#literarythoughts

Every story begins with a single word, yet that word often feels heavier than the entire book that will follow. I’ve always found beginnings strangely terrifying, almost paralyzing. The blank page doesn’t intimidate me because it is empty—it intimidates me because it is infinite. There are countless possibilities inside its whiteness, and once I choose one, all the others vanish. That weight sometimes keeps me from even starting, as though hesitation were safer than creation.

But beginnings are also intoxicating. They carry the thrill of opening a door without knowing what waits behind it. I’ve learned to love that moment of uncertainty: the heartbeat before diving in, the silence before the first note of a song. In those fragile seconds, everything still feels possible. The characters haven’t yet defied me, the plot hasn’t tangled itself, the doubts haven’t risen like shadows. There is only the promise of discovery.

And perhaps that’s why I keep returning to writing despite the fear. Every new beginning feels like a small act of rebellion against my own doubts, a reminder that even imperfect words are better than silence. The first sentence may not be the right one, but it opens the path for the ones that follow. And once the door is open, the story begins to walk.

I read with a pencil because I forget.

I forget sentences that once felt important.

I forget how a book made me feel five pages ago. I forget who I was when I first opened it.

Marking a book is my way of saying: I was here.This line stopped me. This word mattered, even if I don’t remember why later.

Sometimes I look back at my notes and don’t recognize myself.

The handwriting is familiar, but the urgency is gone. Still, I’m glad I left evidence behind.

UNWIND highlights the intricate nature of morality by shedding light on the risks of reducing complex situations to black and white issues. In a world composed by gray values, understanding depth and nuance is everything. Read the full story—discover a world where every choice matters.

Grab your copy through these links:

📚Indiebound → http://bit.ly/3ZfBeyx

📚B&N → https://bit.ly/3odkhaC

📚Amazon → https://amzn.to/3BAfKSG

Some writers create stories.

Some create movements.

Lu Xun belonged to the second kind.

A voice carried through paper,

through classrooms,

through generations.

Not loud.

Not decorated with prizes.

Yet impossible to ignore.

His words questioned silence.

His stories disturbed comfort.

His legacy became larger than recognition itself.

Perhaps the most powerful literature

doesn't ask for applause.

It asks us to wake up.

Read the reflection here:

Some stories whisper. His stories cut.

Between dust and despair, Cormac McCarthy wrote what most refused to see.

No awards. No validation.

Just truth— raw, unfiltered, uncomfortable.

Maybe that’s why he was never chosen.

Or maybe… he didn’t need to be.

Read more, if you dare: https://worldliterature24.blogspot.com/2026/05/cormac-mccarthy.html