I love writing. I love the slow work of building a scene, shaping a voice, letting a character earn their heartbeat. I value the patient craft of it, the careful sanding of sentences until they rest clean in the palm. The desk, the quiet, the page that asks for honesty more than cleverness, that is where the work feels true.

What I don’t love is the performance around the work. The metrics. The pressure to turn chapters into content and a process into a spectacle. I don’t like the spotlight, or the kitchen with all its heat, idolatry, and competition. I also dislike fandom and the chaotic world that swirls around it. Performances get mistaken for connection. Quick takes drown out quiet pages. The noise keeps asking for more noise.

The chaos of trying to please everyone, of chasing what the market wants, is the number one killer of creativity and the joy of creation. I don’t want to live in that world. I would rather be here, in my quiet corner, where I can exist without the noisy oppression of the world.

I dislike having to “suck it up” just to be included or to be part of something. Belonging bought with silence is not belonging. It is compliance, and it drains the work of its pulse.

Steadiness is the choice. Small, repeatable rituals keep the compass accurate: early coffee, a transparent surface, a walk that loosens the mind. Draft, read, cut, draw when words fall short, then try again. Give scenes room to breathe. If a book needs more time to find its shape, it gets more time. Rush leaves fingerprints, and readers feel them.

I believe in a quieter path between a book and a reader. Put the work where it can be found. Leave the door open. Trust hand to hand, library to kitchen table, friend to friend. Ten readers who underline are worth more than ten thousand who forget the title by dinner. Virality is loud. Sentences keep faith.

Boundaries help. Process over performance. Depth over noise. Share a glimpse, answer in good faith, thank the people who show up, then return to the desk. Skip stunts, bait, and manufactured drama. The page deserves better, and so do the people reading it.

The purpose stays simple. Offer company. Name hurt without turning it into a spectacle. Make a small lamp and place it where someone can use it at night. If the stories are true, they will travel if they travel slowly, all the better. Slow journeys settle into the bones.

So the plan is simple too. Keep my head down, keep the craft sharp, keep the heart open. Be at the desk or on a walk, turning a line until it clicks, listening for the detail that makes a scene honest. When the work is needed, it will be there, steady and breathing.