What if fiction isn’t just an escape, but a way to decode reality, confront our demons, and reset our own narratives?
Before I started writing this post, I Googled myself. Not for vanity, not out of narcissism, but out of sheer curiosity. What does the internet say about me? What digital footprints have I left behind?
And to my surprise — pleasantly so — I realised that I am not as mediocre or as insignificant as I sometimes think I am.
I don’t know why I’m sharing this here. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s the universe, the Divine, whispering to me that I need to recognise my own worth. Or maybe it’s just a trivial anecdote, a throwaway thought.
Either way, I’m keeping it here for now.
Because writing, for me, has become a kind of therapy.
It would have never occurred to me that I’d write a book — let alone three. And now I’m working on my fourth.
Each book was a battlefield of stops and starts, moments of doubt and bursts of inspiration. Projects abandoned, resurrected, abandoned again, only to be pulled back from the abyss.
The relief of finally completing them was almost akin to exorcising old ghosts. Each finished story, a purge of something that once weighed me down.
And in doing so, I discovered something: I project. A lot.
I wonder if other writers do this. If, in framing our stories, we don’t just create characters — we create mirrors. My protagonists carry pieces of me, whether I intend for them to or not. Their problems are often my problems. Their struggles, echoes of my own.
And strangely enough, the resolutions they find in fiction start to seep into my real life.
Is it possible that writing is more than just storytelling? Could it be a method of self-repair? A way to confront our demons without having to stare them down in real life?
We share defeats. We share triumphs. We share rebirths. I am living with my characters, speaking to them, understanding them as though they are real. (And no, I don’t think I’m losing my mind. At least, not yet.)
But there’s something else, something unexpected: the more I write, the easier it becomes — not just to craft stories, but to navigate reality.
Writing forces clarity. It sharpens my instincts. It allows me to escape, but in a way that makes me more present, more centred when I return to the real world. Problems that once seemed insurmountable don’t shake me as much anymore.
Writing, in its own way, has made me more… Zen.
And now, as I work on my next book, I find myself asking the kind of questions that make me pause. The kind that creep into my thoughts and refuse to let go.
What if we could hack life?
What if life and death were nothing more than a system error?
What if the devil didn’t need to tempt you — what if he just offered you a job?
If you were given a ‘reset’ button in life, what would be worth fixing in this second chance?
These aren’t just plot points. They are philosophical inquiries disguised as fiction. They are ways to poke at the fabric of reality, to see if it frays.
Writing allows me to ask these questions without needing immediate answers. It allows me to explore without the burden of certainty.
So maybe that’s why I Googled myself before writing this.
Maybe, deep down, I needed confirmation that I exist, that I matter — not just in the grand scheme of things, but in the small, intimate act of creation.
Maybe I needed a reminder that through writing, I am not just recording stories. I am, in some way, rewriting myself.
And maybe that’s the biggest ‘reset’ button of all.
This story first published on Medium: https://medium.com/p/dae72b53b819