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"I don't care if you think your writing is shit," she told me. "It's probably amazing and if you die before I do, I'm going to publish your work. Like Max Brod did for Kafka."
We were sixteen years old and I was mortified by the idea of anyone reading my stories. Reluctantly, I started handing handwritten pages to my closest friends. We all have to start somewhere.
12 years later, I'm still as anxious and insecure about my writing as I was back then, but the group of friends in my corner has grown. They don't care much about writing, but cheer me on every step of the way. Without them, I would have given up in writing a long time ago. They truly are the Brod to my Kafka 🖤
12 years later, I'm still as anxious and insecure about my writing as I was back then, but the group of friends in my corner has grown. They don't care much about writing, but cheer me on every step of the way. Without them, I would have given up in writing a long time ago. They truly are the Brod to my Kafka 🖤
Sep 21, 2024
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"I'm not the next Joan Didion, and I'm okay with that. [...] I'm the first of me, but to my own surprise, it's much more difficult to come to terms with that."
Every word I write is a victory over my impostor syndrome. It's always telling me my writing should be different. Less like me, more like other, much more successful online writers. Seeing how many of those writers aspire to be like Joan Didion, I felt like I was doing something wrong in not wanting to be like her. My doubts and fears about (not) being like Didion turned into a Substack post that struck a chord with others, and myself. For once, I was proud of something I'd written. I hope you'll give it a chance and a read too 🖤
Every word I write is a victory over my impostor syndrome. It's always telling me my writing should be different. Less like me, more like other, much more successful online writers. Seeing how many of those writers aspire to be like Joan Didion, I felt like I was doing something wrong in not wanting to be like her. My doubts and fears about (not) being like Didion turned into a Substack post that struck a chord with others, and myself. For once, I was proud of something I'd written. I hope you'll give it a chance and a read too 🖤
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shared some of my personal writing on my substack. i was terrified but it was received so super well 🥲
Apr 17, 2025
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📖(excerpt from pending draft of my fantasy novel, "The Puppeteer")
I’d seen this before. At a smaller scale, sure, but the feeling was the same. Dread, like the ice cold water of a flood, rose up around people's feet. They sloshed through it, bearing the weight of their terror as their pantlegs absorbed the dark, metaphorical liquid. As buildings fell in the distance and the ground shook, the dread rippled through the crowds and splashed at their edges. Maybe that’s why I felt so numb. This wasn’t new to me. A surprise maybe, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before. It’s not that the events didn’t matter to me, it wasn’t even that they didn’t phase me, I just couldn’t get myself to panic the way I once had.
Everyone showed so much love for my last piece of writing I shared on here, so I figured I'd give a sneeze of something I wrote today that I really loved. If my writing interests you, I do have a newsletter you can sign up for on my profile :)
I’d seen this before. At a smaller scale, sure, but the feeling was the same. Dread, like the ice cold water of a flood, rose up around people's feet. They sloshed through it, bearing the weight of their terror as their pantlegs absorbed the dark, metaphorical liquid. As buildings fell in the distance and the ground shook, the dread rippled through the crowds and splashed at their edges. Maybe that’s why I felt so numb. This wasn’t new to me. A surprise maybe, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before. It’s not that the events didn’t matter to me, it wasn’t even that they didn’t phase me, I just couldn’t get myself to panic the way I once had.
Everyone showed so much love for my last piece of writing I shared on here, so I figured I'd give a sneeze of something I wrote today that I really loved. If my writing interests you, I do have a newsletter you can sign up for on my profile :)
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I'm a July baby. Growing up, I spent most of my birthdays alone. Some years because my friends had left the country. Some years because I'd left the country. Some years because I had no friends. And with every year passing, the pressure to spend my birthday surrounded by friends and family and to have a good time increased. Every year I felt like a failure when I couldn't make it happen. So I stopped telling people it's my birthday.
But today is my 28th birthday.
But today is my 28th birthday.
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✨I hadn't seen my friend since New Year's Eve. Now it was October, her wedding day, and she barely gave me the chance to gush over her gorgeous dress, her makeup, her jewelry.
"You look happier," she said. "Your energy has changed. It's much calmer now. I'm happy for you."
I love her for taking the time out of her special day to notice me like that.
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We got the call just after 7pm. My dad had gone for a run, collapsed, and was found dazed and confused by his friends, who called an ambulance.
I drove my mom to the ER. We spent four endless hours at my dad's bed, waiting for test results that took forever to reach us. Just before midnight, the doctor told us my dad's heart was okay, but they'd keep him overnight for observation. My mom and I were sent home. We hadn't eaten yet.
The house felt wrong when we came home. Empty without my dad. I started crying. "You have to eat something," my mom said. She dug up some chicken nuggets from the depths of the freezer. Everything felt incomplete with just the two of us there, but after a couple of chicken nuggets, we thought for the first time that everything would turn out okay. My dad is too stubborn to go like that. Especially when there are chicken nuggets to be eaten with his family.
I drove my mom to the ER. We spent four endless hours at my dad's bed, waiting for test results that took forever to reach us. Just before midnight, the doctor told us my dad's heart was okay, but they'd keep him overnight for observation. My mom and I were sent home. We hadn't eaten yet.
The house felt wrong when we came home. Empty without my dad. I started crying. "You have to eat something," my mom said. She dug up some chicken nuggets from the depths of the freezer. Everything felt incomplete with just the two of us there, but after a couple of chicken nuggets, we thought for the first time that everything would turn out okay. My dad is too stubborn to go like that. Especially when there are chicken nuggets to be eaten with his family.