Writing has given birth to enough gladiators and I refuse to step into the arena.
Five years ago, I unshackled myself from the myth that suffering is the writer’s only currency. I could have sharpened my words into knives, carved wounds with every syllable, and bled onto the page until there was nothing left of me. Instead, I chose to craft something that trembled with softness–a Place where words stretch their limbs; a Place where creation is not a rupture, but a pulse; a Place where the crowd’s thumbs up or down holds no power over the worth of my work.
And so, from that trembling Place, my baby C’MON! was born on April 1st 2020. They say that “Many a true word is spoken in jest,” and perhaps that’s why C’MON! came into the world on April Fool’s Day–a truth lurking beneath the mask of laughter.
For centuries, we've been told that to create, one must toil alone in a sanctified struggle–a lone figure hunched over a desk, wrestling with words in gruelling isolation. This myth paints the writer as a solitary warrior, locked in a quiet conflict against the world, consumed only by the weight of their own despair. Yet those who have sat with the blank page know the bitter truth: this kind of writing is poison. The page is not a battlefield, so why are we drafting like we’re gladiators?
When I was younger, I believed in the nobility of suffering. As a fan of Romanticism, the Greek tragedy, and everything that’s just so wonderfully melancholic, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the tortured artist trope. It wrapped me in its cloak of destiny, making me feel apart, chosen, as if I were walking a path untouched by the rest. There was a cruel beauty in the idea of being misunderstood, in wearing that quiet intensity like a secret no one else could claim. It whispered that my loneliness was a sacred badge. A badge I carried around proudly, convinced that I was less of a fraud and more of a real, authentic artist.
Veiled in pain, I found a twisted kind of love for writing. Words emerged only from that feverish pull that gripped me so forcefully. On those days, I couldn’t grasp the idea of writing when the sun broke through. Writing in happiness felt too trivial, like it didn’t belong to me. In truth, I didn’t know how to write in joy. And so, I sank deeper into that addictive restlessness, convinced that only through pain could my pages find their breath.
There were moments–many, so many, too many–when I thought about putting the pen down for good and leaving the arena. My addiction had turned everything into a spectacle–poetic, romantic, yet unbearably laced with despair. There was no steady rhythm, no discipline, only the wild pendulum swings of inspiration and emptiness. Bursts of feverish creation, followed by a silence so vast it felt like failure.
And yet.
Something in me refused to let go. A quiet, stubborn belief that there had to be something beyond the tortured rituals I had mistaken for devotion. Perhaps I didn’t have to be a gladiator, always bracing for the next spectacle. Somewhere, waiting to be discovered, was a way to create that didn’t require me to bleed for it. Somewhere, waiting to be shaped by my own hands, was my perfectly imperfect baby.
Five years ago, in the middle of that struggle (plus a global pandemic that was making everyone go bananas), something shifted in my brain. I didn’t want to fight anymore. And I didn’t want anyone else to either.
So I had this thought: What if writing wasn’t a constant battle, but more like training for a marathon? Show up. Push through. Build the muscle, step by step. No waiting for divine whispers. No waiting, period. Just the sweat, the grind, the relentless forward motion. A daily practice. Little doses of effort, stacked until they became something real.
I could gather people. We could write together. I could teach them creative writing–because, if nothing else, I love writing. I love writing in a way that isn’t soft or kind or easy. I love writing in the way you love something that has ruined you and raised you in equal measure. So I did the only thing that made sense.
I ran a creative writing workshop.
Then another.
And another.
And before I even had time to second-guess myself, the arena was gone, and I was free, no longer trapped in the gladiator’s pen.
That shift didn’t just pull me out of despair, but it rewired everything in my creative life. My first workshop began with a handful of souls, all too familiar with their own self-sabotage. We gave up on perfection, embraced the mess, and the chaos of unfinished drafts. Writing, once a source of dread, became something we could touch, something that didn’t scream at us from the abyss. We wrote in moments of boredom, joy, exhaustion, frustration–alone and together, in the quiet hum of a shared space. Writing became liberating. Spiritual. Meditative. A practice, not a punishment.
For months, we leaned into each other’s words, and I showed up every day, pushing myself to give them my 110% no matter what.
And they gave it back to me.
This graceful exchange turned what once felt like a battlefield into my safe haven: the Place where I could retreat and be my true self: Alexandra, the gladiator who surrendered and won. The Place where I could return to, again and again, on the good days and the terrible ones.
Because, in the end, consistency is sexy.
And just like that, the name clicked.
C’MON! It felt like my father’s voice pulling me forward–an echo of all the times he’d said, “C’mon, Alexandra!” A fragile, yet firm command. A firm push to stop waiting, to stop making excuses. Move. Do it. All that mumbo-jumbo you tell yourself? It’s just that–mumbo-jumbo. Take yourself seriously, but don’t forget to play and fear nothing.
Now, five years later, C’MON! breathes. It is no longer just a whisper in the back of my mind, but something real, something I tend to, something clumsy, electric, and full of life. It is my baby, my creation, but also my burden.
There are days I feel the weight of neglect pressing down on me: months where I don’t feed it enough and don’t nurture it the way it deserves. I know this baby could thrive, and leap into the world with all the fire and force of something ready to explode. But I also know it will have its day. A day when it will burst forth in a wild, untamed rush: when the time is right. And for now, I can’t help but let it breathe, nestled in the corners of my mind.
But I’m at peace with it. At peace with the small, steady community that has stayed. The ones who never left, who have been here for FIVE YEARS. You. All of you. The ones who saw that spark and chose to stay, offering your thumbs up, your encouragement. You are the calm in my chaos.
I know, deep down, when C’MON! is ready to run, you’ll be there. You’ll be waiting, with open arms.
And that, in a world that’s anything but predictable, is the most comforting feeling I can imagine.
Thank you.