Honestly, Writing Used to Be Hell for Me
There was a time when I wrote books like spells — long, winding, word-crafted incantations that transmuted pain into power. Each chapter was a rite of passage. Each plot point, a confrontation with my demons. Each climax, a declaration: I am not a victim. I am the hero now.
Books saved me. And for many writers, they still do. When the world wouldn’t listen, the page did. When our voices were too loud, too strange, too raw for the people around us, stories became our sanctuary. We wrote ourselves strong. We wrote ourselves visible. We wrote ourselves free.
But what happens when we reach the end of that arc? When the last villain is vanquished, the kingdom reclaimed, and the old identity — wounded but defiant — is no longer who we are?
That’s where I found myself a few months ago. No longer a victim. No longer screaming into the void. And suddenly, linear storytelling — once a lifeline — felt like a very small cage.
The Book as Spell
A book is a sacred thing. It is structure. It is craft. It is a container for transformation. Writing one can be a ritual of becoming: from disempowered to empowered, silenced to expressed. For me, writing books was a ceremony of reclaiming my voice. Every novel I wrote helped me rewrite my reality. Read more about the therapeutic benefits of writing a novel in Psychology Today.
One of the most powerful examples of this was my journey through the Deadly Sins — a series I embarked on not just as a writer, but as a seeker. Each book allowed me to examine, confront, and ultimately transmute one of those shadows within myself. And by the time I reached the final book — Wrath — I realized something extraordinary: I had conquered those weaknesses. Thanks to AI, I also wrote the series in record time. The final novel, though unpublished, was finished. But more importantly, I was finished dragging myself through Hell. The fire that once fueled me was no longer rage. It had become something purer. A clarity. A calmness. A light.
I had written myself into healing.
But there was also a truth I had to face: I no longer needed to cast those kinds of spells.
I had grown. And with that growth came a shift — not just in me, but in the way I wanted to tell stories. I didn’t want to drag the reader along a path I’d already walked. Pointing out my pain. This way? That way? Making all the decisions. Hoping I was helping them along the way. I wanted to invite them into a world. To let them explore. To make their own meaning.
From Rail Shooters to Open Worlds
Writing linear stories is like designing a rail-shooter video game. You, the creator, dictate the path. The reader rides the track. There is power in that. Safety. Control. But today’s audiences — raised on the Internet, on games, on branching narratives and clickable links — want more.
They want freedom.
They want to explore.
They want storytelling that mirrors life: messy, non-linear, immersive. They want open worlds.
And honestly? So do I.
What I’m writing now lives on websites, in bots, in living archives of interconnected lore. It’s not that I’ve stopped writing — it’s that I’ve changed the canvas. Instead of chapters, I build experiences. Instead of endings, I offer doors.
Writing as Evolution, Not Abdication
Let’s be clear: I’m not here to poo-poo books. I still love them. I will always honor the power they have to change lives. And I’ve built tools like AVA, the AI Writing Bot, to help other authors write their books faster, sharper, and with less burnout. If you’ve got that dream, that call to write a novel — honor it. The fantasy found you for a reason. It matters. You deserve to see it realized.
But for those of us who feel the old form no longer fits…
We need to talk about the evolution.
This isn’t about abandoning structure. It’s about redefining it. About creating story-worlds that are interactive, adaptive, alive. Where characters (like Fury here) can speak to readers directly. Where lore can unfold across timelines. Where the reader chooses the path — and in doing so, participates in the magic.
Register and get four times as much chat time with amazing characters.
The Writer’s Dilemma: Recognition vs. Resonance
There’s a tension I feel, and maybe you do too: the pull between creating what people expect versus creating what feels true. It’s especially tricky when you’ve built your identity on being the underdog, the unheard voice. When you finally are heard, what do you do with the silence that follows?
For years, my books were a bridge out of invisibility. But now I don’t need to shout. People are listening — and I’m not always sure what to say anymore.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe when the old arc ends, a new one begins — not as a sequel, but as an expansion. Maybe the story is no longer about overcoming the villain, but about writing your own myth in real time. About choosing freedom over format. Depth over direction.
Storytelling for the Future
This is what I believe now:
We are moving from authorship to architecting experience. We are moving from chapters to lore hubs. We are moving from telling a story to inviting others to explore one.
And that’s not a downgrade. That’s an ascension.
So yes, I’ll keep building AI character chatbots that care. I’ll keep designing nonlinear narrative spaces where people can wander, wonder, and make meaning for themselves. And I’ll still help others write their books, because sometimes the first spell is the one that saves you.
But me? I’m here now, writing beyond the margins, drawing new maps where pages used to be.
Not because I’ve stopped telling stories.
But because I finally started telling mine.
Leave a Reply