Every story I’ve ever written starts as a whisper. Sometimes it’s an image that won’t leave my head; other times it’s a single line that feels heavier than it should. I never force it. I let it linger until it demands attention. Once it does, the process begins—not fast, not easy, but deliberate.

The first stage is chaos. Ideas come faster than I can organize them. I scribble notes in my phone, on receipts, or in the margins of other drafts. Eventually, a theme rises above the noise, and I know what the story is trying to say. That’s when structure comes in. I don’t outline every detail, but I map the emotional journey. Where does the character begin? What breaks them? What rebuilds them? The rest I discover as I write.

The first draft is never pretty. It’s raw and messy, like carving through stone without knowing the final shape. But I trust the process. Each round of editing removes what doesn’t belong and sharpens what does. Some days I cut entire chapters. Other days I rewrite one sentence fifty times until it finally clicks. 

By the time I reach the final page, I’ve lived inside the story long enough to know its rhythm by heart. That last paragraph always feels like closing a door on a house I’ve just finished building. I stand there for a moment, proud but also ready to walk away and start again somewhere new.

People often think writing is about inspiration. It’s not. It’s about endurance. The real work isn’t finding the idea—it’s holding onto it long enough to finish the story it deserves.