I’ve been walking this book through the dark alleyways of my own intentions for a long time now, dragging drafts like stubborn luggage, rewriting chapters that don’t know they’re already dead, and learning the hard way that nobody warns you how much of writing is really demolition. You think you’re building a cathedral, and then you realize you’re bulldozing a neighborhood of half-truths, bad habits, old voices that don’t fit anymore.
This book has been a brawl with my own ghosts, the kind that don’t throw punches but whisper doubts, tap your shoulder at 2 a.m., and ask if anyone even cares what you’re trying to say.
But something’s shifting—finally. The spine is forming, the voice is sharpening, and the pages are starting to act like they belong together instead of filing restraining orders against each other. The struggle hasn’t been the work; it’s been the courage to admit what the work is supposed to become. And now that I see it clearer, the next steps quit hiding.
I’m outlining the last pieces, tightening the rhythm, carving the chapters down to bone and truth, and building the release path so this thing actually reaches daylight instead of dying in a folder on my laptop like so many other half-finished rebellions.
From here, it’s about steady output—daily writing, ruthless edits, and shaping this into something worthy of the years it has shadowed me. The plan is simple: finish with intention, publish with pride, and hit the world with a book that reads like a lived life, not a polite project. This is where it stands. The struggle’s been real, but the road ahead finally feels like it’s pointing somewhere worth walking.
