It’s My Birthday And I Took The City Hostage With Cake, Rings, And A Skyline Mood 💍🌆

 It’s My Birthday And I Took The City Hostage With Cake, Rings, And A Skyline Mood 💍🌆 If a birthday is a plot twist, mine opened with a mystery hand pinching my cheek, a small cake at midnight, and a frog who thinks he is a therapist. Are you ready for a vibe check that smells like frosting, bookstore dust, and a faint whiff of personal growth?

Birthdays are weird because they’re soft resets disguised as parties. You blow out a candle, pretend you have your life together, and the city lights nod like stage crew. This year, I wanted something small, almost private, the kind of celebration that looks like a casual story post but secretly means everything. I was out with my close knit gang, the ride-or-dies who will hype your dreams and then roast your outfit by the next corner, and we ended up at a rooftop with a skyline that felt like an open document. I pointed at the horizon like an author begging the page to behave. Someone snapped a photo while I was mid monologue. It looked like I was directing traffic for destiny. It also looked like I was telling the stars to get their act together because I have deadlines.

The night started earlier than it should have, because apparently the universe loves a chaotic timeline. First came the surprise: a tiny delivery cake that arrived like a clandestine love letter. It had enough frosting to power a small village and exactly one candle, because symbolism is a prankster. My friends sang off key, the kind of off key that turns into laughter halfway through, and I felt that kid version of me return. There is something about small cake energy that bulldozes cynicism. I held it up like an offering. I took a bite that was basically a lawsuit waiting to happen, and someone caught the moment my face got pinched by a mystery hand from the side of the frame. Consider this the official entry of a recurring character named Mr Wise Frog, who showed up later with a voice of reason and a moral of the story, even though he is very much an inside joke and not actually amphibious.

We drifted through places that make a birthday feel like a secret quest. Neon storefronts that whisper stay a little longer. Stairwells that turn you into a main character. A late night café that serves patience in ceramic cups. We talked about everything and nothing, the kind of circle conversation that loops between high stakes dreams and low stakes gossip. I kept touching a ring, a gift that shone under the city like it had its own agenda. The ring felt like punctuation. Not an ending. Not even a period. More like a comma that says keep reading.

There is this moment, when you are somewhere high enough to see the city breathing, where you understand that a skyline is not a view but an attitude. It is the visual version of a pep talk. I stood there with my tiny cake and my gnawing gratitude and thought about how chapters do not wait for you to be ready. They simply start. People assume birthdays are about new goals, but mine felt more like a memo to self. Keep the softness. Keep the curiosity. Keep the joke about the frog who knows more about your life than you do. Keep the ring finger steady when the camera turns on, because there is nothing wrong with flexing the shimmer that arrived after so many cloudy days.

The next day, because writers are chaos gremlins who self-soothe with paper, I went bookstore crawling. Los Angeles is full of shelves that look like labyrinths and windows that trap sunlight for readers. I walked through aisles that smelled like old ink and ambition. I let my thumb ride the spines like a playlist. You know that feeling when you find a line in a book that was clearly stalking your thoughts for months? I collected a small stack of those. A memoir that reminds you not to apologize for changing your mind. A novel that treats city nights like confessionals. A tiny poetry pamphlet that hits harder than a three hundred page doorstopper. I paid for them like I was buying talismans.

Somewhere between the travel cup of coffee and the receipt tucked under my phone case, the truth followed me like a shadow. I am still in a battle with my health. It is not dramatic every day. Sometimes it is just boring and inconvenient and invisibly exhausting. It is taking vitamins when all I want is dessert. It is getting the sleep hygiene lecture from a friend who loves me enough to be annoying. It is rescheduling plans without rescheduling joy. People see the cake and the ring and the skyline and think the story ends there, but the story is not performed joy. It is practiced joy. It is claiming softness even when the plot is spiky. It is holding on to the wise frog in your head who tells you to drink water, stretch your legs, and finish the page before you doom scroll.

The birthday taught me a new rhythm. I am learning to celebrate in lowercase. The small cake is enough. The ring is a bright reminder that gifts do not erase the grind but they do light it up. The skyline is a classroom where patience is the subject and hope is extra credit. I used to think survival meant pretending to be bulletproof. Now I think it means letting people see your armor on the chair while you sit there in your hoodie, absolutely human, absolutely still choosing to be here.

