People often ask me:
“Who are you writing for?”
“What’s your audience?”
“Who’s your niche?”
I get why they ask. We live in a world that likes to measure things — likes to fit them neatly into boxes. But my answer usually disappoints them.
I write for myself.
Not out to prove.
Not because I have something grand to say.
But because writing is how I make sense of things.
It’s how I slow the world down enough to see it clearly.
So where does the inspiration come from?
Not from big ideas. Not from TED talks.
But from the tiny, unnoticed moments in everyday life:
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A half-finished sentence in a conversation
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A question that stayed with me from a meeting
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Something a friend said in passing
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A feeling I couldn’t quite name until I wrote it down
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An argument I overheard while waiting in line
These small, ordinary things are full of clues — if you’re paying attention.
Writing, for me, is noticing.
It’s reflection in motion.
It’s the pause after a moment that felt too familiar to ignore.
Some of the most honest things I’ve written came not from books, but from tea stalls, WhatsApp chats, or a walk where my thoughts caught me off guard.
And here’s the part people forget: writing isn’t about inspiration.
It’s about rhythm. Routine. Returning.
Here’s mine:
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I write every day.
Even just a sentence. Even when I have nothing to say. Especially then. -
I use the same tool.
My favourite tool is Postman. No fancy apps. No overthinking. -
I write at the same time
I prefer right after a run. You don’t need a ritual. Just a repeatable moment. -
I write like no one’s watching.
Most of what I write will never be seen, as I put it in Dayone. That freedom makes the visible parts better.
Writing isn’t a performance. It’s a practice.
A few books that helped me build this habit:
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Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
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The Artist Way by Julia Cameron – This is my go-to book
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On Writing by Stephen King
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Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon
Each one reminded me: the hard part isn’t writing.
The hard part is showing up.
So if you’ve ever wondered who this is for:
It’s for the version of me who didn’t have the words yet.
It’s for the thoughts that knock gently but won’t go away.
It’s for the everyday moments that are trying to tell me something.
And if it finds you in the middle of your own pause —
maybe you’ll feel a little less alone, too.