By Jane Sonnenschein · March 6, 2026

For a long time, I thought writing happened one piece at a time.

Whatever came to mind today, I wrote about today.

If I felt something in the moment, I let it out.

It was like finding a beautiful leaf on the road and stopping for a while to look at it.

Back then, I even thought this was a wonderful way to write—

free, unrestricted, full of inspiration.

Only later did I realize that once those leaves had fallen to the ground, they had lost their continuing source of nourishment.

They were complete.

They were beautiful.

But they were also isolated.

At first, I thought the problem was language.

I had written in English and in German.

Chinese and Western culture, comparisons between philosophies, observations about the times we live in, personal feelings…

Every piece felt like a separate “discovery.”

And yet there was always a vague uneasiness inside me that I could not quite explain.

It was not that the writing was bad.

It was that it did not feel safe.

Because every time I finished an essay, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew:

this leaf had already completed its purpose.

It would never return anywhere.

If I wanted to keep writing, I would have to go out and find the next leaf.

That way of writing looked free.

But in reality, it was draining.

You were always asking yourself:

What is the next topic?

Where will the next spark of inspiration come from?

It was like standing beneath a tree, endlessly picking up leaves that had already fallen—

without realizing that the real source of life was still on the tree.

Only gradually did I understand that the problem was not language.

And it was not the choice of topic either.

The real question was:

Did I have a tree?

Without a trunk, every leaf would fall on its own.

Without roots, any sense of flow would soon dry up.

Looking back now, I realize that I did not begin to write with a real sense of security when I started writing more.

It began when I started—

putting the fallen leaves back on the tree.

I began to understand that each essay was not an isolated expression.

It was one point within the larger structure of my life.

These pieces came from different events, different moments, different emotions.

And yet they all pointed in the same direction:

Who am I?

Where did I come from?

What have I lived through?

How do I understand this world?

Once I began to see my writing this way, everything suddenly connected.

My past experiences were no longer scattered memories.

The questions troubling me in the present were no longer isolated problems.

They began to respond to one another, echoing across time.

Like the branches and leaves of the same tree—

separate at first glance,

but nourished through the same living system.

And I finally understood why the way I used to write had made me anxious.

It was not because I could not write.

It was because what I wrote had nowhere to belong.

Now it feels different.

I no longer worry about what will happen after I finish this piece.

Because I know—

this is not the end.

The piece has simply returned to the place where it belongs.

Writing, for me, is no longer about constantly looking outward for the next topic.

It has become a way of returning inward, again and again, to understand the structure underneath.

Not producing more leaves.

But confirming:

the tree is still alive.

And it was only then that I truly understood something.

Writing is not output.

It is not display.

It is not even only expression.

Writing is structure.

When the structure is strong, the content grows naturally.

Putting a fallen leaf back on the tree does not mean returning it to the past.

It means letting it know—

it never truly left.

If you would like to stay, you can read slowly.

And if you happen to be looking for a way of writing that does not keep draining you, perhaps this can be somewhere to rest for a while.

I will keep writing here.

Not because I need to keep producing more.

But because I want—

this tree to keep growing. 

This essay is also available in other languages:

Chinese version: 把落叶接回树上，我后来才懂得的写作方式

German version: Die gefallenen Blätter zurück an den Baum bringen – die Art zu schreiben, die ich erst später verstanden habe