When you take on everyone's feelings around you as your own. When the room's tension becomes a knot in your chest. When a friend's grief settles into your bones and stays there until you find a way to release it.

I have had people question me before, on how I make the dialogue sound so real. On how the flow feels natural - that is not me tooting my own horn (ok maybe a LITTLE! but still!)

That is why the writing feels "real." Because it is real.

Well a kernel of it is

It is not imagined. It is felt — first by me, then by the page, then by you, if you are reading this.

I do not choose this. It just happens.

And if I did not write, I would drown.

Perhaps it because I learned it from when I was an actress.

Ah, now we are getting into the nitty gritty.

I was, in the tradition of Le Fantôme de l'Opéra the novel, for all intensive purposes, a "ballet brat" - only I was more of an opera brat, if truth be told. Knee tall, the theater became my home.

I learned timing, breath control, when to say things and not to say things.

How to hold an environment - whether real or fictional - without shattering.

Writing is where that helps.

Writing is not just a craft for me. It is a release. A way to take all that borrowed feeling and give it a shape, a home, a place to land that is not inside my own body.

That is why I have so many rooms. Poetry for the beauty. Novels for the chaos. Self-help for the devastation. Essays for the meaning. Tuhat for the process.

All of them are ways of letting the weight out.

So sit down, grab your chocolate, and I will tell you what I do.

Here is exactly what I have learned about being an empath who writes:

1. Your empathy is your superpower.

Yes yes I know - it is cheesy. But here me out! You can write characters who feel alive because you have already felt what they feel. You do not have to guess. You just have to remember.

It's like method acting, but just as strong. You don't have to imagine your characters feeling sad. You have real memory recall! You know how people would feel in these moments and that is gold.

2. Writing is not optional for you.

It is not a hobby. It is not a side project. It is how you process the weight of being an deep thinker in a world that does not stop handing you feelings.

And it's especially important to have a place that is safe, in a world where we are constantly reachable.

And if you are reachable, you are able to be picked apart and judged.

It's not just a release.

It's a safe space for your nervous system. Chew on your chocolate and think on THAT.

I know I did, when I wrote it.

3. Your readers can feel it.

That is why they write back, if you are on social media and you serialize your pieces like I do, or if you have beta readers.

That is why they recognize themselves.

That is why they stay.

Why they respond so deeply.

They are not just reading your words. They are feeling your feeling — and recognizing their own.

4. You need to protect this.

Empathy is a gift, but it is also exhausting. You cannot pour everything out without refilling. Writing is the release. But rest, boundaries, and a pet (like my Honey the cat) are the refill.

5. You need something that is not monetized.

I know I know but here me out!

You need something that is just yours.

A hobby, where you do not share it with the world. People like us share so much, and whether it is painting or journaling or even something where you aren't creative, something where your brain goes numb for a while, it prevents burn out.

Here is the part I need to tell you:

I have a surgery coming up.

Nothing life-threatening. Nothing to worry about. But a surgery with a six-week recovery.

That means my posts might be sparse in July and August. Not because I am quitting. Not because I have run out of things to say. Because my body needs to heal. And even an empath who writes every room needs to stop sometimes.

What that means for you, if you are reading this:

I will be quiet for a bit. But the work is still there. The Tuhat posts. The Substack serials. The essays on Svarnac. All of them are still alive. Waiting for you.

And when I come back — when my body has healed and my mind has rested — I will have new things to say. New feelings to release. New rooms to write in.

Because writing is not just what I do.

It is how I survive the absurdity.

And the absurdity will still be there when I return.

What I am learning:

It is okay to be quiet. I know!

It is okay to heal. It is okay to put the pen down and trust that it will still be there when you pick it up again.

That is not failure. That is wisdom.

So I will write this post. Then I will rest. Then I will recover. Then I will come back.

And the empathy? The absorption? The weight of the world that I carry and then release onto the page?

That will still be there too.

But I will be stronger. And ready.

So if you are an empath who writes —

Take care of yourself. Protect your heart. Put the pen down when you need to.

The page will wait.

And so will your readers.

Now go rest. You have earned it.

Not when something big happens.

But when something finally feels true.

A confession hits.

A silence becomes unbearable.

A character breaks in a way the reader didn't expect but somehow already understood.

A moment that has been building underneath the story finally surfaces.

That is emotional payoff.

And it is one of the hardest things to write well.

Payoff is not the same as plot resolution.

A common mistake is assuming that payoff happens when:

1. a mystery is solved
2. a fight ends
3. a goal is achieved
4. a secret is revealed

But plot resolution is not the same thing as emotional resolution.

You can resolve a plot and still leave the reader feeling nothing.

Or you can leave a plot unresolved and still deliver a devastating emotional moment.

Because emotional payoff is not about information.

It is about release.

The build matters more than the moment.

Emotional payoff only works if something has been quietly accumulating underneath it.

That accumulation might be:

1. tension between characters
2. unspoken desire
3. resentment that has never been voiced
4. trust slowly forming
5. grief that has not been acknowledged
6. a pattern of avoidance finally breaking

If nothing has been building, the moment has nothing to release.

And without release, even dramatic scenes can feel strangely flat.

Small moments can carry huge weight.

Payoff does not require spectacle.

Some of the strongest emotional moments are quiet:

1. a hand finally being taken
2. a sentence finally being spoken
3. a character sitting down instead of walking away
4. laughter after prolonged silence
5. a name being said softly after years of avoidance

What matters is not scale.

What matters is meaning.

The reader must feel the history.

A strong payoff makes the reader feel like they have been carrying something too.

Even if they cannot fully explain it, they should sense: "This moment has been coming for a long time."

That feeling is created through repetition, restraint, and restraint breaking.

If everything is fully expressed too early, there is nothing left to resolve emotionally.

Withholding is part of the craft.

Payoff depends on what you do not release too soon.

If characters say everything they feel immediately, there is no tension left to resolve later.

But if emotion is:

1. partially hidden
2. indirectly expressed
3. interrupted
4. redirected into action or silence

then it builds pressure.

And pressure is what makes release meaningful.

Timing is emotional, not mechanical.

Good payoff is not just about placing a scene at the right structural point.

It is about knowing:

1. when the reader is ready
2. when the character is ready
3. when the silence has become too heavy to continue

Too early, and it feels unearned.

Too late, and it loses urgency.

Timing is intuitive — but it can be trained through attention to emotional rhythm.

The best payoffs feel inevitable in retrospect.

When a payoff works, the reader often feels: "Of course this had to happen."

Even if they did not see it coming.

That sense of inevitability is the result of careful emotional groundwork.

Not predictability — inevitability.

But Charlie, where do you get ideas for strong emotional scenes?

To be honest with you, sometimes it's in the emotional signature/echo of events that have actually happened to me. I know actors do the same thing. We pull from a catalogue of memories, of events, of how we felt in that moment. Trick our nervous system into thinking something similar is happening, then we can write in the emotional landscape - like an artist choosing paint or watercolors or another medium.

Sometimes though, when I am not directly recalling an emotion, I put myself into the mental headspace of that character and try to see how they would react - not how I would (it's tempting) but how they would. What are their fears, motivations, the things they want, the secrets they keep.

Why are they reacting so?

And finally, music. Music 100 percent will put you in the headspace for getting into the emotional landscape you need to be in, to create.

But Charlie, how do you TIME it?

Ah. This one is harder.

It's like learning to surf, or play an instrument.

Ultimately, you must be in tune with yourself, enough that you can sense the rhythms and currents of the energy of creativity - it sounds woo I know, but any artist or writer or creator will tell you: you have to learn to trust yourself.

A few exercises I use (you can too):

Build without the payoff. Write a short scene where emotional tension is clearly building between two characters — but do not resolve it. Focus only on subtext, avoidance, repetition, small shifts in tone. Notice how pressure accumulates even without resolution.

The delayed moment. Write a scene where a character almost says something important several times. Each time, something interrupts or redirects it. Only allow the moment to land at the very end.

Rewrite the payoff. Take an emotional scene you have already written. Rewrite it twice: once with immediate emotional release, once with delayed release (after buildup or silence). Compare how the timing changes the impact.

Quiet payoff. Write a payoff scene with no major dialogue and no dramatic action. The emotional resolution must happen through gesture, silence, proximity, or avoidance finally stopping.

The invisible history. Write a scene between two characters who clearly have shared history, but never explicitly explain it. The reader should be able to feel the history through how they speak, what they avoid, what they assume.

At its core, emotional payoff is not about endings or revelations.

It is about release.

