I didn’t wake up one day suddenly an author. Nothing clicked overnight.
I’ve always loved words. Writing them as much as reading them. Only difference was I could do one better than the other.
Writing used to feel like a domain I couldn’t enter. Not for lack of ideas, but an excess of them, spread too far apart to connect.
What I was missing wasn’t words or urge. It was access.
Now something has shifted. Not in what I want to say, but in how I can say it.
I finally learned a way. A method. By reading, by looking, by failing –mostly–, by paying attention. And much faster than I would have twenty years ago. Maybe time was the missing piece.
There’s less piling words up; more organising them. Less time adding, more time deciding.
It feels closer to editing a contact sheet than filling a blank page. Looking again; discarding more than I keep.
The work hasn’t become lighter. If anything, it’s become more exposed. There’s less to hide behind once the framework holds.
I don’t mistake this for mastery. It’s only a new place to work from.
I didn’t find something new in myself. I found a way to develop a latent image.
