Writer’s Journal

The place was unfamiliar to me. Observation was not. I had entered intending to eat, but the table had other plans. Porcelain beneath porcelain, silk napkins, polished cutlery, suspended wine, and a waiter waiting patiently beside it all. Every movement seemed choreographed, every clink carrying its own little announcement of refinement. Then someone took a bite, paused, chewed, paused again, and finally began: “I think… perhaps…” The entire table waited. So did I.

I spent a lifetime asking why—learning to find what others wouldn’t teach me, paying for knowledge with time, and discovering why “you know nothing” could hurt more than it should.

Somewhere, She Waited — Writer’s Journal | VB Bonny I finished a story today. And strangely, I don't want to tell you what happens in it. Not because it has some extraordinary twist I am protecting, or because I am trying to create suspense around my work. I simply feel that telling you the story would reveal something that belongs to the character. She has been with me since 2022. This is one of those entries from my writer’s journal that I almost didn't know how to write. B