It was a few weeks ago when I was already in my pyjamas, settling comfortably in bed with a laptop, … More
I had drifted far away from my big life goal (frankly, I haven’t done anything in this direction for years). And yet plan “A” was to be a writer. Great writer. A fucking novelist. Not a content writer or journalist, not a teacher, makeup artist, or a manager. So how did this happen? How did I became a back-up version of myself?