A couple of years ago, when I kicked off the grand adventure of drafting my book, I had this brilliant story idea. The main plot was my rock–it held its ground like a champ. But, you see, as I joyfully penned down chapter after chapter, it felt like I was on a wild goose chase through the labyrinth of my creation. The plot, once a faithful companion, started playing hide-and-seek, leaving me to navigate the literary jungle like a lost explorer.

I knew so little about the “new world” that sometimes certain events would not match, and some were lacking logic. But the funny thing is I didn’t realize it at the time. I put aside my stack of handwritten notes into a drawer and didn’t touch it for years. Only after I dusted it off, read some pieces, and started to puzzle the pages together, I saw what a mess I had in front of me.

• It's clear to me now that I wasn't ready for it a few years ago. My world and the idea were just too fresh, and I needed my world to grow inside of me, alongside my experiences and views of the real world.