The moment when everything a story has been quietly holding finally shifts.

When done well, it does not just conclude a scene.

It makes the reader feel like something has been understood — something that was forming long before the words arrived.

That is the craft.

That is the magic.

And it is worth every moment of buildup.

Now go write something that lands.

Here is something no one tells you about writing.

At some point, you have to let someone else read it.

Yes yes I know.

We all want our work to be read, to be books, but at some point it is really scary because it becomes an audience's.

They will have opinions.

They will love characters.

They will hate them.

They will have fan theories that become head canon, and suddenly a character you thought you knew so well, other people are perceiving them waaaaay differently than you thought they might.

But you have to get it out there.

Not just to your cat. Not your notebook. Not the voice in your head that already knows every word.

A real person. With eyes. And opinions. And the power to say something you cannot take back.

Terrifying, right?

I used to keep my work close. Hidden. Safe. I told myself I was "waiting until it was ready." But the truth was simpler and uglier: I was afraid.

Afraid they would not like it. Afraid they would laugh. Afraid they would be bored. Afraid they would confirm the voice that already lived in my head — the one that said who do you think you are?

Or even afraid someone might say, "That's a brilliant idea! Thanks for sharing!" And then take it or publish it themselves.

We have seen this happen, especially to women.

Women who write.

Who create art and music.

Who love freely and expressively and become muses, only to become discarded.

Who invent.

Who want to change the world.

[F Scott Fitzgerald, I can't prove it, but just know I am giving you the EYE, sir.]

So I kept my stories in the drawer. And then another drawer. And then a hard drive. And then a folder called "old stuff" that I never opened.

Sometimes I eventually started sharing them with close friends (I have had more than a few "friendship breakups," so I am hesitant to share my work, but THAT is a story for another day--

And I was met with enthusiasm.

My very lovely friends who are ACTUAL artists, called ME an artist.

Me.

And it must be known, right now I feel I cannot draw to save my life.

But writing?

They called ME an artist.

And then I started Substack.

And I started letting people read.

What happened:

Some people liked it. Some people loved it. Some people — this still surprises me — subscribed.

But here is what I did not expect: the criticism.

Not the lazy kind. Not "I don't like it" with no follow-up. The real kind. The kind that made me wince. The kind that made me put my head in my hands. The kind that was right.

A scene that dragged.

A character who was not yet a person.

A line of dialogue that sounded like a writer, not a human.

Sometimes I put a story out there and I was so enthusiastic about it, and the response just wasn't there.

It wasn't the audiences cup of tea. It didn't test well.

Now I may still make it a novel, because I believe in the story. And truthfully, that criticism hurt. But it also helped. It showed me things I could not see because I was too close. It made the story better. Not easier. Better.

And I realized something: real readers are not the enemy. They are collaborators. They are the ones who see the blind spots. Who catch the things your eye skipped. Who ask the questions you forgot to ask.

They are not there to tear you down. They are there to help you build.

What I learned about trust:

You cannot trust your readers to be kind. Some will not be.

But you can trust them to be honest. And honesty — even when it stings — is a gift.

The key is learning the difference between:

1. "I don't like this" (fine, move on)
2. "This is not working, and here is why" (take a breath, lean in, and then listen)

The first one is taste. The second one is craft.

Also, take a deep breath and let their words marinate.

Substack taught me to listen to the second. To ignore the first unless it came with receipts. And to be grateful for the readers who took the time to tell me what was not yet working.

They did not have to. They chose to. Because they cared about the story.

That is not criticism. That is collaboration.

What I am still learning:

I still get nervous before I hit publish. Every time. The voice still whispers: what if this is the one they hate?

But I hit publish anyway.

Because the alternative — keeping it hidden, keeping it safe, keeping it only mine — is worse. That is not protection. That is isolation.

And stories are not meant to be alone. They are meant to be read.

So I trust my readers. Not to be gentle. To be real. And I trust myself to handle what they give me — to take the useful criticism, leave the rest, and keep writing.

That is not easy. But it is worth it.

So if you are afraid to let someone read your work —

Start small. One, two readers. A friend. A writing group. A Substack subscriber who has already proven they care.

Ask them for specific things: What felt alive? What dragged? What confused you?

And when they answer — even if it stings — say thank you.

Then go revise.

That is not failure. That is growth.

And it is the only way your story gets better.

Trust me. I learned the hard way.

Now go let someone read it. Your story is ready. And so are you.

One more thing. Trust yourself first. Then trust your readers. The rest is just courage. And courage, like a draft, grows with practice.

I am going to talk about something uncomfortable.

Something we as writers all do, and no one wants to talk about it.

Are you ready?

Guilt.

Let me explain.

You've been working on a novel, a novella, a sketch, something you love, and all the sudden Sometimes you get an idea for a character. A voice. A scene. A whole world.

This just happened to me.

I was in the middle of working on something for Parallax, my dystopian futuristic story. Ferret, my street wise crime queen, has an ex-fiance, and someone she really loved since childhood, but isn't brave enough to say it.

Alonnnnng comes the idea.

Whoever he is, he's sarcastic. Rude. Playful. He'd be the perfect foil for Ferret - except she already HAS the love tension, and - as much as I trust my audience - they might misinterpret the foe tension for now-we-are-enemies-to-lovers tension.

So I left him out.

Hardest thing to do, but I said no, you have your own story to tell, I know it. I don't know what it is or where it is, but it will come to me.

A younger me would have felt SO guilty leaving him out.

I also would have felt guilty "betraying" one story for another, by putting Parallax down to experiment with his story.

We have all been there.

The inspiration -- it arrives like a gift. Or a whisper. Or a knock on the door you did not know you were waiting for.

And then the guilt sets in.

But I am supposed to be working on the other novel. The one with Thomas. The ghost. The brother. The body that goes nuts.

So you push the new idea away. You close the door. You sit back down at the desk and try to force yourself to care about the draft you were writing yesterday.

And nothing comes.

Or worse — something comes, but it is dead. The sentences are flat. The characters are puppets. The joy is gone.

You feel like a traitor. A failure. A writer who cannot commit.

Here is what I am learning: that guilt is a lie.

It is ok to set a manuscript down.

Not forever. Not because you are quitting. Because you need to breathe. Because the other story is hungry. Because sometimes the best way to love a project is to let it miss you.

Think of an artist.

A good artist sketches all the time. Little drawings in the margins. Quick studies. Faces from the coffee shop. A tree. A hand. A cat who looks like Honey.

Those sketches are not betrayals of the "real" work. They are practice. They are play. They are how the artist stays loose, stays curious, stays alive.

Some of our favorite artists, some of the MOST famous artists, did that.

And guess what?

Writing is the same.

The novel you are "supposed" to be writing is the big canvas. The one in the studio. The one with the weight and the deadline and the expectations.

The new idea — the character who does not fit, the scene that belongs nowhere, the voice that will not stop whispering — that is the sketch.

And sketches are not betrayals. They are fuel.

Here is what I have learned from forcing myself to write:

It does not work.

I have sat at my desk. I have stared at the cursor. I have said: You will finish this scene even if it kills you.

And sometimes, I finish it. But it is bad. Stiff. Resentful. The opposite of inspired.

The characters lay there like they are on a morgue slab.

Or worse, they throw a tantrum in my head.

"I would not wear that!"

"I would not do that!"

The joy is gone. And when the joy is gone, the writing is just labor. And labor, without love, is visible on the page.

Your readers can feel it. And so can you.

It's like trying to swim your way out of quicksand.

So now I am trying something different.

When the new idea comes — the one that does not fit, the one I did not ask for, the one that feels like a distraction — I let it in.

I open a new document. I write down what I can. A scene. A voice. A single line of dialogue. I let it exist.

And then I close it. I go back to the big canvas. And somehow — somehow — the joy is back. The flat sentences have color. The puppets have hearts.

I take all the pressure off!

The sketch did not betray the novel. It fed it.

This is not for everyone.

Some writers need focus. Need to stay in one chair until the draft is done. That is real. That is valid.

But I am not that writer. I am a wanderer. I follow the voice. I chase the curiosity. I put down one manuscript and pick up another, and another, and another.

And I have stopped feeling guilty about it.

Because the manuscripts are not abandoned. They are resting. They are simmering. They are in the drawer, breathing, waiting for me to come back.

And I always come back. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because the rest made me miss them.

So if you have an idea that does not fit —

Write it down. Give it a page. Let it be a sketch.

You are not betraying your current work. You are trusting it.