As a creator, I kept turning the night into content in my head. I saw the cuts for the YouTube vlog. The thumbnail with the cake and the ring. The TikTok text that reads tiny cake, massive feelings. The Blogger headline that calls it a love letter to bookstores and city lights. There is a part of me that will always tell the story while it happens, but I gave myself permission to live it first. We laughed more than we filmed. We ate more than we posted. We stayed longer than our notifications wanted us to. The footage I did keep looks like you are there. The faces are lit by neon and birthday candles. The audio is mostly crosstalk and the kind of overlapping jokes you can only have with friends who know your origin story. 

Sharing this precious ring gift with you guys. It is blessed on the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels at LA :

Mr Wise Frog, by the way, is the patron saint of not spiraling. He appears when I am being dramatic and turns the dial down so the present can breathe. He told me, in his croaky metaphorical way, that birthdays are not performance reviews. They are not deadlines for becoming the unreal version of you that some stranger invented. They are checkpoints on a road that lets you be new again without pretending your past is gone. I let that sit. Then I ate more frosting.

After the rooftops and the bookstores and the ring that caught every light like it was auditioning, we drove to a quiet spot that felt like a secret. No fancy plan. No grand effect. Just a group of people who are good at being people. I watched my friends talk in circles with the kind of warmth that makes even the cold sidewalk look like a couch. The city moved around us like ocean waves. I put my phone away. I breathed on purpose. I thought about the pages I still want to write, the readers I have not met yet, the version of me who will look back at this night and laugh at how dramatic she was about a tiny cake.

Here is the truth that stuck: it is possible to be battling something and still build a life that feels like good cinema. You can carry your health like a backpack without letting it steal the scenery. You can collect quiet joys and let them be loud in your memory. You can make space for the parts of you that are tired and still dance on a rooftop when the playlist demands it. The skyline does not ask you to be perfect. It asks you to show up. I did. I will again.

When I finally got home, I realized the candle wax had dripped into a shape that looked almost like a question mark. It made me laugh, because of course the night would sign off like that. A question, not a period. What will you do with another year, Arabella? What will you write, who will you love, how gently will you treat yourself when the plot gets tangled? I took a picture of the wax, slid the ring back into its box for safe keeping, and put my new books on the nightstand like anchors. Then I set an alarm that I knew I would ignore once, just to prove I am still human.

There is only this soft promise, repeated until it sticks. I will keep celebrating in lowercase. I will keep reading lines that find me before I find them. I will keep laughing at frogs, real or imagined. I will keep pointing at the skyline as if I can direct the whole play, because sometimes pretending you are in charge of the lights is exactly how you remember you can brighten your own scene.

⚡ Bionic Reading Hack: The Font That Changed How I Read Forever 👀

 ⚡ Bionic Reading Hack: The Font That Changed How I Read Forever 👀 Have you ever felt like your eyes were running a marathon they never trained for, just to get through a single chapter? That was me. Every page looked like an obstacle course, every paragraph like a hill I didn’t want to climb. Then I stumbled across something that felt almost like a cheat code for reading—bionic reading—and suddenly, the whole way I process words completely flipped.

Reading is supposed to feel natural, right? For most people, it does. They open a book, an article, a memo, and they consume the words as if their brains were made for this exact activity. For me, and for a lot of neurodivergent folks I’ve spoken with, it wasn’t that simple. My brain could focus, it could obsess, it could zoom in on details like nobody’s business. What it couldn’t always do was sustain the stamina required for page after page of text. Reading wasn’t about comprehension; it was about survival.

This is where bionic reading entered the story.

For those who haven’t seen it yet, bionic reading is a type of text formatting where the first part of a word is bolded, creating what are called “fixation points.” Your eyes lock onto the bolded letters and then your brain fills in the rest of the word automatically. It’s kind of like training wheels for reading, except instead of slowing you down, it makes you fly. You anchor on fewer letters, and somehow, like magic, you still process the entire word.

I first tried it out of curiosity, half skeptical, half desperate. The text looked strange at first, like it was glitching on purpose. But then I started reading a paragraph and something wild happened: I didn’t stumble. My eyes didn’t drift away. Instead of tripping on every word like I normally would, I glided. It was like the difference between walking barefoot on gravel and rolling on smooth wheels. My brain wasn’t exhausted after a few lines. I could keep going.

The real test came later that night. I pulled out a book that had been haunting my bedside table for months. The kind of book I kept telling myself I’d finish, but the paragraphs were so dense that I’d always give up after a page or two. With the text converted into bionic reading format, I tore through chapter after chapter. Not only was I reading faster, I was actually retaining the information better. It was like my brain finally had a shortcut to handle the overload.

