the book i'm afraid to write

facing my younger self in a story that mirrors the world on fire

i think i’m intentionally avoiding writing right now. truthfully, i’m scared of even this measly first draft i’ve been working on. this book is more honest than anything i’ve ever written, circling themes that feel uncomfortably close to home. in some ways, it borders on self-insert, but really it’s a reflection of the times we live in—our anxieties, our contradictions, and the messy realities we all navigate while trying to survive inside systems that were never designed with us in mind.

this book asks me to look backwards, but i’m afraid to go back to that period in my life because it feels unresolved and cyclical. the feelings aren’t processed. i’m not proud of who i was—my naivety, my mistakes. the past self i revisit is complicated. she’s flawed—self-absorbed, naïve, blind to her faults—but she’s also alive, determined, and capable of compassion. she tells white lies to survive. she bends so she can endure. and looking back, i want to tell her: you are enough. you are not your mistakes. you are more powerful than you realize. you will become the person you dream of being, and you will leave far more good than harm in your wake.

writing this book now also means confronting a younger me who didn’t yet understand the stakes of living in a country built to erase people like us. i didn’t yet have the language for structural violence, for systemic gaslighting, for how power moves through classrooms, media, beauty standards, and law. i only knew the feeling: the sense of being slightly out of place everywhere, of needing to make myself smaller, quieter, more palatable. the world is terrifying right now, and so was i then. but the terror now has names. it has policies. it has court decisions and banned books and carefully worded speeches that decide whose lives are “controversial” and whose suffering is negotiable.

to write in this political moment feels like writing while the ground is shifting beneath my feet. rights that once felt stable are suddenly fragile. history is being edited in real time. language itself is under surveillance. there is a constant, low-grade hum of threat: to bodily autonomy, to racial truth, to queer existence, to the very idea that marginalized people deserve to tell their own stories without apology. the message is subtle and relentless—some narratives are acceptable, some are “divisive,” and some are dangerous. when a society tells you your story is inconvenient, you begin to doubt your right to tell it at all.

i’m trying to convince myself to write in whatever way possible, even if it’s on my phone—but it’s just not happening. physically, avoidance for me shows up as a kind of anxious heaviness in my chest. i daydream about the story constantly. i pin ideas on pinterest, imagine scenes—but when i sit at my computer, i can’t bring myself to write. instead, i scroll to distract myself, tidy, do anything but face my own emotions. what i’m avoiding isn’t danger though—it’s myself. my feelings.

i’ve only written two chapters, and writing the first was the hardest. i still hate it. in the opening, the fmc meets her new roommate and one of the first things she feels is a deep-seated contempt for herself. the line i almost deleted—because it was too blunt, too exposed—reads:

“i wanted to disappear. i wanted to bask. i wanted—if i’m honest—the impossible; her ease, her blue-eyed certainty, her claim to her mother as best friend. and beneath all that, something i never said out loud: i wanted the thing she didn’t even have to notice—her whiteness.”

that sentence points directly to one of the central themes of this book: internalized racism.

writing a single line about how the fmc feels about herself, her blackness, forced me to confront feelings i had years ago—feelings that being black was somehow wrong, that there was something defective in me. this book is unlike anything i’ve ever written, even the genre and themes itself just things i’ve never touched on in my writing. in a way it always felt like there was no audience for what i had to say. but i realized identity, racism, power, privilege, and trauma are all still so relevant today (disgustingly). these threads run through the story because they ran through my life.

my current strategy is to immerse myself in other work, reading widely to see how similar stories are told. i allow myself bursts of writing, journaling, and then stepping back. the structural and stylistic elements of this draft are another source of challenge. this is an unmarked, genre-blending book—part horror, part dark academia, part magical realism—and it stretches into territories i haven’t navigated before. a lot of my other writing played it safe so to speak, and with this book i really want to challenge myself and work on improving my craft.

each chapter requires so much research and reflection, careful attention to both accuracy and resonance. managing that while keeping the story cohesive feels overwhelming at times.

even with all the fear, even with all the avoidance, there is something sustaining about showing up. there is a quiet power surging within me when i return to the page, in letting myself fall into the story even when the world outside feels unpredictable and heavy. writing has taught me that fear is not a signal to stop—it is a compass pointing toward what matters most. the story that scares me is the story that is most necessary, for me and, i hope, for others who may see themselves in these pages.

i have no expectations for this first draft, and i keep reminding myself of that; that this is the first time i’m telling this story—that perfection isn’t the goal. so i keep going. i write sentences i know will change, characters who will evolve, scenes that will grow richer with revision. i remind myself that progress is not linear and that showing up is enough. that sometimes, the act of writing itself—without judgment, without expectation—is its own form of understanding and healing.

in this way, the story becomes a mirror: reflecting both the past and the present, both fear and hope. it asks not only who i was, but who i am now and who i am becoming. and it invites the reader to sit with those questions, too. perhaps that is the beauty of writing honestly: it transforms fear into curiosity, paralysis into movement, and memory into a story worth telling.