Trusting that it will still be there when you come back. Trusting that the new idea will make you a better writer. Trusting that the joy is not a distraction — it is a compass.

So wander. Sketch. Set it down. Pick it up.

That is not failure. That is process.

And it is ok.

One more thing, love. The sketch is not a distraction. It is a conversation with yourself. Listen to it. You might learn something.

Do you have your tea and a warm afghan?

Good, because when we're together, I want these writing sessions to be stripped down, but also helpful.

So here's the big bad secret:

I talk to myself when I write.

Not in my head. Not the quiet, internal muttering that everyone does. I mean out loud. Full sentences. Sometimes with hand gestures. Sometimes in character voices.

My cat Honey thinks I am unhinged. She is probably right.

But here is what I have learned: talking to myself is not a sign that I am losing it. It is a tool. And I am done being embarrassed about it.

And psychology actually backs this:

Psychology Today says:

"Psychology strongly supports talking to yourself as a beneficial, normal cognitive tool that improves focus, emotional regulation, and memory. Research indicates that vocalizing thoughts helps structure complex tasks, reduces anxiety, boosts motivation, and improves performance under pressure, essentially serving as a personal, auditory cognitive aid."

[Thanks Google. I may not like your all AI baloney, but the reference does work here.]

Well you heard it here first, ladies and gents, theys and thems:

We are actually not crazy!! ❤️

So hold onto your seats as we dive into this, and of course, the writing process.

Why talking out loud works:

1. Your ear catches what your eye misses.

When you read silently, your brain is faster than your eyes. It fills in gaps. It corrects mistakes automatically. It hears what you meant to say, not what you actually wrote.

When you read out loud? No shortcuts. Every clunky phrase announces itself. Every repetition stumbles off your tongue. Every piece of dialogue that sounds "right" on the page suddenly sounds wrong in the air.

Your ear is a better editor than your eye. Always has been.

2. Dialogue comes alive.

I write a lot of dialogue. Thomas. The ghost. The brother. People who need to sound like people, not puppets.

When I read their lines out loud, I know immediately if they are working. Does this sound like something a person would actually say? Or does it sound like a writer being clever?

The voice in my head lies. The voice in the room tells the truth.

3. You catch your own tics.

We all have them. Favorite words we overuse. Sentence structures we fall into. Cadences that become ruts.

When you read out loud, you hear the repetition. That word again. That rhythm again. Your ear gets bored before your eye does. That is useful information.

4. It slows you down.

I am a fast reader. Too fast. I skip over things I should notice. My brain is always three sentences ahead.

Reading out loud forces me to inhabit each word. Each pause. Each punctuation mark. I cannot rush. I have to breathe.

And sometimes, in that breath, I discover something I missed.

5. It makes the page less lonely.

Writing is solitary. It is just you and the cursor and the voice in your head. That voice can get loud. And cruel. And weird.

When I talk out loud, I am present in the room. I am not lost inside my own skull. I am a person, speaking words, testing them in the air.

It sounds strange. But it feels grounding.

What I actually do:

I do not perform my whole draft like a one-person play (usually).

I read selected passages out loud. The ones that feel wobbly. The dialogue I am not sure about. The paragraph that looks fine but feels off.

I also talk to my characters sometimes. "What are you actually trying to say here, Thomas?" He never answers. But the question changes how I write the next line.

I mutter to myself while revising. "No. That is not it. Try again. Shorter. Meaner. Softer. There. That is closer."

Honey watches. Honey judges. Honey does not care.

What I am learning:

The weird stuff — the talking, the muttering, the hand gestures, the full conversations with people who do not exist — that is not a bug. That is a feature.

Writing is already strange. We sit alone for hours, making up people who never lived, and we try to make them feel real. That is absurd. That is magical. That is weird.

So why pretend it is not?

Why not embrace the weird?

Talking to yourself out loud is not a sign that you are failing at writing. It is a sign that you are doing it. Fully. Messily. Honestly.

A challenge for you (if you want):

Next time you are stuck on a sentence or a line of dialogue, read it out loud. In a room. By yourself. Let Honey watch.

Then ask:

Does this sound like a human?

Does this flow, or does it trip?

Would I believe this if someone said it to me?

And if the answer is no — talk it through. Try different words. Change the rhythm. Say it again.

You are not crazy. You are editing.

And editing is just writing with your ears open.

So go ahead. Talk to yourself.

The cat will get used to it.

And your drafts will thank you.

Here is what I am still learning. The voice that says "you look ridiculous" — that is the same voice that says "you are not a real writer." The same voice that compares your first draft to a published novel. The same voice that wants you to stay quiet, stay small, stay in your head.

Talking out loud is not just editing. It is resistance. It is proof that you are willing to look a little ridiculous in service of the work. And that willingness? That is not weakness. That is courage.

So let Honey judge. Let the neighbors wonder. Let the voice in your head call you names.

You are in the room. You are speaking the words. You are making the story real.

That is not crazy. That is craft.

And it works.

They read a published novel. Then they look at their own first draft. And they think: I am not good enough.

But that comparison is fundamentally unfair.

A published book is not a draft that "worked on the first try." It is the survivor of the writing process. Multiple drafts. Structural edits. Line edits. Copy edits. Agent feedback. Editorial feedback. Sometimes entire rewrites.

By the time it reaches a reader, it has been shaped into its most coherent version.

I have heard it all the time.

"But look at Harry Potter! Look at Lord of the Rings! Look at Dracula!"

Yes.

Look at them.

And if you could look at the cutting room floor, you might be shocked.

You are not seeing the confusion that came before it.

A first draft is not supposed to compete with that.

It is supposed to exist.

Drafts are supposed to be messy.

A draft is thinking made visible. Unfinished logic. Emotional instinct. Scenes that overshoot or undershoot. Characters still discovering themselves. Ideas arriving before structure has caught up.

A draft is not a failure state of writing. It is the raw material.

The mistake is assuming that clarity should already be present at this stage.

Clarity comes later.

A rough diamond is still a diamond.

Jesus, I wish you could see MY drafts.

Ok, maybe not. They'd look like something terrifying, like out of Indiana Jones. You might even get eaten by a paper monste--am I taken this too far? I feel like I am. But still, my point stands.

So grab your tea or coffee, (I am a coffee girl myself,) and let's go over what is possibly tripping you -- and me -- up.

For starters:

The comparison trap:

When writers compare their drafts to published work, they are often unknowingly comparing:

1. their first attempt
2. to someone else's final version

That is not a fair fight.

The real truth is not "I am not good enough."

The real truth is: "I am not finished yet." And listen, before you start, I am a Virgo! A perfectionist! And also a Virgo who RUMINATES. Do you know how hard that is to live with?

Anyways.

Someone's first, brave attempt versus an ending product, those are completely different states.

One is a judgment of ability.

The other is a description of process.

Drafting is supposed to feel unsafe.

A draft is where you are allowed to:

1. write badly
2. contradict yourself
3. overwrite
4. change your mind mid-scene
5. discover that a character doesn't work yet
6. abandon ideas halfway through

If a draft feels unstable, it is doing its job.

Stability is not the goal at this stage.

Discovery is.

Fear of drafts leads to creative shrinkage.

When writers become afraid of imperfect writing, they often start to:

1. over-edit while drafting
2. second-guess every sentence
3. avoid bold choices
4. simplify their ideas too early
5. stop exploring riskier emotional territory

The story becomes smaller before it ever has a chance to become complete.

Fear doesn't improve writing. It narrows it.

Drafts are where voice actually forms.

Ironically, voice is not something you "perfect" in a first draft.

It emerges through repetition. Correction. Contradiction. Experimentation. Revision.

Your most authentic writing often appears in the parts you were unsure about when you wrote them.

The real job of a draft:

A draft is not supposed to impress.

It is supposed to answer one question:

"What is this story trying to become?"

Everything else comes later.

A few exercises I use (you can too):

Compare without judgment. Take a page from your draft and a page from a published novel. Ask: What work has already been done on the published page that hasn't happened yet in mine?

The permission draft. Write a short scene where you deliberately write "badly." Include a cliché. An overlong description. A messy structure. Then ask: Did anything in it still work?

Draft as discovery. Start a scene without knowing the outcome. Halfway through, deliberately change a character's motivation. Let the scene adapt. Notice what surprises you.

The kind reader. Give a draft to a trusted reader. Ask them only: What stood out? What felt alive? Do not ask if it is "good." Ask what is already there.

At its core, a draft is not something to fear or hide.

It is the earliest form of a story trying to find itself.

Published work is what happens after refinement.

