I didn’t start writing to be an author. I didn’t even think I’d publish anything. I started writing after my separation from my daughter’s mother, during those five months where I barely saw her. It was the only thing that helped me survive the pain I couldn’t explain out loud. I’d sit in silence, day after day, feeling like something inside me cracked and never healed right. And when I finally picked up the pen again in November 2024, something changed. The creativity that I thought I lost for good started coming back.
That’s when I wrote the first few lines of what would become He Waits in the Plaster. It started from a dark place but then it morphed into something strange and surreal. I remember writing this sentence: “I’ve been collecting my eyelashes in a jar because one day I’ll have enough to trade for a wish from the man who lives inside my wall.” I laughed out loud at how messed up it sounded, but also realized, this was me. This was how my brain worked. And for the first time in a while, that didn’t feel like a bad thing.
In 2022, right after the separation, I was writing letters to my daughter. Then that turned into fiction based on pieces of my life, like little experiments. I used it to work through the grief, the rage, the hopelessness. The fake stories helped me survive the real ones.
It wasn’t until late 2024 that I started to really take writing seriously. I just told myself, screw it. I’m gonna release this stuff as a book. I’m gonna start a blog. If anyone reads it, cool. If not, this is mine. My outlet. My way to stay grounded.
There were definitely moments where I thought my voice didn’t matter. That no one would care. That my life wasn’t interesting enough or that my pain would just come off like whining. But I stopped caring. Because writing wasn’t for them. It was for me. I started pushing myself to try weirder, wilder things. My Roomba Joined ISIS and Took the Kids came from that. So did Greyline Comics. I wanted a place where I could throw every ridiculous, chaotic, emotional idea I had and not be judged for it.
Am I still writing to survive? Yeah. But I’m also trying to build something now. Something real. If my stories make someone laugh or feel less alone or even just give them a break from their own life for a few minutes, then that’s worth something.
If you’re scared to start writing, don’t be. You don’t need to be good. You just need to be honest. I’m not a strong writer. Most of the stuff I make starts as a trash draft. I write it. Then I rewrite it. Then I add things or cut it up. Blog posts, stories, poems, it doesn’t matter. I build it slow, one rough piece at a time. That’s all writing is. Showing up. Letting yourself be messy. And finding something beautiful in the middle of the chaos.