Reflections on Writing
Lately, I’ve been consumed by a single thought: I think I’m finally ready to write a book and publish it. Over the years, I’ve gathered snippets, stories, and reflections, fragments of moments that now feel ready to take shape. I can picture someone picking up this book in an airport lounge, reading it while waiting for their flight home after six long months of corporate grind in a metro city.
I’ve decided to take the self-publishing route when the time comes. These days, I’m diving deep into Quora threads and YouTube rabbit holes, trying to understand how this world really works. Along the way, I’ve learnt about vanity presses, companies that charge writers to publish their books, rather than the other way around. It’s disheartening to see how many aspiring authors, desperate to see their names in print, end up being taken advantage of by these scams. I can even see myself getting scammed that way.
After reading all these stories, I think I might publish a short book, maybe twenty pages or so, just to see how the process works. Once I’ve learnt the ropes, I can turn my attention to my "magnum opus".
Another realisation I’ve had is that I’m much stronger at writing about real-life situations than fantasy. I worry that I don’t have enough imagination for things like mutants or the supernatural. Sure, human nature alone offers endless material for drama and storytelling, but I can’t help feeling like less of a writer if I can’t handle every genre with equal finesse. I know it’s just my insecurity talking.
Maybe writing isn’t about mastering every genre or pleasing every reader. It’s about finding the truth you’re meant to tell and shaping it with honesty and care. The beauty of starting small, whether it’s a twenty-page experiment or a collection of quiet reflections, is that it allows you to learn, to stumble, to grow into your own voice without pretense. Perhaps the real success isn’t in selling thousands of copies or earning praise from strangers, but in finally giving shape to the stories that have been living inside you all this time. If someone happens to read your words in that airport lounge and feels just a little less alone because of them, then that’s already enough.