Comparing the two is like comparing soil to a finished garden.

One is not worse than the other. It is simply earlier in the process.

So stop being afraid of your drafts.

They are not your enemy.

They are your raw material.

Now go write something messy -- clean it up later.

Here is what I am still learning. The mess is not the enemy. The mess is the evidence. Evidence that you tried. That you showed up. That you put something on the page instead of leaving it in your head where it could stay perfect forever.

We wouldn't blame a potter for having hands splattered in clay.

We wouldn't be mad at an artist for hands messy with color.

Why are we so hard on ourselves as WRITERS?

Ink blots (literally the name of my Substack and Tuhat) all over, paper crumpled, the cat - my cat's name is Honey, she is pure love & MISCHIEF - probably pawing at our manuscript.

A perfect story in your head is not a story at all. It is a ghost. A draft — even a bad one, even a broken one, even one that makes you cringe — is real. It takes up space. It can be fixed. It can become something.

The story in your head cannot.

So let it out. Messy. Ugly. Unfinished. Let it be a draft.

That is not failure. That is the first step.

And the first step is the only one that matters.

People act like they are cheating. Like using a trope means you are lazy, unoriginal, just copying what came before.

I do not think that is true.

Now hold on.

Put the pitchforks away.

You came to me, if you're a reader here, because you want to know about process.

Sometimes process isn't fun.

Sometimes, it's leaning in, and listening.

A trope is not the story. A trope is the scaffolding. It holds the story up while you build something new inside it.

No one looks at a building under construction and says, "Scaffolding? How unoriginal." They look at the building. The scaffolding is just there, doing its job, invisible in its usefulness.

That is what tropes are to me.

Here is an example.

Grumpy man takes in a child and raises it. That trope is ancient. It has been done a thousand times. It will be done a thousand more.

I am using it right now.

Not because I am lazy. Because the trope works. It gives me a shortcut not to character, but to situation. I do not have to explain why my grumpy man is alone. I do not have to justify why he would take in a child. The trope carries that weight for me — so I can focus on what is different.

The trope is the frame. The story is the painting.

That is not unoriginal. That is play.

I think of tropes as a language.

Every writer learns the same basic vocabulary. Enemies to lovers. The chosen one. The haunted house. The love triangle. The reluctant hero. The found family.

If you refuse to use any of those words, you are not being original. You are just making it harder for yourself to be understood.

Readers like tropes. They like the comfort of recognizing something familiar. They like the game of seeing what you will do with it.

The surprise is not that you used the trope. The surprise is how you twist it.

That is the secret.

You do not avoid tropes. You subvert them. You combine them in unexpected ways. You take two tropes that should not fit and you weld them together until they become something new.

The scaffolding is familiar. The building is not.

That is the craft.

[But also it must be noted if you do NOT use tropes, that is ok! Please!]

Here is what I am learning.

The writers who worry most about being original are usually the ones who have not written very much yet.

The more you write, the more you realize: everything is a remix. Every story has been told. Every character has existed. Every plot has been plotted.

The originality is not in the ingredients. It is in the recipe.

It is in your voice. Your obsessions. Your particular, strange, beautiful way of putting things together.

Tropes are just the alphabet. You still have to write the sentence.

So I am done being afraid of tropes.

I use them on purpose. I collect them like tools. I ask myself: What would happen if I put this trope next to that one? What would break? What would become beautiful?

That is not lazy. That is experimentation.

The grumpy man. The ghost. The love triangle. The body that goes wrong.

Scaffolding.

All of it.

And inside that scaffolding, Thomas is breathing. The ghost is waiting. The brother is grieving.

That is the story.

The trope just helped me build the room up.

So if you are a writer who has been told to avoid tropes — or who feels guilty for loving them —

Stop.

Use them. Twist them. Break them. Put them back together wrong.

That is not cheating. That is craft.

The scaffolding is not the enemy.

The empty building is.

Now go build something.

Here is the thing about scaffolding. You can build it too tall. You can build it too wide. You can add so many tropes that the story buckles under its own weight.

I have done that. Stacked trope on top of trope until the original idea was buried somewhere beneath grumpy men and ghosts and love triangles and bodies that go nuts.

The story survived. But barely.

That is the danger of tropes. Not that you use them. That you use too many. That you forget they are supposed to be invisible. That you let the scaffolding become the building.

So I am learning to edit. To cut. To ask: Does this trope serve the story, or am I just playing with familiar toys because I am afraid to build something new?

Sometimes the answer is: I am afraid.

That is okay. Fear is not failure. Fear is just fear.

I keep the trope anyway. Or I cut it. Or I twist it one more time until it breaks and becomes something I have never seen before.

That is the craft. That is the play. That is the stubborn, ridiculous, beautiful act of building something from nothing while a platform tells you that you need 405 more words.

Fine.

Here they are.

Not because the post needs them. Because I need to prove that I can still write when the platform fights me. That I can still find joy in the mud. That I am not done being stubborn.

405 words of because I said so.

That is not art. That is not craft. That is just a writer, staring at a blinking cursor, refusing to close the laptop.

And that counts for something.

It counts for everything.

Because writing is not just inspiration. It is not just talent. It is not just the perfect sentence arriving like a gift.

Writing is also this. The grind. The word count. The platform that hates you. The post that got eaten. The 405 words you never planned to write.

That is the process too. The ugly, unromantic, teeth-gritting process.

And I am still here.

So is this post.

So are you.

That is enough.

[Trigger warning: We speak on sensitive topics, such as oppression, illness, violence and slavery. Please scroll if this is too much for you.}

I have heard beautiful stories from other cultures. Sad myths from people who have survived generations of oppression.

They stay with me. The way a good story does. The way a truth you do not own can still live in your chest.

There is an incredible black author who wrote about slavery ships. About the ones who were dumped overboard when they were sick, based unfortunately on many real events. And she wrote that those women did not die. They fell into the water, and they turned into mermaids.

Fierce. Strong. Beautiful.

I read that and I felt something crack open in me. Not envy. Awe.

It was inspiring, how she took something so terrifying and created something new. Another story to tell.

And then I sat with a question: Could I write something like that?

The answer came quietly. No.

Not because I lack imagination. Not because I lack skill. Because that story is not mine to tell.

The trauma of the Middle Passage is not mine. The joy of reclaiming that trauma into something fierce and beautiful and alive — that is not my inheritance.

I am a white writer. A straight writer. I write inclusively and diversely. I am not afraid of research or sensitivity readers or the hard work of getting it right.

And I am ok with pushing the limits, learning new things, researching and having sensitivity readers. Engaging with the community, to get it right, and to learn and stretch and try again when I get it wrong.

To apologize, when I get it wrong, or misunderstand.

But some stories are not mine.

And that is okay.

I am learning that knowing what not to write is as important as knowing what to write.

The instinct to step back is not cowardice. It is clarity.

Respect.

Honesty.

There are stories I can tell. Stories about neurodivergence. Stories about escaping abuse. Stories about being a woman in a world that does not always listen. Stories about immigrants and ghosts and love triangles that bend genre.

Those are mine. I earned them. I lived them. Or I am doing the work to learn them with respect and collaboration.

But the story of enslaved women turning into mermaids? That is not mine.

Other stories, of other cultures, based in historical brutality?

That's not mine.

Closed practices belonging to people for thousands of years.

Not mine.

I don't want to think about how I would be taking something that was never offered. Colonization is already something that happened (and happens today). I do not want to become a narrative colonizer, accidentally. The world does not need more writers taking.

The world needs more writers listening.

I think about this every time I read something beautiful from a culture not my own. Every time I hear a myth that cracks me open. Every time I feel that little spark of I want to write something like that.

The spark is not the problem. The spark is admiration.

The question is what I do with it.

I've seen some authors blow threw this.

I saw one writer, much younger than me, on Instagram. She had a person of color in her stories, from his point of view - and while it's important to be inclusive in writing, she did NOT listen to the community, when they said she needed to be more respectful. She said it was a fantasy world, so "it was fine."

It was not fine.

Just because you dress something up in sci-fi or fantasy, does not mean you can be disrespectful.

This is why I can't create something from another person's culture and call it homage--absolutely not.

So then, I sit with the spark and let it teach me something quieter. Older.

That story is beautiful because it comes from a place I cannot go. That is not a limit. That is a gift. That story belongs to someone else. And I get to read it. I get to be moved by it. I get to let it make me a better writer without ever touching it.

That is not silence. That is respect.

