—lessons about work, patience, the water, and what it means to show up and do things the right way. I learned a lot in that one season, more than I probably realized at the time.

Now, thinking back on those days brings tears to my eyes. I wish I could tell him one more time: Thank you, Dad. Thank you for everything you taught me—everything you taught us.

You loved. You laughed. You loved your family deeply. You loved being with family and supporting family. That mattered. It still does.

I was thinking about all of this today as I saw a boat out trolling for salmon. Just one simple sight, and suddenly I was back there—memories rushing in, heart full, eyes heavy, gratitude overwhelming.

Such memories. Such thankfulness.

Thank you, Dad.

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A Season That Felt Heavy

A freewrite on heaviness, holidays, and the quiet search for light

There are some days when I just don’t feel inspired to write.
Or create.
Or even slow my thoughts down enough to make sense of them.

Some days, my mind feels like it’s moving in five directions at once, and trying to gather those thoughts into something meaningful feels almost impossible. Today is one of those days. So this is a freewrite—just me jotting down what comes to mind, unfiltered and honest.

This past Christmas, I noticed something that sat heavy with me. Here in the little town of Metlakatla, Alaska, there was a feeling in the air that I couldn’t quite shake. A heaviness. Almost like a dark shadow lingering just beneath the surface. At first, I wondered if it was just me—my own weariness, my own perspective. But after talking with several people, they confirmed what I was seeing and feeling.

The heaviness was real.

Holiday seasons can be strange that way. Some years, they come easily—filled with laughter, warmth, and joy. Other years, they press in hard, stirring up grief, loneliness, and old wounds. This last one was oddly tough. Harder than expected. And it saddened my heart to see that weight reflected in the eyes of my family, my friends, and my people.

I wish there were an easy way to bring back the joy of the holiday spirit once again. To remind one another that light still exists, even when it feels dim. That hope is not gone, even when it feels distant.

Maybe part of the answer is simply noticing. Acknowledging the heaviness instead of pretending it isn’t there. Sitting with one another. Listening. Praying. Holding space. And choosing—again and again—to believe that darkness does not get the final word.

Scripture reminds us of this truth:

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”
— Isaiah 9:2

Light still dawns. Even here. Even now.
And I’m holding on to that hope.

— Alex

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A New Chapter Begins

January 1, 2026 — A New Chapter Begins

Today is January 1, 2026.

A new year.
A fresh page.
A brand-new chapter waiting to be written.

There’s something powerful about this day. It’s more than a change on the calendar—it’s an invitation. An invitation to breathe deep, to let go of what weighed us down in the past year, and to step forward with hope. Whatever 2025 held—joys, lessons, losses, or victories—we don’t carry it forward alone.

I truly believe this is going to be a great year.

Not because everything will be easy, but because God is faithful. Because new beginnings are His specialty. Because even when the path ahead isn’t fully clear, we can trust the One who already sees the whole journey.

Scripture reminds us of this promise:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.”
— Jeremiah 29:11

Hope and a future.
That’s what this year holds.

As we step into 2026, my prayer is simple: that we walk with intention, extend grace freely, love deeply, and trust boldly. May we listen more, fear less, and remember that every single day is an opportunity to start again.

Here’s to new chapters.
Here’s to fresh starts.
Here’s to walking forward in faith.

Happy New Year.

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Small-Town Hours

“Small-town living teaches you many things… like checking store hours before you get hungry. Dadgum.”

Living in a small town does take some getting used to.

I’ve been home in Metlakatla for over a year now, and I’ll be honest—I’m still not used to the hours of the gas station, the grocery store, or the mini mart. They close early. Sometimes really early. And every now and then, I’ll find myself standing there thinking, Wait… it’s already closed?

Down south, where I lived for a while, things were different. A lot of businesses stayed open late—many of them until 10 or 11 at night. You could decide at the last minute that you needed milk, snacks, or gas, and it was no big deal. You just went and got it.

Up here? You learn quickly that you have to plan ahead.

Now, am I complaining? I’m trying not to. I really am. I’m doing my best to look at the positive side of things. Being from a small town, I understand the hours. I understand staffing challenges. I understand that things move at a different pace—and that’s not always a bad thing.

Small-town life teaches you patience. It teaches you awareness. It teaches you to slow down and think ahead instead of rushing through life on impulse. In many ways, that’s actually a gift.

