They tell you writing a book is hard. That it takes discipline, time, courage. And they’re right.
But what they don’t really talk about is how lonely it can be – not just after it’s done, but while you’re in it. And not a dramatic kind of loneliness either. Just… quiet. Subtle. A slow drifting away from the world.
To write, you have to disappear a little. You step out of the rhythm of daily life. You forget to respond to messages. You let calls go unanswered. Not because you don’t care – but because something in you is chasing a thread that no one else can see. You sit. You stay. You go inward. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for months.
Living Inside the Story
When I was writing Être autiste et réussir sa vie, I wasn’t just telling a story, I was exposing something deeply personal. I was going back into moments I’d rather forget, looking at them without filters. That book wasn’t written in one stretch. It came in waves. Some pages came easily, like a conversation I’d been waiting to have. Others… felt like bleeding in slow motion. But I kept going, alone in that process, because I knew someone out there will be inspired by my writings.
La cité de Kali was different. It’s fiction, but so much of me is in there. Writing that book gave me space to explore things I don’t always talk about, pain, memory, identity, the things we carry without knowing how to name them. Lulu and Salif, these two young survivors stepping into the forbidden hut of their ancestors – I followed them as much as they followed me. Their meeting with Kali, the goddess of time and illusion, reminded me of my own struggle to face the past and stop hiding from myself. It wasn’t just a story; it was a way to work through what I couldn’t put into words anywhere else.
And as I wrote, I began to love the characters. I walked with them through fire. I watched them grow, stumble, rise again. I whispered their names to myself, sometimes more than the names of real people in my life. They became real. Not in a symbolic way, but emotionally real. Like friends. Like reflections.
While writing, I spent long stretches locked in my office, from morning until evening, sometimes forgetting to eat. I carried notebooks everywhere. I spent hours in libraries, trying to escape distractions, or sat alone in the back corner of cafés, surrounded by noise that made my silence feel less heavy. I wrote in parks, on benches facing trees, hoping a breeze or a stranger’s passing glance might loosen a stuck sentence. I wrote in buses, in bookstores, in stairwells, even in quiet corners of hospital waiting rooms, wherever I could find a pocket of stillness and stay close to the story.
And in all those places, I wasn’t alone. The characters were with me. Their voices. Their wounds. Their choices. Their evolution.
So when the book ended, something inside me went quiet.
Saying goodbye to the characters
People think you should celebrate, and yes, I did. But part of me also grieved. I missed them. I missed that world. I missed the rhythm of their lives unfolding through me. That’s a kind of loneliness no one warns you about – the loneliness of saying goodbye to the people you invented, but who felt like they had invented you right back.
Some days, there was joy. A sentence would land right, and I’d feel a kind of private relief. A tiny victory no one would see. Other days, I’d write for hours and still doubt every word. I’d close my laptop and feel this odd quiet. Not peace -just absence. Like walking out of a room where something meaningful happened, but no one else was there to witness it.
Even now, I carry traces of the characters I’ve written. They stay with me. In a look. In a sentence. In a decision I make without knowing why. Writing changed them. But they also changed me.
So yes, writing a book can be lonely.
But it’s the kind of loneliness that makes space for honesty, for discovery, for something real.
And I know I’m not the only one.
I write for those who carry quiet worlds inside them, slowly, patiently… hoping to find the words that feel true. Somewhere, someone is sitting in their own silence, trying to tell their story.
And maybe, if they read mine, they’ll feel a little less alone.
And if that happens – even once – then it was worth it.