I write diversely. I write inclusively. I am not afraid of writing outside my own orientation or my own body — I am doing that now with Thomas, with the ghost, with the brother, with the community members who are helping me see what I cannot see alone.

But writing outside yourself is not the same as writing everywhere.

There is a difference between reaching across a gap and erasing it.

I am still learning where that line is. I will probably get it wrong sometimes. I will listen when I am told. I will do better next time.

But on this one — the mermaids, the slave ships, that fierce and beautiful reclamation — I know the line.

It is not mine.

And that is okay.

Here is what I am coming to believe:

The fact that I cannot tell every story does not make me less of a writer. It makes me a responsible one.

My job is not to write everything. My job is to write what is mine — and to make space for others to write what is theirs.

That means reading. That means amplifying. That means recommending. That means celebrating stories that are not mine without a whisper of I could have done that.

Because I could not have.

And pretending I could would be the real failure.

So I will keep writing. Thomas. The ghost. The brother. The novel that scares me in the best way.

And I will keep reading. The mermaids. The myths. The stories that belong to others.

I will let them change me. I will not try to own them.

That is not a limitation. That is a practice.

And it is one I am proud to learn.

Typing. Pushing. Filling the page. The visible work. The part you can measure in word counts and hours spent in the chair.

That is writing.

But it is not only writing.

Because sometimes — maybe most of the time — the real work happens when you step away. Quiet.

I am learning this slowly.

I write something. A post. A scene. A chapter. I close the document. And then I do nothing. I make tea. I watch a movie. I walk the dog. I stare out the window.

And while I am doing nothing, the writing is settling.

Like a cup of tea that needs to steep. Like a photograph developing in the dark. Like a wound that needs time before you can see what it will become.

You cannot rush settling. You cannot force it. You just have to wait.

This is hard for me.

I like to do. I like to revise immediately, fix the typos, smooth the rough edges, send the thing out into the world before I have even closed the document.

But I am learning that the draft I love at 10pm is not always the draft I love at 10am.

The heat of composition is intoxicating. Everything feels brilliant at 2am. The sentences sing. The characters are alive. I am a genius.

Then I sleep. Then I wake. Then I open the document.

And sometimes — often — the genius is gone. The sentences are fine. The characters are trying their best. But I was too close. I could not see the flaws because I was still inside the work.

That is why I need to step away.

Not for a day. Sometimes for a week. Sometimes — for the big things — for a month or more.

Not because I am procrastinating. Because I am breathing.

And the draft needs to breathe too.

A famous writer — maybe Stephen King, maybe someone else — said to put the first draft in a drawer for six weeks. Work on something else. Come back with cold eyes.

Six weeks feels like forever when you are impatient.

But I am starting to understand why.

In six weeks, you are not the same person who wrote the draft. You have lived more days. Read more books. Had more conversations. Forgotten some of the sentences you were so in love with.

And when you open the drawer, you see the draft differently. Not as your baby. As a thing. A thing that works in some places and does not work in others. A thing you can finally see because you are no longer inside it.

That is not rejection. That is clarity.

I am in the middle of this right now.

Not with the Tuhat posts — those go out fast. That is different. That is process-in-public. Raw and unpolished by design.

But with A Shadow Against the Night? With Thomas and the ghost and the brother and the body that went nuts?

That draft needs to breathe.

I have written pieces of it. Scenes. Fragments. Whole chapters that will probably be cut. And now I am stepping away.

Not because I am done. Because I am waiting.

Waiting for the heat to cool. Waiting for my cold eyes to arrive. Waiting to see what I actually wrote, not what I hoped I wrote.

It is hard. Every day, I want to open the document. Just one more sentence. Just one more tweak. Just to touch it.

But I do not. I close the drawer. I write something else. I make tea. I trust that the draft will still be there when I am ready.

And it will be.

Here is what I am learning:

Writing is not just the making. It is also the leaving alone.

The settling is part of the process. The breathing is part of the craft. The drawer is not a graveyard. It is a nursery.

Things grow in the dark. Things grow in the quiet. Things grow when you stop poking at them and just let them be.

So I am giving it time.

Not because I am lazy. Because I am learning to trust.

The draft will tell me when it is ready. And I will know because I will open the drawer one day — not because I am impatient, but because I am curious — and the words will look different.

New. Strange. Ready.

That is the goal.

Not to write faster. To write truer. And truth takes time.

So if you are a writer who feels guilty for stepping away — for letting the draft sit, for not pushing, for choosing tea over typing —

Stop.

You are not failing. You are breathing. Winning!

And the work needs that.

Give it time. It will thank you.

And so will your cold eyes, when you finally open the drawer.

Here is something I am still learning.

The drawer is not empty. It is full of potential. Full of words that are resting, not dying. Full of scenes that will wake up when I am ready to see them clearly.

And while I wait, I am not failing. I am preparing. I am living the days that will become the next draft. I am drinking the tea that will become the next sentence. I am watching the movies that will become the next metaphor.

The drawer is not a stop. It is a breath.

And even a writer needs to breathe.

So I will close the document. I will walk away. I will trust that the work knows how to wait.

And when I come back — weeks or months from now — I will bring fresh eyes and a full heart. And a stubborn mouth, always.

That is not procrastination. That is patience.

And patience, I am learning, is a writer's secret weapon.

Trust the drawer. Trust the breath. Trust yourself to know when it's time. The drawer holds. So do you. Breathe.

Not avoiding exactly. Circling. Like an animal that knows there is water nearby but is not sure if the bank is safe.

It is a novel. A Shadow Against the Night. I have written parts of it. I have dreamed more of it. I have characters in there who feel more real than some people I have had coffee with.

And it scares me to death.

In the best way.

Here is what I mean.

Writing what you know is safe. I know what it feels like to be a neurodivergent woman in America. I know hunger. I know escape. I know the particular loneliness of surviving something and then having to explain it to people who were not there.

I have written all of that. I will write it again.

But A Shadow Against the Night asks me to write what I do not know.

Not because I am avoiding research. Because the research is the point. And the research is terrifying.

There are memes online about rabbit holes. You start with one question. You end up three hours deep in the history of cuneiform.

Do not get me started on cuneiform.

I will get started on cuneiform.

The earliest writing system. Wedge-shaped marks pressed into clay. Scribes who spent their entire lives learning hundreds of signs. A language that no one has spoken for two thousand years, but we can still read it. Sort of.

That is a rabbit hole. That is one word. One curiosity. One click.

Now imagine a whole novel.

A Shadow Against the Night requires me to write outside my own orientation. Outside my own body. Outside my own lived experience.

That is not something I take lightly.

I believe in writing diversely. I believe in writing inclusively. I believe that stories should reflect the world — not just the narrow slice I have personally walked through.

But believing in something and doing it well are two different things.

I am afraid of getting it wrong.

Not because I am fragile. Because the people I am writing about deserve better than a writer who half-asses the research and calls it empathy.

That is why the novel scares me. Not the plot. Not the prose. The responsibility.

So I circle it. Again.

I open the document. I read what I have already written. I close it.

I read a book about the thing I do not know. I take notes. I feel smarter for an hour. Then I realize how much I do not know and I close the notebook.

I think about sensitivity readers. I am not afraid of them. I am grateful for them. But the thought of sending my work to someone who actually lives what I am trying to write — that is humbling. That is the moment when the research stops being abstract and becomes accountable.

I am not there yet. I am still circling.

Here is what I am learning, though.

The fear is not a stop sign. It is a temperature check.

If a project does not scare me at least a little, it is probably not worth doing. The safe projects are fine. They pay the bills. They build the muscle. But the next thing — the one that makes my chest tight — that is the one that matters.

That is the one that will teach me something.

Not just about writing. About being human. About reaching across the gap between what I know and what I am trying to understand.

That gap is not empty. That gap is where the work lives.

So I will keep circling.

I will fall down rabbit holes. Cuneiform. Historical clothing. The way light moves in a place I have never been. I will spend three hours learning something that ends up as one sentence in the final draft.

That is not wasted time. That is the apprenticeship.

I will write badly. I will get things wrong. I will send my draft to sensitivity readers and they will tell me what I missed. And I will fix it. And I will learn. And the next draft will be better.

That is not failure. That is the process.

A Shadow Against the Night scares me to death.

In the best way.

Because the things that scare you — really scare you, the way a good story should — those are the things worth chasing.

So I am going to stop circling.

Not today. Maybe not this week. But soon.

I am going to open the document. I am going to write one sentence. Then another. Then another. I am going to get it wrong. And then I am going to get it less wrong.

I am afraid of it, honestly. And I am going to write it anyway.

