My mother and father are both dead. I cried a lot. I wasn’t there to bury them, and that broke something in me. Their deaths closed the door on my childhood—quietly, permanently—and left behind a hallway full of regret. Especially toward my mother. I ache with the things I never got to say. Mostly: I’m sorry. Sorry for being angry about things that didn’t matter. Sorry for assuming she’d always be there to forgive me.
But their deaths did one useful thing: they unshackled my voice. Now that they’re gone, I don’t give a fuck what the rest of you think. I’m not writing for approval. I’m not writing to be nice. I don’t have to worry what my parents will think of my manners. You don’t like it? Read someone else.
And let me be clear: I’m not telling you to kill your parents just to find your voice. That would be rude. What I’m saying is, you don’t need anyone’s permission to speak plainly. You don’t need the right moment, the right trauma, or a sympathetic audience. Just the will. Just the pen. Clarity is an act of revolt. As Camus said, the absurd man lives with rebellion. You should write with elegance about rage.
Stop waiting for permission to be serious. Life isn’t a theater production. You’re not the fucking lead. You’re just… here. So say what you mean. No gauze. No guilt. No twelve-paragraph warm-up.
And when you’re done, go home and tell your mum you’re sorry. Even if she’s not there.
Also—and I cannot stress this enough—stop sending me overwrought travel pieces. I don’t want your half-transcendent moment in Lisbon where your partner surprised you with a breakup and a ham sandwich. I don’t want to hear about your existential crisis in a Houston Staples. These aren’t stories; they’re Instagram captions in drag.
If your insight fits into a flight schedule, I don’t want it.
Those stories are always window-seat stories—small, polite, picturesque. I want aisle-seat stories. The kind that get up often. That stretch their legs and knock into people. Stories that move.
Tell me what you think about God. Not what you feel—this isn’t Yelp for spiritual encounters. Tell me why you love Him. Or why you want to burn His house down. Give me theology with cracked knuckles. Give me doubt so real it bleeds. Tell me why you love life, and what would make you end it. Be brave enough to say what makes you shit your pants.
I want pieces that dance with annihilation. That tremble with worship. That speak plainly about love, and hate, and despair. Not performative prose, not clean poise. Give me the raw machinery of a brain at war with itself.
Pick up your pen like a loaded gun. Put it to your head. Pull the trigger. If nothing comes out, maybe there was never anything in the chamber.
Joan Didion said we tell ourselves stories to live. She never promised they’d be pretty—or redemptive. So go further. Be a revolutionary. Be a prophet. Be a goddamn bald eagle screeching into the void. Fly higher than morality. Fly until the wind burns your eyes.
Flannery O’Connor wrote that the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
Write as if your words have consequences. Because if they don’t—why the hell are you wasting my time?
