March of the Writers — Day 29: Quirks for Days

I don’t just write—I ritualize it.

I have to reread the last paragraph before I can move forward, like I’m knocking on the door of the story and asking permission to come back in. Sometimes I’ll rewrite a single line ten different ways, chasing the feeling instead of the words.

I name my drafts like they’re living things—“feral,” “haunted,” “don’t touch yet.” And when a piece finally clicks, I get this quiet, electric stillness… like the world paused just long enough for me to catch something sacred.

As a reader, I dog-ear pages (yes, I know, a crime), but only when something hits me hard enough that I know I’ll need to come back and feel it again.

As a person? I collect lines in my head throughout the day—phrases people say, fragments of emotion—and stash them away like pocketed stones. Most of them don’t belong to anything… until suddenly, they do.

And maybe the strangest thing:
I trust the darkness in my writing more than I trust the light.

What about you—what are your quirks?