I will do my research. I will talk to my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community. I will make sure it is respectful. Not because I am afraid of getting cancelled. Because they deserve better than a writer who guesses, who fails.

This is not my story. Not my trauma. Not my body or my orientation or my history.

But the Irish immigrant at the center of A Shadow Against the Night — the love triangle he is thrust into, the parts of himself he has to dig up, the trauma and the beauty — his story deserves to be heard.

And I am the one who heard it first.

That means something. That is a responsibility I do not take lightly.

So I will fall down rabbit holes. I will ask hard questions. I will write drafts that get it wrong. I will listen. I will revise. I will send my work to people who know more than I do. And I will thank them when they tell me what I missed.

That's hard. That's gutsy.

That is what it means to write outside yourself without losing yourself.

I am scared. But I am also ready.

Not ready to be perfect. Ready to try.

And his story — their stories — are worth every uncomfortable hour.

Why do we create when we may never see the success?

Not the small successes — a good sentence, a finished draft, a reader who found me through Tuhat of all places. Those matter. Those keep me going day to day.

I mean the big success. The kind that outlives you.

The book that finds its reader fifty years after you are gone. The poem someone discovers in a drawer and publishes posthumously. The story that makes a stranger in a future decade feel less alone — and you never know.

Why do we do that? Why do we pour ourselves into work that may never be seen, never be appreciated, never even be finished in our lifetimes?

I do not have an answer. I am just sitting with the question.

Artists have always done this.

Painters who died poor and unknown, their canvases stacked in dusty attics. Poets who published one slim volume and were forgotten, only to be rediscovered a century later. Composers who never heard their own symphonies played by a full orchestra.

They created anyway.

Not for the applause. Not for the money. Not for the Instagram grid or the Substack subscriber count or the Tuhat reader who stumbles across their work.

They created because something in them needed to.

And maybe — just maybe — because they believed in legacy.

Not legacy as fame. Not legacy as a name in a textbook. Legacy as connection.

The thought that someday, somewhere, someone will find what you made. And in that moment, they will feel less alone.

That is not vanity. That is humanity reaching across time.

I think about this as a woman writer especially.

Here is something else I have been turning over.

Legacy is not a guarantee. It is a risk. A leap. A letter you put in a bottle and throw into the ocean, not knowing if anyone will ever open it.

That is terrifying.

But here is what I am starting to believe: the act of throwing the bottle matters more than who finds it.

Because when I create, I am not just reaching toward the future. I am also reaching back. Toward the writers who came before me. The women who wrote in secret. The artists who died unknown. The ones who kept going even when no one was watching.

I am continuing their conversation. I am carrying their questions. I am proof that their work mattered — because here I am, still creating, still asking, still trying to connect.

That is legacy too. Not forward. Backward. A chain of hands.

I hold their work. Someone may hold mine. And someone after that. We do not need to see the end of the chain. We just need to hold our link.

So why do we create when we may never see the success?

Maybe because success is not the point.

The point is the reaching. The point is the question. The point is showing up — on good platforms and bad, on Substack and svarnac.com and even on Tuhat — and saying I was here. This mattered to me. Maybe it will matter to you.

That is enough.

That has to be enough.

Because it is all any of us have.

History is full of women who created in secret. Who wrote in journals no one would read. Who painted in corners of the house where no one would see. Who were told their work did not matter, would not last, was not for legacy.

They created anyway.

And sometimes — not always, but sometimes — we found them. We read their words a hundred years later. We saw ourselves in their hidden sentences. We felt less alone.

That is not failure. That is the work finally arriving at its destination.

Even if they never knew.

I write dystopian fiction. Parallax is full of hunger and poverty and oppression. I did not write it because I thought it would make me famous. I wrote it because I needed to. Because the world I imagined was a mirror of the world I survived. Because maybe — maybe — someone would read it and think I am not the only one who sees this.

That is legacy to me. Not my name on a shelf. My question on someone's nightstand.

You are not alone.

That is what I am trying to say across time and space and broken platforms.

I may never see the success. I may never know if Parallax finds the reader who needs it. I may publish five more Tuhat posts and zero people find my Substack ever again.

But I am going to keep creating anyway.

Because the question is bigger than the answer.

Why do we create when we may never see the success?

Maybe it is legacy. Maybe it is hope. Maybe it is simply that we have no choice — that the act of making something is its own reward, its own proof, its own quiet victory.

Maybe we create because we are human. And humans tell stories. And stories outlive us.

I do not know. I am still sitting with the question.

But I am glad you are sitting with me.

What about you?

Why do you create? Not the answer you tell yourself at parties. The real one. The one underneath.

I will not tell you what to write. I will just leave the question here.

And maybe — someday, somewhere — someone will read this and feel less alone.

That is the legacy I am reaching for.

Even if I never see it land. One more thing. The question does not need an answer. It just needs to be asked. And you just asked it. That is enough. That is everything. Keep reaching. We reach humanity, past lifetimes sometimes, and there is something kind of crazy and special and beautiful about that.

I think that's why I keep writing.

Not for glory.

Not for beauty - although art and writing IS beauty.

To let someone know somehow, they mattered.

It does not have a face. It does not have a name. But I know exactly when it speaks.

It speaks when I sit down to write and the first sentence does not come easily. See? You have nothing to say.

It speaks when I read something brilliant by another writer. You will never be that good. Why are you even trying?

It speaks when I finish a draft and feel proud for approximately four minutes. That is not finished. That is not good enough. Someone else already wrote this, and they wrote it better.

The voice is relentless. It does not take days off. It does not care if I am tired or sad or just trying my best.

I used to think the voice was telling me the truth.

I do not think that anymore.

Here is what I am learning to ignore.

1. The comparison game.**

There will always be someone who writes faster than me. Someone with more Substack subscribers. Someone whose sentences look effortless in a way mine never do.

I used to scroll through other writers' work and feel small. Not inspired. Just... small.

Now I am trying something different. I am learning to look at good work and say that is beautiful without adding and I am ugly next to it.

Their success is not my failure. Their voice is not my silence. There is room for all of us.

The voice wants me to believe otherwise. The voice lies.

2. The first draft judgment.

The voice loves to critique my work before it is even finished.

*This paragraph is clumsy.***This dialogue sounds fake. Who is going to read this?

I used to listen. I used to stop writing and start editing — or worse, stop writing entirely.

Now I am learning to say: Not yet.

The first draft is allowed to be bad. The first draft is supposed to be bad. The first draft is just me telling myself the story so I can fix it later.

The voice does not understand process. The voice wants perfection immediately. The voice has never written anything in its life.

I am learning to ignore it until the second draft.

3. The platform's limitations.**

Tuhat taught me this one the hard way.

The platform does not understand me. It puts pictures in the wrong place. It lies about word counts. It makes publishing feel like pulling teeth.

For a while, I thought that meant I was doing something wrong.

Now I understand: the platform is just a tool. A clunky, old-school, badly designed tool. But it is not the boss of me.

I am learning to ignore what Tuhat cannot do and focus on what it can do. It can hold my words. It can be a home for my process. It can — apparently — even send a reader to my Substack every once in a while.

The rest? The bad formatting? The missing features? The silent publish button?

Ignored.

4. The voice that says I am not a real writer.

This is the big one.

The voice loves to tell me that real writers have MFAs. Real writers get published in fancy journals. Real writers do not struggle with the middle or drink too much tea or stare at the wall for twenty minutes before typing a single word.

I used to believe that voice.

Now I know: a real writer is someone who writes. That is it. That is the whole definition.

I write. Therefore I am a writer.

The voice can scream all it wants. I am not listening anymore.

Building this muscle takes time.

I still hear the voice. Every day. It has not gotten quieter. I have just gotten better at recognizing it for what it is: fear wearing a clever disguise.

Fear of failure. Fear of judgment. Fear that I am not enough.

The voice is not my enemy. It is trying to protect me from disappointment. But its protection is suffocating me.

So I am learning to thank the voice and then ignore it.

Thank you for your concern. I am going to write anyway.

Some days are easier than others.

Some days the voice is loud and I am tired and I believe every horrible thing it says. Those days, I write badly or I do not write at all.

But I come back the next day. And the next. And the next.

That is the only victory that matters. Not silencing the voice forever. Just showing up anyway.

So if you have a voice like mine — loud, cruel, persistent — I see you.

You are not alone. You are not broken. You are just human.

And the voice?

Keep learning to ignore it.

Not because it will ever go away. Because your words matter more than its fear.

Now go write something. The voice is waiting. Do not listen.

