I’m in Italy this week. There’s espresso I forgot to finish, heat radiating off the tiles, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I’ve been deep inside my book again. Not reading it for fun. Reading it like it might fall apart if I don’t hold it together.
I’m trying to make The Mindborn the best version of itself. Which apparently means spending hours debating one line. A line I wrote a year ago and still can’t let go of.
This week, I’ve edited with the kind of obsession that’s probably not healthy. I’ve questioned metaphors, deleted words I once loved, argued with myself over commas, semicolons, em-dashes, and stared at a blinking cursor. But somewhere in there, something happened.
I fell in love with it all over again.
Not the polished version. The original one. The version that still has bruises. The one where Virginia cracks a little. Where Caio won’t shut up. Where Lilo whispers things. The version that reminds me why I wrote it in the first place.
I’m not doing this to impress anyone. I’m doing it because this story won’t leave me alone. Because I want to get it right. Because I care in that stupid, gut-deep way that makes you dream in dialogue and rewrite scenes while walking your dog.
This week wasn’t relaxing. But it mattered.
And if you’re reading this and wondering if it’s normal to care too much about the thing you’re creating?
Yes. It is. Keep going. And love what you do.
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