Here’s the kicker: it wasn’t just me. I shared it with friends—some neurodivergent, some not—and the reaction was nearly universal. They read faster. They processed more. Even the ones who claimed to “hate reading” admitted that this font style made things feel easier. For people with ADHD, dyslexia, autism, or simply anyone who struggles with long attention spans, this trick feels like someone redesigned books to actually work for our brains instead of against them.

Now, skeptics will argue that this is just a gimmick. And yes, not every scientific study backs it up. Some research suggests that the perceived speed doesn’t necessarily mean greater comprehension. But here’s where I land on it: if you feel like you’re reading faster, if you’re finishing books and articles you would’ve abandoned before, then it’s a win. The psychology matters as much as the raw numbers.

For writers like me, this discovery opened a door to efficiency I didn’t expect. Think about it: as a content creator, I need to devour information daily—news stories, research papers, industry updates, endless emails. Before bionic reading, this was overwhelming. Now, I can pair bionic reading with AI summarizers, and the workflow becomes nearly frictionless. I take in information faster, draft content quicker, and deliver polished work with less burnout. Clients don’t care if I use a reading hack. What they care about is that the content arrives sharp, insightful, and on time.

But let’s zoom out. Beyond productivity, there’s something deeply emotional about what this method unlocked for me. Reading had always been part of my identity. I grew up surrounded by books, scribbling in journals, collecting words like some people collect trading cards. When my brain made reading feel like a struggle, I thought maybe I had lost that part of myself. Bionic reading gave it back. It reminded me that reading is supposed to feel like discovery, not punishment.

There’s also a bigger cultural angle here. We live in a world where people complain that nobody reads anymore. Attention spans are supposedly shrinking, social media is eating our brains, and the book industry is always “dying” in headlines. But what if the issue isn’t that people don’t want to read? What if the issue is that text has never really adapted to how modern brains—overstimulated, distracted, diverse—process information? If a formatting change can make reading accessible again, that’s a revolution in disguise.

I picture classrooms where students use bionic reading not as a crutch but as a boost. I imagine office workers scanning reports without zoning out after the second page. I imagine someone who has never finished a novel suddenly realizing they can, because the text finally speaks to their pace. That’s powerful.

Of course, there are downsides. Not every publisher supports it. Some readers hate the bold formatting, finding it distracting rather than helpful. There’s also the risk of leaning on it too much, forgetting how to read traditionally formatted text. Balance is key. I still read “normal” books, but I now know I have this tool in my back pocket when the mental fatigue sets in.

The bigger lesson here is about accessibility. Bionic reading is just one example of how small changes can make the world more inclusive for neurodivergent people. What looks like a simple font tweak to one person can be the difference between quitting and thriving for another. Accessibility isn’t always about ramps and captions; sometimes it’s about words bolded at the right place.

And that’s why I keep sharing this discovery. Not because I think it’s a miracle cure, but because it’s a reminder that reading doesn’t have to be gatekept by tradition. Sometimes innovation looks as small as bold letters on a screen.

So if you’ve ever felt like paragraphs were your enemy, if your eyes have ever tripped so hard you closed the book in frustration, maybe give bionic reading a shot. Worst case, it looks weird and you shrug it off. Best case, it gives you back something you thought you lost.

What if the future of reading isn’t about writing new books, but about rewriting how our brains see them?

Inside My Writer’s Shelf as an Autistic Girl: books, BJD fashion, and 3 a.m. ideas ⚡📚

Inside My Writer’s Shelf as an Autistic Girl: books, BJD fashion, and 3 a.m. ideas ⚡📚 If a bookshelf could diagnose your personality, mine would probably say “this girl collects mythologies like side quests and stitches couture for dolls while plotting a thriller in her Notes app.” I know that sounds chaotic, but it is also the most honest way to introduce you to my world. Hi, I’m Ara, short for Arabella Sveinsdottir, twenty, currently living in the USA, and my brain lights up like a pinball machine whenever a story throws me a puzzle.

I grew up reading everything I could touch. I fell in love with cinemas, doodled in sketchbooks, and got addicted to the quiet electricity of turning thoughts into chapters. Being an autistic writer with selective mutism means my words do not always come out in conversation, yet they sprint when I sit with a page. That is why this shelf matters. It is where my voice lives when my mouth refuses to cooperate.

