I have been working on my first book – slow and messy, like building something in the dark with your hands. Evenings mostly, when work’s done and the brain’s still got a bit left. I want to publish it someday. Digital, sure. But also… the real thing. Paper, weight, a cover you can open. Something to put on a shelf and say: I made this.
It started with fragments – with a scene here, a sentence there. Some notes written half-asleep on my phone. Some weeks it clicks, other times I open the doc, blink, and close it again.
I’m not aiming for a bestseller. I just want it finished – done and out in the world. That image of holding it, printed and bound, keeps me going when nothing else does.
Staying with it is hard, and life’s loud. But writing’s become a kind of escape hatch – like gaming used to be, only quieter. More mine.
Anyone else in the middle of writing something? Not dreaming it, but actually doing it? Would love to know how you kept moving when it got foggy in the middle.
It started with fragments – with a scene here, a sentence there. Some notes written half-asleep on my phone. Some weeks it clicks, other times I open the doc, blink, and close it again.
I’m not aiming for a bestseller. I just want it finished – done and out in the world. That image of holding it, printed and bound, keeps me going when nothing else does.
Staying with it is hard, and life’s loud. But writing’s become a kind of escape hatch – like gaming used to be, only quieter. More mine.
Anyone else in the middle of writing something? Not dreaming it, but actually doing it? Would love to know how you kept moving when it got foggy in the middle.