But still… dadgum.

Every once in a while, that late-night craving hits. Or you realize you forgot one important thing. And that’s when the adjustment really shows itself. No quick fix. No last-minute run. Just you, your thoughts, and the realization that tomorrow will have to do.

Living in a small town isn’t worse—it’s just different. And like most differences in life, it takes time to settle into. I’m getting there. Slowly. One early-closing door at a time.

Dadgum though.

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A Winter Thank You

Honoring the unseen hands that keep our town moving through winter

We are now in the heart of winter, and lately I’ve been pondering what it truly takes to keep our town moving during this season.

Winter brings a certain kind of beauty with it. Kids are out sledding, laughing, and making memories in the snow. Parents watch from the sidelines, smiling as they see the joy on their children’s faces. There’s something special about this time of year—a frozen wonderland that invites us to slow down and take it all in.

But while many of us are enjoying the snow, there are others who are working right through it.

They are the ones up before the sun breaks the horizon. The ones driving into storms instead of staying home from them. The ones clearing our roadways so the rest of us can get to work, get our kids to school, run errands, and live our daily lives as safely as possible.

These road crews often work long, exhausting hours. Many times, their work goes unnoticed. It’s thankless at times, taken for granted even—but it is absolutely essential.

I want to say how thankful I am for those who keep our roads clear, especially the Gunyahs and all those working behind the scenes. And I’m thankful for their wives and families too—those who understand the early mornings, late nights, and missed moments that come with this season of work.

Because of them, our town keeps moving.

So as you’re out and about this winter, please be careful. Slow down. Be mindful of the conditions—and of the people working hard so you can safely get where you’re going.

To those who brave the cold, the dark, and the storms to keep our roads clear: thank you. It is very, very much appreciated.

— Alex

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📝 Notes by Alex: Writer’s Block – The Great Shut Down

The Great Shutdown: When Indifference Becomes the Hardest Feeling

It’s been a week. Maybe two. I open my laptop, stare at the blinking cursor on the blank page, and… nothing. The well is dry, folks. Not just dry, but capped with a thick slab of concrete labeled: “YEAH, OKAY, WHATEVER.”

That label. That feeling. It’s what I’m struggling with today, and it’s what brought me here to talk about a very specific kind of writer’s block—the emotional one.

The Shutdown Mechanism

Have you ever been hurt to the point that a part of you just shuts down?

It’s not a dramatic collapse. It’s a subtle, insidious numbness that creeps in after the big wave of pain has passed. You’re not crying on the floor, you’re not raging at the sky. Instead, you’re just existing, gliding through life on a thin sheet of practiced indifference.

When people ask how you are, the default answer is a pleasant, empty, “Fine.” And when something genuinely good or bad happens, the emotional response is the same, muted drone: “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

For me, that feeling is pure poison. I try to be positive, upbeat, and stubbornly hopeful. That’s my brand! That’s how I navigate the world. But some days, holding onto that hope feels like gripping a slippery rope on a sheer cliff face. It’s exhausting.

This emotional shutdown is like a short circuit in my creative wiring. How can I write about joy, pain, wonder, or connection when my internal translator is stuck on that one phrase? I can’t access the genuine emotion I need to pour onto the page. The words feel flat, hollow, and utterly inauthentic.

The Challenge of Positivity

We live in a world that glorifies resilience, strength, and endless hustle. We are told to choose joy, to manifest success, to power through. And while I believe in the importance of a positive outlook, sometimes the effort it takes to maintain it when you’re truly hurting feels like a challenge too big to meet.

It makes me wonder: Is the “Yeah, okay, whatever” feeling a defense mechanism? Is it my exhausted spirit throwing up a white flag, saying, “I can’t afford to feel deeply right now, because feeling deeply might break me again?”

Maybe. But a writer who can’t feel is a mechanic without tools. I need my emotions—the good, the bad, the complicated—to be open and running, even if it makes me vulnerable.

An Open Question

I’m sitting here, pushing through the concrete cap, trying to find the genuine spark of feeling underneath. I’m doing the little things: I put on a good playlist, made a proper coffee, and decided to write about the fact that I can’t write.

It helps a little. Honesty is always a good starting point.

