There’s a particular kind of unfinished book that doesn’t just sit in a drawer—it lingers. You put it away, convinced you’ll come back to it later, but later never comes. Still, the book doesn’t feel gone. It hovers. You think about it at odd moments. Certain sentences flash in your mind. A character whispers something…

Have you ever started writing a story, only to feel like the story itself is resisting you? The characters refuse to follow the outline. The plot keeps twisting in ways you didn’t plan. The book starts developing a mind of its own, pushing back against your decisions like some self-aware entity testing the boundaries of…

There’s a particular type of person who will, upon hearing you’re a writer, say, I have a book inside me. They’ll say it with the kind of certainty that suggests it’s a fully formed thing, waiting patiently for its moment. They don’t say they want to write a book. They say they have one. As…

The book in your head is perfect. Every scene is cinematic, every character is fully realized, every twist lands exactly as it should. There are no awkward sentences, no pacing issues, no clunky dialogue. But the second you start writing? Something breaks. The words don’t flow the way you imagined. The dialogue feels stiff. The…

Before stories lived on paper, they had to live in the mind. For thousands of years, before printing presses and digital archives, stories weren’t something you read—they were something you remembered. Bards, poets, and oral storytellers carried entire epics in their heads, able to recite thousands of lines without missing a beat. How did they…

There’s a moment before you open an old manuscript—before you scroll through the draft you haven’t touched in months—when the book exists in a perfect quantum state. It could be brilliant. It could be terrible. It could be both. This is Schrödinger’s Draft, the paradox where a book is simultaneously a masterpiece and a disaster,…