Blog Post Title Two

There are nights I can’t sleep, so I dig.
Not through closets or old boxes, but through documents buried deep—half-named files and forgotten drafts that I once poured myself into like ink down a drain.

Some of them are years old. Some just months. But all of them are raw.

And when I read them, something stirs. Something… hurts.

It's strange, isn't it? How a scene you wrote years ago can still hit you like a punch to the ribs. That tight, twisting sensation in your gut when a character says exactly the wrong thing—or the right thing at the worst possible time. When someone leaves, bleeds, begs, or breaks. I read through these moments, and I remember not just the story, but who I was when I wrote it.

Sometimes I wonder if my characters knew things before I did. If they saw truths I wasn't ready to face, or bled for wounds I hadn’t acknowledged. There's a kind of honesty in old writing that’s hard to fake. It’s jagged, reckless, and unfiltered—and that’s what makes it so damn powerful.

As I work on my latest book, I find myself pulling threads from these old pieces. Not always the words, but the feeling. The ache. The urgency. The moment before the kiss, the breath before the betrayal, the silence after the scream. These are the echoes that keep me grounded in my characters. These are the shadows I let guide me.

So if you're a writer too—don’t throw out your old work.
Open it. Feel it. Let it wreck you again.
It might just remind you who you are. Or at the very least, where you started.

And sometimes, going back is the only way to go forward.

I want to share a piece from one of those older drafts. It still gets me. The scene is intense, haunting, and a perfect reminder of how far I’ve come—and how deep this well runs.

Here’s a preview from the vault: Remember, if you like what you read here, let me know!