So, here is my question for you, my amazing readers:

Does anyone else struggle with this thought? With the battle between wanting to be upbeat and the overwhelming need to just shut down and protect yourself? How do you push past the emotional “whatever” and reconnect with your genuine, messy, feeling self?

I’m looking for inspiration today. Maybe, by sharing your strategies, you can help me—and others who might be stuck in this same emotional no-man’s-land—find the way back to hope, and back to the page.

Drop a comment below. Let’s talk.

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“Some days you’re reminded that not everyone respects what isn’t theirs. Dang—this one hit hard.”

A Thought From Alex

It saddens me to discover that fuel has been stolen from my own property. Hard to believe people are out there siphoning gas from others without permission, but here we are. I guess it’s time for a camera, because from now on I’ll be keeping a close eye on things.

What really gets me is that this kind of thing is happening in our small town. Who does something like that? Someone desperate… someone young… someone careless… or just plain foolish. Maybe all of the above.

I’m not trying to vent, but—dang! Sometimes this stuff just hits you wrong.

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A Thought: Why Moana Still Moves Me Every Time

Reflections on Calling, Connection, and the Power of Seeing the Real You

Tonight, I found myself watching Moana again. And once again, it got me — the laughs, the music, the story, and yes… the tears. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, this movie reaches something deep inside me.

There’s something powerful about Moana’s journey — the creation of who she becomes. From the beginning, she sees something beyond the horizon. She feels the pull of purpose long before she can explain it. And even when others try to press her into the expectations of a future chief, she listens to that small, steady voice inside that says, You were called for more.

She learns to believe that she was chosen — not by accident, not by coincidence, but by design. And that faith in who she is becomes the strength that carries her across the sea.

And then there’s Maui — funny, flawed, full of swagger, and yet carrying his own wounds. His story adds heart and humor in a way only he can. And of course… Hei Hei. Or as I like to call him: Drumstick. The fact that they wove such a ridiculous (and perfect) chicken into the story still makes me laugh every single time.

But the moment that truly gets me — every single viewing — is the restoring of the heart of Te Fiti.

Moana sees her.
She recognizes her.
She knows who Te Fiti really is beneath the anger, the destruction, and the pain.

That moment when Moana walks forward, singing gently, offering the heart back to her — and Te Kā’s fiery rage melts into the calm, green, life-giving presence of Te Fiti… yeah. That’s where I lose it. Every time. Something about seeing someone restored to who they were always meant to be hits a place in my own heart.

This movie reminds me that we all carry a purpose, a calling, a heart that sometimes gets buried under life’s storms. But with courage, faith, and a whole lot of heart, we find our way — just like Moana.

And maybe that’s why I love this movie so much.
It’s more than a story.
It’s a reminder.

Know who you are.
Remember who you were created to be.
And don’t be afraid to restore the hearts you encounter along the way — including your own.

Love, love, love this movie.

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It’s All About Family

Rediscovering the connections that hold us together.

As the holidays approach at what feels like lightning speed, I can’t help but pause and reflect on what truly matters. In a season filled with gifts, gatherings, and endless to-do lists, it’s easy to get swept up in the noise. But at the end of the day—during the holidays and all year long—it’s all about family.

And when I say family, I don’t just mean blood relatives. I’m talking about the people who have walked with us through life. The ones who show up. The ones who love us, challenge us, support us, laugh with us, and sometimes even cry with us. The brothers and sisters we grew up with, the cousins who feel like lifelong friends, the aunts and uncles who shaped us, the moms and dads who carried us, the grandparents whose wisdom echoes in our hearts. And yes—our friends who became family along the way.

As we continue on this journey we call life, one thing becomes very clear: we need each other.
Through the good times and the not-so-good times, through seasons of joy and seasons of struggle, we were never meant to walk this path alone.

Somewhere along the way, as technology advanced and life sped up, we lost a little bit of that connection. We became more plugged-in, but more disconnected. More reachable online, but harder to reach in real life. And honestly, that’s heartbreaking. I miss the old days sometimes—the days before constant notifications and WiFi, when conversations were face-to-face and time together felt slower, richer, more intentional.

But even as the world changes, one truth stays the same:
Family is where life happens.
Family is where memories are made.
Family is where we return when the world gets noisy.

I love my family—all of them. The ones related by blood and the ones bound by love. And this holiday season, I’m choosing to slow down, to reconnect, and to remember what matters most.

Because in the end, it really is all about family.

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