I had a bunch of drafts. This is the one I finished.

I’ve always written. Not in a structured, serious, disciplined way, but in the way people leave notes for themselves. Fragments of ideas, random sentences on my phone, dialogue I overheard at the airport or something that hit too hard in the middle of a film. Most of it never turned into anything. But the habit stuck.

At one point, I had at least five unfinished drafts. All romance/drama, all different types. Some were light and funny, some were angsty and a little too self-indulgent. None of them were finished. I would write a few chapters, get in my head about where it was going, and leave it open like a tab I never planned to close.

Then, I found myself unemployed and for the first time in a while, I had hours to fill and no plan. I spent the first few weeks sending out CVs, overthinking cover letters, checking job boards too many times a day. But at night, when everything was quiet, I kept going back to one of the drafts.

It wasn’t even the most polished one. Actually, it was probably the messiest. But there was something about it. Maybe because it felt more like a conversation than a story. Maybe because it didn’t try so hard to be anything other than what it was: two people who don’t know how to be close, trying anyway.

I told myself I wasn’t writing a book. I was just finishing something. That was the only goal. Open the document, write what I could, don’t worry if it’s good or worth publishing or marketable. Just finish.

So I kept going. Some days I wrote a few paragraphs. Some days I wrote pages. Some days I just stared at the screen and moved a sentence around four times. There was no magic moment. Just momentum.

Eventually, it had a name: Not the Beginning, Not the End.

That title came out of nowhere and fit perfectly. Because the story doesn’t start with some grand meet-cute, and it doesn’t end with a perfect resolution. It’s about the in-between. About people who carry too much. About what it means to be honest when that honesty might change everything.

The main character, Catherine, is a romance novelist. And no, she’s not me. But she does use fiction to keep real feelings at arm's length. She knows how to write longing better than she knows how to feel it. She’s smart, successful, and terrified of actually letting someone see her.

Enzo, the love interest, doesn’t chase her. He’s not trying to unlock her heart or break her walls or whatever dramatic metaphor we usually use. He just listens. He doesn’t look away. And somehow, that makes everything more complicated.

Their relationship builds slowly. There’s tension. Banter. Space. And then moments that slip past their defenses and change the entire tone. I didn’t want to write a traditional arc. I wanted to write what it feels like to get close to someone when you’re not used to being close.

There’s intimacy in the silences. There’s distance even in the kisses. There’s a lot that goes unsaid. By the time I finished the draft, I realised I hadn’t just completed something. I had written a book that actually felt like mine. Not because it’s autobiographical, but because it holds the emotions I don’t usually let out.

I published it without a big plan. I designed the cover myself. I formatted the ebook after way too many Google searches. I made mistakes. Fixed them. Uploaded it again.

And when I announced it, I felt like I was holding my breath. Because sharing a book that doesn’t hide behind tropes or tidy endings is a little terrifying.

If you’re someone who’s been sitting on a draft, waiting for the perfect time, the perfect idea, the perfect version of yourself to start… this is your sign. Just pick one. Finish it. You might be surprised what’s waiting on the other side of done.

And if you want to read the kind of story that doesn’t rush to the finish line, that holds space for fear and desire and all the mess in between… Not the Beginning, Not the End is waiting for you too.

Thanks for being here.

V.