Let me paint the scene. The top row is for the books that built my taste, the ones that taught me how to sit with silence and stay curious. Fantasy occupies a proud corner, because I need worlds where rules stretch and doors can open to something shimmering and wrong in the best way. Beside those are my thriller favorites, the stories that understand tension like a violin string pulled to the edge of snapping. Modern literature lives nearby, sometimes confused about why it is neighbors with a stack of webtoon anthologies and game art books, but it has learned to share. This is not a museum display that begs you to keep your hands to yourself. It is a working shelf that smells a little like highlighters and fabric glue, because I also sew tiny outfits for my ball-jointed dolls here. The dolls are part runway, part therapy. I treat them like characters that walked off the page and asked for wardrobes.

If you peek at the spines you will notice a secret code. I arrange stories by mood. Magical realism titles sit like calm sparks, for when reality is heavy and I need something slightly slanted to remind me the ordinary is always a trick mirror. Thriller spines feel like little countdown timers and I reach for them when I want my heart rate to wake up. WLW romance and literary fiction stay close, because I love watching intimacy written with precision. I learn pacing from thrillers, tenderness from WLW books, dream logic from magical realism, and ambition from modern lit. When these genres talk to each other inside my head, they create the tone I chase in my own writing. It is not about copying. It is about letting my influences argue until a new voice steps forward.

There is a stack of dog-eared paperbacks that looks like it survived a storm. Those are my rereads, the ones that train me to notice craft. I track how chapters open, when reveals land, how dialogue cuts or floats. I underline choices that feel dangerous, like a quiet line placed in the exact middle of a scene that suddenly reframes everything. I am ruthless about studying what makes a reader turn a page, because I want to respect people’s time. Attention is precious. If you give me five minutes, I owe you momentum. That is why I love thrillers and why I map my chapters like quests. The reader should always feel like they have a reason to move.

The shelf also has a soft corner for art books and museum catalogs. I really love losing myself in art events and museums, because curation is its own storytelling. A gallery shows you how objects talk when you place them in sequence. That lesson translates to any creative life. I borrow palettes and textures from paintings, camera angles from film stills, and negative space from photography. When I write a scene set in a city at 3 a.m., I think about how a museum uses light to make you notice a detail. When I describe a character’s room, I imagine a curator deciding what the eye should meet first. It keeps the prose visual and grounded without drowning in adjectives.

Below the books is the weirdest part of the setup, which is my BJD workstation. I keep rolls of fabric, tiny zippers, and miniature shoes arranged in labeled bins like a fashion studio for pixies. Sewing for dolls is not just adorable. It trains patience, precision, and problem solving. It forces you to think about stitching order, constraint, and silhouette. That discipline sneaks back into my writing. I build outfits and chapters the same way. Each seam or sentence has a specific purpose, and if it does not serve shape or movement it needs to go. The dolls make me playful too. When I hit a block, I dress a character in a ridiculous cape, laugh, and then return to the draft with a better mood.

Some people think being autistic means I will only like structure, but my shelf proves the truth is more interesting. I love structure because it gives me a safe frame. Inside that frame I experiment like a scientist. Selective mutism taught me the value of alternative communication, so my shelf is full of tools that help me speak without speaking. Book quotes live rent free in my head and I collect them in a notebook, not to sound smart, but to recharge. When a sentence lands with clean force, it reminds me language can be a ladder out of a shutdown day. Stories let me participate in conversations I cannot always join out loud.

Outside of pages, my life feeds the shelf and the shelf feeds my life. Martial arts training arcs live here because I practice and because I love the narrative of effort leveling up into confidence. RPG side quests show up because I am that player who will happily ignore the main campaign to solve a tiny mystery in a fishing village. Stray animals wander in because I will always stop for a dog that looks lost, even if all I can offer is water and a call to a local rescue. Cinemas give me a bigger canvas, especially when a director plays with silence or frames a face like a landscape. Sketchbooks hold messy ideas that become chapters later. Everything loops back into the shelf, which loops back into me.

People ask what it is like to write as an autistic girl with selective mutism, and I can only answer for myself. I do not feel broken. I feel differently wired. A crowded conversation can flatten me, yet a blank page feels like oxygen. When I am silent, I am not empty. I am collecting. I am noticing the rhythm of your laugh, the pattern on the floor, the way a joke bends the mood of a room. I store those details until I can share them in a form that feels safe. Writing is where I can be exact without performing. It is where I can be kind without apologizing for needing quiet. It is where my interior world is not a burden. It is the main event.

