Time was when I felt the aesthetics had to be right for me to do any "proper" writing. And so what you see in the picture would have been almost a sine qua non for me to sit down and write. Fountain pen, hushed atmosphere, oh and preferably on luxurious heavy cream paper please... As I've grown into this writing role however, I've been able to see all those "fripperies" almost as distractions. These days I reckon I could write at the bottom of a swimming pool – assuming the existence of waterproof laptops. Certainly on the Metro here in Sofia, or while walking down the street armed with nothing but a smartphone...

As a student I did everything by hand. The only people who possessed computers back in the 1980s were geeks who needed a haircut. Their screens flickered black, with green cursors. I had zero interest. So I did my entire university degree with a pen, and of course my writing muscles – both physical and metaphorical – were well toned. When I first came across screens I found the transition awkward, feeling the screen imposed a distance. . My sister who is a professional screenwriter still does her first drafts by hand – essentially using her laptop as a typewriter for the final draft only. But for me any sense of awkwardness of distance has now disappeared. I write easily on screen, be it a laptop or a phone, just as I read easily onscreen. A few years ago I had to write out longhand a long text for a French bank loan, and it hurt like hell. I did revive a journaling habit with a lovely fountain pen, last year. Have you all made the transition?

The act of putting pen to paper is often framed as a noble pursuit of truth or a desperate grasp at immortality, yet for the practitioner, it functions primarily as a form of affordable, unmonitored psychotherapy. There is a peculiar irony in the fact that many authors spend their lives attempting to be heard by the masses, only to find that the most profound benefit of the craft occurs during those hours when they are entirely alone. Writing offers a sanctuary where the chaotic noise of the internal monologue is forcibly corralled into the rigid structures of grammar and syntax. To write is to perform a clinical dissection upon our own neuroses. When a thought remains trapped within the skull, it possesses a terrifying, amorphous power. However, once it is pinned to the page like a biological specimen, it loses its ability to haunt. We become detached observers our own suffering, transforming a messy emotional crisis into a manageable narrative arc. There's a certain smug satisfaction in realising that a particularly traumatic breakup can, with sufficient polishing, be repurposed as a darkly comic chapter in a forthcoming essay. It is the ultimate form of emotional alchemy, turning leaden misery into the golden currency of black signs on a page. This process provides a relief that speaking often fails to achieve. Speech is ephemeral and prone to the interruptions of others, whereas the page is an infinitely patient listener that never offers unsolicited advice or glances at its watch. Through this solitary engagement, we construct a bridge between our conscious intent and the murky depths of the subconscious. It's a rigorous, often exhausting exercise in self-regulation. By the time the final full stop is placed, we've usually managed to convince ourselves that we're back in control of the machine, regardless of how frayed the actual wiring may be. ______ Question: Do you write in this way to make sense of the world? Do you find that you're able to actually resolve your problems on the page, or are you simply becoming an expert at decorating them?

Hey, our little community is growing! That's great to see. Let's talk about time. I used to journal early in the morning, then the day's tasks took over, whether translation or editing. Now that writing IS the task, I find myself writing at all times of the day and evening, and responding to comments when I'm not writing. Of course, it gets easier with practice (we'll talk about writer's block soon). Question Do you have a special writing time, or day?

Happy April 27, 2026! Today marks the official launch of this Skool group – a sanctuary for everyone obsessed with the written word, whether you’re crafting novels, business pitches, news reports, or personal journals. This is a zero-noise space dedicated to one thing: the craft. I’ll be sharing tips, breaking down the dos and don’ts, and sharing exclusive webinars and courses. Why "Human Premium"? The goal here is to help you write better – and more importantly – to go beyond AI. Look, AI is a fantastic tool, but we shouldn’t delegate the joy of writing to a bot any more than we’d delegate the pleasure of a great meal, a sunset, or an intimate moment. There is a spirit, a syncopation, and a soul in human prose that an algorithm simply can't replicate. We set sail soon. Get ready to explore some deep waters. Welcome aboard. In the comments, please share who you are, where you're from, and maybe why you're here?