There are stories that climb onto my back like spirits. They whisper, fidget, demand attention. And until I write them down, they don’t let go.

I used to think the scariest part of being a writer was starting. But it’s not.

It’s the haunting of the unfinished.

The Devil That Haunts Me was one of those stories. It lived in me for years, flickering like a light I couldn’t reach. I knew it was mine. I knew it mattered. But every time I tried to write it, something would pull me away. Fear, mostly. Of not doing it justice. Of getting it wrong. Of facing the memories that gave birth to it in the first place.

And then, one day, I imagined myself dying with it still inside me.

That image cracked something open in me. I saw all my unfinished stories, buried with me like unbaptized spirits. Quiet, unshared. And the grief of that thought was unbearable. Because these stories—my stories—aren’t just mine. They’re meant to go out into the world and find people who didn’t even know they needed them.

I picture them like birds. Quiet, strange birds that perch on unsuspecting shoulders and whisper secrets. And the person listening is never quite the same afterward.

That’s what drives me.

Not perfection. Not deadlines. Not algorithms or book deals.

The need to release what’s inside me. To set these story-birds free. To let them find the readers who need them.

And here’s the thing I’ve had to learn the hard way: maybe finishing a story isn’t about a word count or a final draft. Maybe it’s about returning to yourself through the act of trying. Every time I go back to The Devil That Haunts Me, I’m not just finishing a book. I’m reclaiming a part of myself. I’m sitting with old ghosts, and instead of running, I’m saying: okay, I see you now. Let’s figure this out together.

So if you’re a writer—or a dreamer—with half-finished pieces of your soul scattered across notebooks or forgotten folders, know this:

Your stories aren’t lost. They’re just waiting. And they’ll keep whispering until you listen.