You’ve already written most of it. You just didn’t know it yet.
There’s a book somewhere in your voice memos and notes. The ideas are already there. You didn’t plan to write a book. You kept circling what’s alive.
It wants to come together. The chapters don’t exist yet, but you sense their edges. The form is foggy, but something in you recognizes the shape it might take.
You remember what this could demand. The gathering, the sorting, the thought of spending weeks just organizing your own thoughts. So you wait. And the stalling feels almost necessary.
But you’re no longer alone in this. There’s a way to let your material show itself to you. You give your favorite AI tool your fragments, transcripts, anything.
It hands you useful buckets. Next, you’re filling these categories with what you have.
Soon the scattered notes start forming limbs. The pieces grow eyes. A body starts taking shape, because you moved with it. You showed up, and the shape kept revealing itself.
Some things get repeated. You’ll notice where your ideas keep circling. You’ll refine if you want. Or you’ll let the echoes live, as reminders of what kept calling you back.
Thanks!