Spelling's never been my strong suit-being dyslexic, my mind tends to wander in all directions. But I made a promise to someone from my past, someone who's no longer here: to keep writing, no matter what. To share how I think, from poems to books, even if it scares me.
For a long time, I doubted whether anyone would care. I never finished the books I started. But this one-the one I'm working on now-feels different. There's something in it that keeps sparking. I haven't been able to stop.
Nine times out of ten, I'm up until ridiculous hours, scribbling ideas, chasing scenes, letting the story unfold. It's chaotic, but it's alive. And I want to share it. I want feedback. I want to know what others see in it-what resonates, what could be stronger.
So here I am. Still writing. Still keeping that promise.