My first drafts stumble onto the page like undead goblins. I let them rot a little, then stitch the good parts together later. Anyone trying to birth a perfect draft on the first try ends up sacrificing themselves to the word-gods. Perfection doesn’t just kill progress — it demands a blood tithe.

Honestly, that’s the truest creative process I’ve ever seen. Academia in the streets, exorcism in the drafts.

“Finished” just means the thing quit bleeding long enough for you to step back. It’s never really done—it just scars over.

Yes. The shift happens when imitation gives way to resonance—when you stop asking “Is this good?” and start saying “This is mine.”

Every cult horror flick is a sermon if you squint hard enough.

True. To love oneself is to clear away the shadows cast by every ‘should’ that was never ours. A radical act, yes — and the only one that allows the light we hide to emerge.

Exactly. Who needs therapy when you can monetize your nightmares?

A fresh jumper for you, a fresh existential crisis for me. Balance must be maintained.

I aspire to describe an ordinary man so precisely the reader suspects he’s already dead.