Writing from the Shadows: A Journey into Vulnerability
I’m deep into writing my second book, and as any writer will tell you, books rarely come fully formed. They evolve, morphing and stretching into shapes you hadn’t envisioned at the start. At least, that’s how it works in my world.
I wouldn’t call myself a natural writer. I didn’t study literature, nor do I hold a degree in creative disciplines. In fact, I’m quite the opposite—a computer scientist. One part of me is all algorithms, logic, and structure. But another part, the one working through this second book, is a seeker—a creative soul trying to break free of its confines.
Reflecting on my first book, I feel both pride and restlessness. It’s rich with research, and I believe I wove my personal story into its themes with care. Yet, there’s something I wish I’d dared to do more: be vulnerable. Truly vulnerable.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how I use intellect as armour—a veil to shield me from the world. Cleverness has served me well; it wins arguments and earns validation. But it also keeps others at arm’s length. The downside to this protective strategy is profound: it stifles raw expression, deeper connections, and, in my writing, the potent force of unguarded truth.
Oddly enough, I’ve found unexpected inspiration from binge-watching an old classic series, The L Word. Part research, part fascination, this series has captivated me—not just because of its groundbreaking exploration of relationships, but for the subtler lessons beneath.
One character, a writer, finds her voice growing stronger and more authentic as she unearths the traumas of her past. This felt like a personal challenge: dig deeper. Unearth the dark corners I’ve hidden from myself. Dare to speak the truths I fear.
Another poignant theme in the show resonates deeply: the way heartbreak can lead us to shut down entirely. It’s excruciatingly human to want to shield ourselves from that kind of pain. I’ve felt that impulse myself over the years. But, as the series gently suggests, numbing ourselves to pain also means numbing ourselves to joy, to connection, and ultimately to growth.
It circles back to this truth: authentic creative expression arises not just from joy but equally from pain. While joy often pours forth easily, pain is something we lock away, fearful of what it might reveal if unleashed.
Margaret Atwood once wrote,
“Possibly, then, writing has to do with darkness, and a desire (or perhaps a compulsion) to enter it, and with luck to illuminate it, and to bring something back out to the light.”
That’s my mission now: to bring back the light.
Not because I owe it to anyone, but because that light—however small—waits to be discovered, expressed, and shared. Writing vulnerably is terrifying. But it’s precisely because of that fear that it must be done.
What lies buried within might not only be the story worth telling but the story that heals.
To prepare for this leap into deeper vulnerability, I’m immersing myself in what I call "life research."
It’s not just about reading books that challenge me, though that’s part of it—I’ve been exploring works like Mary Gaitskill’s Bad Behaviour, which pulls no punches in confronting the complexities of human relationships and desires. But life research is more than consuming stories.
It’s also about examining the stories I live every day—especially the ones written in my relationships.
How do I show up in these connections?
What roles do I play, and why?
I’ve begun looking closely at the dynamics that shape my interactions with others—both the nourishing ones and those that hold shadows. These relationships, past and present, act as mirrors, reflecting truths about myself that I might not otherwise see. Some of those reflections reveal desires or questions I’ve long avoided acknowledging, threads of identity I’ve only begun to untangle.
This exploration isn’t always comfortable. It’s required me to ask hard questions:
Where do I withhold parts of myself out of fear?
When have I let my intellect or emotional walls become a barrier to deeper connection?
Why are some aspects of my inner world easier to share than others?
It’s not about assigning blame or finding flaws but about understanding myself more fully in relation to the people who matter most to me—and to the truths I’ve kept hidden, even from myself.
And here’s where I think the role of the writer becomes both exhilarating and terrifying.
A good writer—at least from my perspective—cannot simply sit on the sidelines, observing and recording from a safe distance. The stories we tell are rarely pure fiction; they are infused with the marrow of our own experiences.
To write authentically, a writer must know what it feels like to be in the fire—to love, to lose, to hope, and to fear. Without that knowing, the words risk becoming hollow, and the story loses its power to connect.
Beyond relationships, life research is about paying closer attention to the world—people-watching at a coffee shop, listening to the rhythms of a stranger’s conversation, or revisiting my own past with fresh, unflinching eyes. It’s the process of piecing together the puzzle of human existence through observation, reflection, and courage.
I’ve found myself stepping outside of my comfort zone, seeking out not only challenging books but also art, music, and films that provoke, unsettle, and inspire.
I’ve begun journaling more deeply, not just to capture thoughts but to question them. I’m deliberately leaning into experiences that force me to confront discomfort—whether it’s having a difficult conversation or exploring a memory I’d rather leave buried.
Life research, for me, is about stepping into the cracks of life—the spaces where we try to hide our fears, shame, and rawest emotions. It’s about gathering all the fragments and learning how to sit with them, even when it hurts. Because it’s only by confronting those truths—and living through them—that I can bring them into my writing with authenticity and depth.
And with that depth in my writing, perhaps reach the souls of those screaming for help to heal.
If you resonate with what I write, you might want to read my debut book, How Did I Get Here?—available now on Amazon or to order from your favourite bookshop.