This blog started the way most of my writing does. Not with a sentence, but with a feeling that refused to stay quiet.
I opened a blank document and did nothing for a while. No typing. No outlining. Just sitting with the question: what am I actually trying to say here? That pause matters more than people think. It sets the tone before a single word appears.
The first draft was ugly on purpose. Long sentences, half-thoughts, repetitions I knew I would delete later. I let myself write badly so the real voice could surface. Editing too early kills honesty. I learned that the hard way.
About halfway through, I stopped again. Not because I was stuck, but because the text started sounding clever instead of true. That’s usually my signal to cut. I removed an entire paragraph that explained too much. What remained felt quieter, and stronger.
The final pass was about rhythm. Reading everything out loud. Listening for where the breath breaks. Adjusting commas. Shortening lines that wanted to linger. Writing is visual, but it’s also physical. You feel when a sentence lands.
What you’re reading now is the residue of that process. Not the mess, not the doubts, but the distilled version. Still imperfect. Still human. That’s the point.
If there’s one real behind-the-scenes secret, it’s this: the writing doesn’t come from knowing what to say. It comes from staying long enough to find out.