Here is the thing I am still learning.

The voice does not need to be defeated. It just needs to be outnumbered.

Every time I write a sentence, that is one more voice on my side. Every time I finish a draft, that is one more piece of evidence that the cruel voice is wrong. Every time someone reads my work — even one person, even on Tuhat — that is another witness.

I am building a chorus. Slowly. Quietly. One word at a time.

The cruel voice is loud. But it is alone.

I am learning to ignore it by surrounding myself with proof that it lies.

The proof is on my Substack. On svarnac.com. On this ugly, beautiful, impossible platform that sent me a reader I never expected.

The proof is the work itself.

So I keep writing. Not because the voice stopped. Because I stopped caring whether it ever does.

The voice is loud. But you are louder. Keep going!

No matter what anyone says, your words matter and your voice belongs! We need your heart, your dreams out there!

The blank page. The first sentence. The thrill of a new idea crackling to life like a struck match. There is a reason so many writers start new projects. Starting feels like falling in love. Anything is possible. The page is full of promise. You have not failed yet.

Everyone also romanticizes the ending.

The final word. The last page. The moment you type "The End" and sit back, exhausted but victorious. Finishing feels like giving birth — painful, messy, but worth it. There is a reason we celebrate publication days and book launches. The ending means you survived.

But no one talks about the middle.

The middle is not romantic.

The middle is the point where the excitement has worn off but the ending is nowhere in sight. The middle is where I sit down at my desk and stare at a draft that used to feel full of potential.

The middle is where sentences come out wrong. Where the character I loved in chapter two is boring me in chapter five. Where the plot twist I planned six months ago suddenly feels predictable. Where I realize I have written myself into a corner and the only way out is to delete three thousand words I actually really liked.

Is this even good? Should I start over? Why did I think I could write this? Maybe I should just quit and become someone who gardens.

The middle does not care about my good, thoughtful intentions. The middle does not care about my outline or my mood board or the playlist I made specifically for this project. The middle just sits there, heavy and gray, asking me to keep going when every part of me wants to start something new.

Here is what I have learned about the middle.

It is not a sign that I am failing. It is a sign that I am working.

The beginning is inspiration. The end is relief. But the middle is craft. The middle is where you prove whether you are a writer or just someone who likes having ideas.

Anyone can have an idea. Ideas are cheap. I have twenty new ideas before breakfast. The hard part is not the idea. The hard part is staying with the idea when it stops being fun.

And it always stops being fun. Right around the middle.

That is when the real writing begins.

The middle is walking through mud. Every step is slow. Every step is loud. You cannot see the other side. You are not even sure there is another side. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other because stopping means sinking.

Some days in the middle, I write two hundred words. They are bad words. Clunky. Forced. I delete half of them the next morning. But I wrote them. That is something.

Some days in the middle, I write nothing. I just stare at the screen. I rearrange sentences I already wrote. I change a comma. I change it back. That is also something. That is still showing up.

The middle does not reward heroics. The middle rewards stubbornness.

I have abandoned more projects in the middle than I have ever finished.

That used to shame me. Now I understand. The middle is a filter. It separates the ideas I actually care about from the ones that just looked good in the beginning.

If I am willing to walk through the mud for a story, that story matters. If I am not, it does not. That is not failure. That is information.

The middle tells me the truth.

Right now, I am in the middle of something. I will not tell you what it is. That is not the point. The point is that I sat down this morning and did not want to open the document. I opened it anyway.

I read the last three paragraphs I wrote yesterday. They were fine. Not great. Fine.

I wrote a new paragraph. It was worse than fine.

I deleted it. Wrote a different one. Kept three words.

I closed the document. Opened it again. Wrote two more sentences. They were okay.

That is the middle. It is not dramatic. It is not inspiring. It is just a person at a desk, trying to move forward when forward feels impossible.

I am writing this post because I need to remind myself of something.

The middle is not punishment. The middle is practice.

Every great book you have ever loved survived its own middle. Every writer you admire walked through the same mud. They just did not post about it on social media. They just kept going.

So will I.

Not because I am special. Because I have no choice. The stories do not finish themselves. And the only way out of the middle is through.

So if you are in the middle of something right now — a draft, a project, a chapter that will not cooperate — I see you.

The mud is real. The doubt is loud. The end is not here yet.

But you are still here. That is not nothing. That is everything.

Here is something the middle has taught me.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is put it down.

Not quit. Just... step away. Make tea. Open a sparkling water. Stare out the window. Let the mud settle on its own.

I used to think writing meant grinding. Staying in the chair until something broke. But the middle does not respond to force. It responds to patience.

So I make tea. I watch the steam. I do not think about the draft. I think about anything else. And somehow — not always, but often — the answer comes when I am not looking.

That is not giving up. That is trusting the process.

The middle will still be there tomorrow. The mud will still be mud. But I will be holding tea instead of a clenched fist.

And that makes all the difference.

The abuse I escaped. The feeling of being a neurodivergent woman in America. The hunger. The poverty. The constant, low-level survival that leaves no room for rest.

Here is the trick: when I wrap it in dystopia — like in my work Parallax — people can stomach it. They call it imaginative. Brave. Speculative. They do not realize I am not speculating but remembering.

And that is the part I am afraid to write about. Not the memories themselves. I have already turned those into stories. What I am afraid to write about is what it costs me to put them there.

There are scenes I have written that left me wrecked.

Not because they were hard to imagine. When it came back, it did not feel like fiction. It felt like a flashback I chose to have.

I sat at my desk. I typed. And when I was done, I could not get up. My hands were cold. My chest was tight. I had been gone — not into a story, but back into a room I had fought to leave.

That is the part no one sees.

The reader closes the book and thinks, what a powerful scene.

I close the laptop and try to remember what year it is.

I am saying it because I think other writers need to hear it.

If you have ever written something true and felt hollow afterward. If you have ever put a piece of yourself into a character and then could not recognize your own reflection. If you have ever wondered why the "good" scenes drain you instead of filling you.

You are not broken. You are not weak.

You are just not pretending.

Fiction is supposed to be a bridge. But sometimes, for the writer, it is also a wound. And we do not talk about that enough.

I am neurodivergent. That means my memory works differently. Some things are too loud. Some sensations never fade. When I write a scene about poverty, I do not just remember being hungry. I remember the sound of my own stomach. The shame of pretending I was not. The math of how many days until the next meal.

That does not go away when I hit "save."

It stays. It builds. It becomes part of the dam I wrote about last time — the flood of stories and sensations and memories all pressing against the same thin wall.

Some days the dam holds.

Some days I hold the dam.

And some days, I write a scene that breaks us both.

Here is what I am learning: readers can handle my truth better when it is dressed as fiction. That is fine. I am not angry about it. Dystopia has always been a mirror we pretend is a window.

But I need to stop pretending that writing those scenes does not cost me.

It costs me sleep. It costs me peace. It costs me hours of staring at the ceiling afterward, wondering if I am healing or just bleeding on the page and calling it art.

Maybe it is both.

I am not going to stop writing the hard scenes. They are the truest thing I have to offer.

But I am going to stop being afraid to say what they take from me.

This post is not about the abuse. It is not about the hunger. It is not about the specifics of being a neurodivergent woman in a country that was not built for me.

This post is about the after.

The wreckage. The recovery. The quiet act of closing the laptop and putting myself back together before anyone notices I was gone.

That is the piece I was afraid to write.

I wrote it anyway.

When I write a scene about hunger, I am not being clever. I am not reaching for a metaphor. I am reaching for a memory. And memories do not have an off switch.

When I write about oppression in Parallax, I am not imagining a future. I am describing a past that people still call "sensitive" or "resilient" or "brave" — as if those words make the reliving any easier.

They do not.

Bravery does not stop your hands from shaking. Resilience does not keep the nightmares away. And sensitivity is not a shield. It is the reason the work cuts so deep.

I am neurodivergent. That means I feel things in full color when others see in black and white. A small slight lands like a punch. A loud noise lingers for hours. A memory does not fade — it loops. And when I write, I am not narrating the loop. I am inside it. That is why some scenes leave me wrecked.

Not because I am weak. Because I am honest. And honesty, when you have survived what I have survived, is not a gentle craft. It is excavation. It is surgery without anesthesia. It is sitting inside the thing you ran from and deciding to describe it anyway.

So yes. I put my experiences into my work. My escape from abuse. My neurodivergence. My womanhood in a country that does not always listen.

And readers stomach it better because it is fiction.

