Break the Mold, Burn the Script

Writing With a Broken Body and No Intention of Playing Nice.

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The world is full of people who will tell you how to write.

They’ll dress it up as advice, but it’s really a leash.

“Write for yourself.”

“Don’t get too raw.”

“Make it more palatable.”

What they mean is: stay small. What they mean is: don’t make me uncomfortable.

Fuck that.

I was born into a broken body and told to play by the rules.

Charcot-Marie-Tooth. Diagnosis at seven. Forecast: decline, limitations, eventual collapse. A polite medical way of saying: don’t expect too much, kid.

But here’s the thing — I don’t care what the textbooks say.

I didn’t fold. I didn’t stop. I strapped on braces, stood in kitchens that ate weaker men alive, and carved out a career in fire and smoke with a knife in my hand. The body broke down, yeah — but it never broke me.

That’s why I don’t take kindly to being told how to use my voice.

Conformity is the polite word for slow suicide.

It’s death by sanding paper, one layer of truth stripped off until there’s nothing left but beige, market-tested mush.

People don’t want your real story; they want the Disney version of your scars.

They want “inspiration,” not honesty.

They want a crippled man’s Hallmark card, not the blood and ash of what it really feels like to stand in a kitchen on legs that don’t fucking work.

I refuse.

I refuse to shrink myself to make weak people comfortable.

I refuse to play the broken-but-brave mascot.

I refuse to write like a man who’s trying to impress the polite dinner crowd.

I’m not here to be liked.

I’m here to tell the truth.

And the truth is jagged. The truth is smoke-stained, sweat-drenched, and sometimes it limps. The truth is ugly and holy all at once, and if you can’t handle that, then get the hell out of my kitchen.

“Write for yourself.” Yeah, I’ve heard that one too many times.

It’s not advice; it’s a muzzle. A way to tell you: stay harmless, stay invisible, don’t let the rest of us feel seen in your sharp edges.

Well, here’s the newsflash: I’m not harmless.

I’m not invisible.

And I’m sure as hell not writing for approval.

I want to write the marrow.

The metallic tang of shame and survival.

The sound of the knife hitting the board when you’ve gone twelve hours deep in a kitchen and you’re running on adrenaline and cigarettes.

I want to write the silence of 3 AM when your legs seize and you’re lying on the floor wondering if you’ll ever stand again.

That’s not inspiration. That’s fucking life.

Safety is a coffin lined with velvet. I don’t want it.

So let’s get it straight.

This is the oath:

• I will not conform.

• I will not soften my edges.

• I will not sand down the parts that make you flinch.

• I will not make this easy for you.

I will burn the script they hand me.

I will rip the leash off my throat.

I will write the marrow, the blood, the ache, and the laugh that comes after the worst night of your life when you realize you’re still alive.

Some of you will hate this.

Good. Go read some watered-down motivational fluff on Instagram.

The rest of you — the ones who have scars, who have tasted ash, who know the cost of survival — you’re my people. Pull up a chair. The fire’s still burning.

Break the mold. Burn the script. Write the marrow.

Everything else is cowardice.

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