If you want a practical takeaway for your own shelf, try this. Pick one genre that feels like home and one that scares you. Place them next to each other and make them talk. If you love fantasy, add a clinical memoir beside it. If you love romance, place a crime novel as a neighbor. Notice how your brain reacts. You might hate the clash and that is fine. Or you might discover a new frequency, the way salt makes caramel brighter. That is what my shelf does for me. Fantasy softens my thrillers. Thrillers sharpen my romance. Magical realism keeps every chapter slightly tilted, which is exactly how my mind experiences a loud grocery store. It validates my senses and makes me feel seen.

I also believe a shelf should have a purpose beyond aesthetics. Mine is a promise to my younger self who read under blankets and felt too much. It says we built a place where your feelings can be sorted and saved. It is also a promise to future readers. If someone hands me their time, I will reward them with a scene that breathes. I will not waste a paragraph telling you what I could show with one specific image. I will not drop a twist just to prove I can be clever. I will invite you in, seat you comfortably, and then take you somewhere that feels both strange and inevitable. That is my favorite feeling as a reader and the standard I chase as a writer.

The last thing I will tell you about this shelf is that it is always changing. New obsessions arrive. A museum show sends me hunting for a monograph. A webtoon panel triggers an idea for a set piece. A single line from a WLW novel makes me rethink how I write a kiss. A rescued dog curls at my feet and suddenly I understand how to write gentleness without being sentimental. The shelf grows because I do, and I grow because the shelf keeps asking me better questions. What are you curious about now. What truth are you avoiding. What little object did you underestimate that deserves a whole chapter.

If you have read this far, I will leave you with a challenge. Stand in front of your shelf or your playlist or your camera roll. Ask yourself what it says about your interior world. Then rearrange it until the answer makes you proud. You do not have to be a writer to curate your life like a story. You only have to notice what you reach for when nobody is watching. My shelf tells me I care about wonder, bravery, and the long game. It tells me my voice does not need volume to matter. It reminds me that silence can be full of power if you give it the right words.

The next chapter for me is already peeking out of the stack. It smells like midnight coffee without the coffee, glows like a museum light in a quiet room, and hums like a cutscene right before a boss fight. I will let it marinate for a minute, then I will stitch the seams and pull the thread through until the shape holds. If you want to see what it becomes, keep an eye on this shelf. It always gives away my secrets one book at a time.

Maybe the reason my bookshelf feels alive is simple. It is not a piece of furniture. It is a map, and I am still figuring out where the path goes next.

Why Writing Is My Forever Love: The One That Never Ghosted Me ✍️💘

  Why Writing Is My Forever Love: The One That Never Ghosted Me ✍️💘 Here is the messy truth that every creator eventually has to admit: I did not pick writing because it was easy or trendy, I picked it because it picked me first. Reading was the first spark, drawing was the cute crush, but writing is the relationship that kept showing up when the algorithms did not, when the views dipped, when my attention span sprinted away.

If you have ever stood in Barnes & Noble, Fully Booked or National Bookstore and felt a book spine hum like a live wire under your fingers, you already know what I mean. Writing is what happens when that electricity refuses to stay quiet. It is the voice that will not let you scroll past your own life.

I learned to love words before I learned to perform them. Childhood felt like a series of secret tunnels made of paper and glue. I would sit on the floor with a book and vanish so completely that the world had to knock twice to get me back. That was the first miracle. Then came the second one, the one that never stops shocking me. At some point the stories I read started asking for an exit, like a crowded theater that needed a new door. That door was writing. I did not realize it then, but every chapter that gave me chills was quietly leaving tools on my desk. A set of rhythms. A sense of timing. A taste for the kind of detail that feels like you just found someone’s diary and they left it open on purpose.

People love to compare writing to drawing as if they are rivals when in reality they hold hands. Drawing is the image that grabs your collar. Writing is the explanation that saves your life. When I sketch, I catch a mood. When I write, I chase the why. Drawing shows the gleam on a teacup at 4 p.m. Writing sits you down and tells you why that cup is the last clean thing in a messy kitchen and how that matters to a girl who promised not to cry today. Writing is the long exhale that turns a pretty moment into a true one.

