Inktail
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I've been around the world... five times. I've known kings and queens and slaves and drudges, I've seen things... things you would never believe. I've written the beginning of every book ever finished, and the end of every book ever written. I've watched stars fall and moons rise for countless years... but I've never met someone like this. How can anyone have done all those things, you ask? I would have to be older than living memory. You want to learn my secret? The secret of the first word? The first glyph scratched into a tablet with a stick, thousands upon thousands of years ago? Well, I'll tell you... on that day, before years were recorded, when everyone counted by moons and suns, the very first word was stamped into wet clay with a papyrus reed, in a small house in the middle of what is now Syria... and at that same instant, I took my first gasping breath in a tiny fishing hut by the Red Sea... Highest known ranking: #215in Adventure
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FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.

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