On abandoned rooms, forgotten manuscripts, and the stories we’re finally ready to tell…
There’s a room in my head I haven’t opened in months.
It’s beautifully decorated. Tasteful. The kind of space where you’d serve tea in matching cups and speak in your most articulate voice. Everything has its place. The books are alphabetized. The light hits just right at 4 PM.
I spent the last year building that room. Painting the walls. Choosing the furniture. Practicing how I’d sound when guests arrived.
The problem? I never wanted to be in there.
That room was Found in the Margins, my old brand, my old voice, my old attempt at being the kind of writer who had their shit together. Poetic. Measured. The literary equivalent of business casual.
And I hated every second of it.
The House You Build vs. The House You Live In
Here’s what nobody tells you about building a brand: you can construct something beautiful and still feel homeless.
I built Found in the Margins like I was hosting a dinner party for people I’d never met. I decorated for an audience I imagined but couldn’t see. I spoke in a voice that sounded writerly but didn’t sound like me.
And then I’d sit down to write and feel like an intruder in my own space.
You know that feeling when you walk into a showroom and everything is perfect but you’re afraid to touch anything? That’s what writing became. I was tiptoeing through my own work, afraid to disturb the aesthetic.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the attic, the space I didn’t show anyone, there were boxes of half-written stories. Messy drafts. Noted I made at 2 AM because something grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. All the stuff that felt too raw, too chaotic, too much for the carefully curated parlor downstairs.
The real stories lived in the rooms I kept locked.
The Study Where THE BOOK Died
Let’s talk about the study.
That’s where I kept THE BOOK. Capital letters, heavy expectations, the whole suffocating weight of Becoming a Real Writer™.
I’d go in there every day and stare at the manuscript like it was staring back. Every sentence felt like a test. Every paragraph needed to justify why I deserved to call myself an author. The pressure turned the study into a tomb, beautiful mahogany desk, ergonomic chair, and absolutely no oxygen.
I got dangerously close to locking that door forever. Not just on the book, on writing entirely.
Because here’s the thing about rooms we’re supposed to want: when you can’t breathe in them, it doesn’t matter how impressive they look from the outside.
I almost quit. Almost walked away from the whole house. Almost convinced myself that if I couldn’t write THE BOOK the way I thought I should, then maybe I just wasn’t meant to write at all.
And then I realized: I wasn’t afraid of writing. I was afraid of the performance.
What I Found When I Stopped Performing
So I did something reckless.
I stopped going into the study. Stopped trying to write for the parlor. Instead, I went up to the attic and started opening boxes.
And holy shit, there were stories up there.
Some were mine. Some were borrowed. Some were half-formed things I witnessed on a Tuesday and couldn’t stop thinking about. There were pages I’d written years ago when I wasn’t trying to sound like anything except myself. Voice memos I’d recorded while driving because an idea hit me and I needed to get it down before it dissolved.
There was a manuscript up there, not THE BOOK, but a book. Maybe a book. Maybe just a collection of moments that felt alive when I wrote them.
It’s messy. It doesn’t have a clear thesis. Some of it reads like fiction. Some of it reads like confession. I’m not entirely sure what it is yet.
But I wrote it without the pressure of capitals. Without worrying if it made me sound Serious or Literary or whatever the hell I thought I needed to be.
I wrote it because the stories wouldn’t leave me alone.
Barely a Plan, Continued
Here’s what I’m thinking: What if I aired those pages out?
Not all at once. Not with some grand announcement that This Is The Thing I’m Building Toward. But quietly. Serially. Room by room, story by story.
Maybe I post a chapter and it lands. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe someone reads it and sees themselves in it. Maybe it just sits there like an open door, and that’s enough.
Because the point isn’t perfection. The point is that I’m writing again. Really writing. The kind where your fingers can’t keep up with what’s pouring out. Where you forget to be self-conscious because you’re too busy chasing the next sentence.
I’m not trying to build another beautiful room. I’m trying to live in the house I’ve got, messy kitchen, chaotic attic, and all.
Why I Left the Lights On
I didn’t delete Found in the Margins. Didn’t scrub it from the internet. Didn’t pretend it never existed.
Because here’s the thing: that version of me was trying. She was scared and performing and suffocating, but she was trying. And that matters.
I left the lights on in that room, not because I’m going back, but because it’s part of the house. You don’t burn down the whole structure just because you’ve outgrown one space.
You just… move into a different room. One where you can breathe.
One where the mess is allowed. Where the stories can sprawl across the table and nobody’s grading them for coherence. Where you can write something at 11 PM and post it at 11:05 because it felt true and that’s enough.
What This Means (Redux)
So if you’re here, here’s what to expect:
The same chaotic energy from my last post, but deeper. More honest. The kind of raw that comes from finally letting yourself write what you actually want to write instead of what you think you’re supposed to.
I might post pieces of that attic manuscript. I might not. It depends on whether the stories feel ready to meet the world.
What I know for sure: I’m done performing. Done trying to sound like someone else’s idea of a writer. Done building rooms I can’t live in.
This is me, writing from the kitchen, making a mess, and finally enjoying it again.
If you’re sticking around for this version, I’m genuinely glad you’re here.
And if you’ve got your own abandoned rooms, your own projects that turned into prisons, your own voices you’ve been afraid to use, maybe it’s time to go open some boxes.
The stories are waiting.
—–
P.S. That manuscript I mentioned? I might start sharing pieces soon. Not the whole thing. Not with any grand plan. Just… moments. Stories. The things that refused to stay quiet. If you’re curious, stay tuned. If not, that’s okay too. But fair warning: it’s not polished. It’s just true.
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