On Beginnings and Ghosts
There’s something strange about beginnings. They feel like doors you didn’t realise were closed until they swing open and suddenly, the air shifts.
This space is stitched from fragments I’ve carried for years: voices, memories, imagined places, soft hauntings. I write queer stories because that’s how I see the world: through cracks and colours, longing and love, defiance and dreaming. I write because sometimes it’s the only way to speak.
If you’ve found your way here, welcome. Make yourself a cup of something warm. Curl up in the quiet. I’ll be posting reflections, fragments, and updates as they take shape. No schedule, just a slow unfolding.
Here’s to the gentle ghosts we carry. Here’s to stories that hold us.
What Lingers
Some stories never quite leave. They hover in the periphery, unfinished, unnamed, but insistent. I used to think this meant failure, that I hadn’t done them justice. But maybe they return because they still have something to teach me.
There’s value in letting a story haunt you a while longer. In listening again, differently. Not everything needs to resolve to be real.
Notes from the Margin
I’ve been revisiting old notebooks lately. Scraps of dialogue. Weather descriptions. Half a dream I forgot I wrote down.
It reminds me that writing doesn’t always arrive in neat, linear forms. Sometimes it’s just a moment- an ache, a line, a colour- that waits patiently to be woven into something whole.
If you’re creating, don’t rush the weave. Trust your margins.