There is a reason book culture keeps exploding on the internet. BookTok did not make readers. It just turned the lights on. Suddenly you could scroll and find ten people who cried at the same line you underlined at midnight. Suddenly the shy kid who used to hide their paperback in a bag has a community that will argue about which chapter wrecked them the most. That same energy flows straight into writing. The page is no longer a lonely place. It is a crowded, glittery train station where people are late for their feelings and you can volunteer as the conductor.

Back in the Philippines, in Manila, the annual rush to MIBF hits like a festival of permission slips. You walk into those halls and it feels like a city signed a treaty with imagination. Tables stacked with debuts and deep cuts. Authors leaning over podiums trying not to shake. Readers lugging tote bags that could bench press a scooter. I remember every time I go there I feel the same tug that I get in Fully Booked on a quiet weekday or at National Bookstore while waiting out a thunderstorm. It is the tug that says take this home and turn it into fuel. Writing is my forever love because it lets me repay that debt. Every page I write is a thank you letter with a deadline that only I can see.

There is also the discipline nobody posts about because it looks boring on camera. Writing taught me how to show up at a desk when the day has already taken one hundred small bites out of me. It taught me to forgive bad sentences as if they were practice laps. It taught me that focus is not a thunderbolt. Focus is a faucet. You turn it slowly and the water looks weak at first. Keep turning and it surprises you. On mornings when the words do not want to come I bribe myself with an ugly goal. Write a paragraph that nobody will ever see. Then another. By the time I hit the third, the voice that sounded rusty starts to sound like me again. By the fifth, it sounds like the version of me who got enough sleep and believes in happy endings.

Writing is my forever love because it is honest about the work and generous with the payoff. Drawing gives you instant applause in the form of a pretty frame. Writing asks you to wait for the echo. Sometimes that echo is a comment from a stranger who says they felt less alone because of a sentence you almost deleted. Sometimes it is a friend who admits the piece you posted helped them call their mother. Sometimes it is you, two months later, reading your own paragraph and realizing you finally told the truth about something you used to avoid.

Reading lit the fuse. Writing keeps the light on. I remember the first time I realized a book could be both a mirror and a window at the same time. That is not a metaphor you forget. The mirror told me who I was allowed to be. The window told me there were more rooms. When I write, I am trying to leave both behind for someone else. A mirror that flatters without lying. A window that opens without slamming shut the moment life gets loud.

Let me be clear about the economics because creators need to hear it. The path is rarely linear. Some days the analytics will treat your work like lost luggage. On those days I remember the physical places that raised me as a reader. I picture the maze of shelves at Fully Booked where I fell in love with a paperback I did not plan to buy. I remember lining up at MIBF with a list that I promptly ignored because a debut author read two paragraphs that hijacked my wallet. I think about National Bookstore on a weekday afternoon when a random aisle becomes a time machine. Then I open a blank document and try again. Platforms change. Pages do not. Writing is platform proof in a way that keeps me calm when everything else gets loud.

Another reason writing wins is the way it respects memory. Drawing captures an emotion like a snapshot. Writing lets you track it across a timeline. When I write about a breakup, I can include the coffee stain on the saucer, the text message that landed like hail, the shoes I wore to pretend I was fine, the song that ruined a perfectly good walk. That level of detail is not indulgence. It is documentation. It turns a chaotic feeling into a map that other people can use when their own weather turns strange.

Reading words silently inside your own head is a small magic trick. It makes the voice feel like it lives in your mouth for a second. When a reader tells me they heard me, I believe them. Not because I shouted, but because they let me whisper.

Finally, writing lets me fail in private. I can be clumsy in a draft without burning a hole in the internet. I can try out a risk and delete it before sunrise. I can throw away a paragraph and bring it back six months later when I figure out what it was trying to say. That kind of sandbox is priceless. It makes the public parts better because the private parts were allowed to be messy.

So yes, I still draw. I still fill sketchbooks with faces and furniture and the way rain leans sideways on bad days. I still read like a thief casing the place. But writing is the one that kissed me on the forehead after the party and asked how I really was. It is the one that holds my hand while I turn a hard thing into a true thing. It is the one that will be here when the trend cycle forgets my name.

💘 WATCH: https://youtu.be/9J0twDTNF-E

If you asked me to pick one love to take into the next decade, I would grab a notebook and a cheap pen without blinking. Not because I think writing will make me famous, but because I know it will keep me honest. The only question that matters now is simple and scary in the best way. What story do I not want to tell yet, and what happens when I write it anyway?