That used to bother me. Now I understand. Fiction is a doorway. Some people can only enter through a story. That is fine. I am not here to judge how anyone receives the truth.

But I am done pretending the doorway does not lead back to my own living room.

I wrote Parallax from a place of survival. Every dystopian scene about hunger and poverty and oppression — I lived a version of it first. Not the same. But close enough that the line between memory and imagination blurred a long time ago.

Some days I do not know if I am writing fiction or translating my life into a language people can bear to hear.

Maybe that is what art is.

I do not have that problem.

Well, sometimes I do, but the greater issue is usually, I do not have a writer's block. I have a writer's dam.

Behind it, everything is pressing.

Stories.

Poem fragments.

Essay openings. Lines of dialogue I overheard at a coffee shop three weeks ago that are still rattling around my skull. A scene from a movie that will not let me go. A novel I finished last month that rewired something in me and I am still figuring out what.

Every experience I have, turns into art.

It is not an empty reservoir behind that dam.

It is a flood.

And the dam holds — barely — but the pressure is exhausting.

Some mornings I sit down to write and I have too much to say. Not in the arrogant way. In the nervous-system way. My chest is tight. My thoughts are racing. I have three stories half-started, two essays I meant to finish, and a poem that woke me up at 3am demanding attention.

And I have maybe an hour before the rest of my life crashes in.

That hour is not a gift. It is a fire hose.

I try to write one thing. But the other things are shouting. They want their turn. They are afraid I will forget them — and honestly, so am I.

So I freeze. Not because there is nothing.

Because there is everything.

And that wrecks me as much as any blank page ever did.

Here is what I am learning.

Inspiration is not rare. Inspiration is everywhere.

Movies. Television. Novels. Art. A conversation on the bus. A headline that lands wrong. A photograph from twenty years ago that I suddenly understand differently.

I used to think inspiration was the special guest. The thing you waited for.

Now I think it is the weather. Constant. Changing. Sometimes gentle, sometimes destructive. But always there, pressing on the windows.

The problem is not finding inspiration.

The problem is what to do with it once it finds you.

Because you cannot write everything. You cannot chase every idea. You cannot turn every movie that moved you into an essay. You cannot give every story the home it deserves.

You have to choose.

And choosing means losing.

That is the part nobody tells you about the writer's dam. It is not just about managing the flood. It is about accepting that most of what flows through you will never make it to the page. Not because it was not good enough. Because there are only so many hours. Only so many mornings. Only so much room in a single human life.

I am still learning how to hold that.

Some days I close my notebook and feel like I am drowning in what I did not write.

Some days I close my notebook and feel grateful for the one small thing I managed to catch.

Both feelings are true.

I watch a lot of movies. That is not a secret if you know my work. But lately I have been watching them differently.

I used to watch for pleasure. For escape. For the story.

Now I also watch as a writer. Not to steal. To learn.

A scene will land — a look between two characters, a silence that lasts three seconds too long, a line of dialogue that says the opposite of what the character means — and I feel something open in me. Not an idea. A direction.

Oh. That is how you do it.

That is how you show loneliness without saying the word lonely.

That is how you build tension by showing someone making tea.

That is how you break a heart in half a page.

Movies teach me craft. So do novels. So do paintings. So do the good TV shows — the ones that trust their audience enough to be quiet.

I do not always know what I am learning in the moment. But later, at my desk, something will come out differently. A sentence will be shorter. A pause will land where I used to rush. I will trust the reader more.

That is the dam feeding the work. Slow. Indirectly. Surely.

I am not sure I have solved anything with this post.

I still wake up most mornings with more inside me than I can possibly write. I still feel my chest tighten when I think about the stories I will never get to. I still close my laptop some days feeling like I failed — not because I wrote nothing, but because I wrote too little of too much.

But here is what I am starting to believe.

The dam is not broken. It is working.

It holds back the flood so I can drink one cup at a time.

The stories I do not write are not lost. They are feeding the stories I do write. They are underground rivers. They are pressure that shapes the stone.

I do not need to catch every wave.

I just need to keep showing up with a bucket.

So if you are a writer who has ever felt guilty for having too many ideas. If you have ever frozen at the desk because your mind was screaming in ten directions at once. If you have ever watched a movie and felt it rearrange something inside you without knowing how or why.

You are not broken.

You are not blocked, just full.

And that is a different kind of hard. But it is also a different kind of gift.

Now close your notebook, watch something good. The stories will still be there tomorrow.

The dam will hold and so will you. One coffee at a time, word at a time. You are not drowning. You are full of vitality

Now I am less sure.

On Substack and on svarnac.com, I share stories, poetry, and essays about media, movies, and a woman's experience in the world. That space is for what I make.

Here on Tuhat, I want to try something different. I want to write about how I make it — and why.

Not craft tips. Not advice. Just an honest journal of the process:

• What it feels like to stare at a blank page for forty-five minutes
• Why I wrote three versions of one sentence and still don't like any of them
• The strange, quiet victory of finishing a draft you know will change tomorrow
• How being a woman in the world shapes not just what I write, but when I dare to write it

This will not be polished. That is the point.

If you are a writer, too — or someone who wonders what a writer's life actually looks like between publications — I hope you find something recognizable here.

First entry: today, I sat down to write a short story. I wrote four words. Deleted them. Made tea. Sat down again. Wrote eleven words. Kept three.

That is not failure. That is Tuesday.

I carved up something to post.

Carefully. Slowly. The way you shape a sentence you actually mean.

And then — because this site is new, because every platform has its own secret logic, because I clicked "new" thinking it meant "post" — it all vanished.

Poof.

Not even a warning. Just the clean, indifferent blankness of a form that has never met a metaphor it couldn't erase.

Here is what I learned in that second, staring at the nothing:

Writing is not about avoiding the collapse. It is about what you do after.

You explore. You go on digital adventures. You press buttons with innocent confidence. And sometimes — often — you fall flat on your keyboard.

That is not failure. That is process.

That is what it means to be a writer who is still learning, still pressing wrong buttons, still showing up to the page even when the page just ate your lunch.

So this is my first real post on Tuhat. Not the polished one I carved up. This one. The one written after the delete.

Because writing is not the absence of mistakes.

It is the decision to keep talking anyway.

I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be a writer on platforms that were not built for writers.

Substack understands me. It wants my stories, my poems, my essays on movies and media and a woman's experience in the world. It formats itself around me like a welcome mat.

Svarnac.com is mine. I can do anything there. Break lines, embed images, rearrange the furniture.

But Tuhat?

Tuhat does not know what to do with me yet. And honestly, I do not know what to do with Tuhat.

It asks for abstracts and keywords and publication types. It wants me to categorize myself before I have even said anything. It is a database dressed up as a home.

So I have decided: I will stop trying to fit.

Instead, I will use Tuhat the way I use a notebook with ugly covers. The outside does not matter. What matters is what I fill it with.

And what I want to fill it with is the truth of the writing life.

Not the glamorous version. Not the "I woke up at 5am and wrote a masterpiece" version. The real one.

The one where you delete your own post by accident.

The one where you stare at a blinking cursor for twenty minutes and write nothing.

The one where you finish something, feel proud for an hour, and then hate it by morning.

That is what I am here to document.

Not because I think anyone needs advice. But because when I was starting out — when I was afraid to call myself a writer at all — I would have loved to see someone else's mess. Someone else's wrong click. Someone else's ordinary, unglamorous Tuesday.

So consider this an invitation.

If you are a writer on a platform that confuses you. If you have ever lost work to a bad interface. If you have ever felt like everyone else knows the rules except you.

You are not alone.

I am over here, on Tuhat of all places, pressing the wrong buttons and starting over.

And I will keep showing up.

Not because I am good at this. Because I am a writer.

And that is what writers do.

I realize something else, too.

The first post I lost? It was good. Not perfect, but real. It had a line about how writing is like walking through a dark room and trusting your hands will find the wall. I liked that line. I might steal it back someday.

But here is what I did not expect: losing it made me want to write more. Not less.

That is the strange gift of this work. Every delete, every rejection, every draft that goes nowhere — it either stops you or it deepens you. There is no neutral.

So I choose deeper.

Not because I am brave. Because I am curious. I want to know what happens when I keep going. What happens when I show up to a platform that confuses me and I stay anyway. What happens when I write without an audience in mind, just a question in my hand.

That is my real subject now. Not stories or poems or essays on movies — though I still write those elsewhere. Here, my subject is the trying.

The trying to say something true. The trying to build a habit. The trying to be a writer in public, without a net, on a website that does not even have an undo button.

That is the whole point.