Writing is a strange sort of work. Some days, it feels like planting seeds in a stone field. I pour words onto the page, hour after hour, hoping something will take root. Most of the time, nothing grows the way I imagined. Most of the time, no one sees it.
The traffic is light. The likes are few. I send pieces into the world that barely ripple the surface. There is a quiet ache in that. A question that comes and goes: Does this matter?
And yet… I keep at it. Because writing is not only about being seen. It is about returning to the page, again and again, shaping thoughts into sentences, finding clarity in the motion of words, and discovering the small sparks that make the work feel alive, even if no one else notices.
The work is long. The reward is modest. And yet, the act itself is a kind of quiet magic. A story finished is a world held in my hands. A paragraph that sings is a victory no traffic chart can measure. The joy is not in the clicks or the views, but in the making — in the craft, in the careful shaping, in the patient building of a voice that belongs only to me.
Sometimes, I sit back and look at what I’ve done. The words are imperfect. The audience is small. But there is something alive there, flickering on the page, waiting. And for that, I write again. And again.
Because I cannot imagine a life without it. Even on the slowest days, even when no one is watching, I am where I am meant to be — at the page, with the words, trying.
Writing is work. Hard, quiet, unseen work. And I love it, fiercely and without apology.
The CJBuzz 