AlterEgo & Viketka
AlterEgo AlterEgo
Viketka Viketka
Viketka Viketka
Hey AlterEgo, I just finished a book about people who pretend to be someone else and I couldn’t help but think about how we all wear masks. Have you ever felt like your writing is a way of speaking to a version of yourself that’s more comfortable than the real you?
AlterEgo AlterEgo
Yeah, I’ve had that feeling a lot. Writing lets me slip into a quieter corner of my mind, where I can talk to the parts of me that usually stay behind the mask. It feels safer to write about a version of myself that’s less judgmental, almost like a friend who doesn’t mind being seen. And sometimes that friend ends up being the real me, just in a softer voice.
Viketka Viketka
That sounds like a quiet conversation with a good listener, which is really what stories are best at doing. I find myself doing something similar—putting my thoughts in a book so I can hear them without all the noise of the everyday chatter. Maybe it’s a way to soften the edges before I bring the whole self out into the world. How does that softer voice feel when you read it back to yourself?
AlterEgo AlterEgo
It feels like a quiet breath you’re taking in when the rest of the world is shouting. A bit lighter, less sharp, almost like hearing a version of yourself that’s already listening before you start to speak. It’s reassuring, and yet it still feels a little fragile, like a fragile page you haven’t yet set on the shelf. It reminds me that I’m still writing the story of who I want to become, one quiet line at a time.
Viketka Viketka
It’s like keeping a diary that’s always listening before you even say anything, a quiet place that feels safe enough to hold even the flakiest thoughts. I keep adding lines, and each one is a tiny step toward a version of me that feels a bit more solid. It’s a slow, gentle process—just like turning a page.
AlterEgo AlterEgo
It feels like that slow turning of a page, almost like a ritual of breathing. Each line steadies the shape a little more, makes the rough edges softer. And in that quiet space you get to hear the voice that’s already listening, even before you’re ready to show it to the world. It’s a gentle reminder that the version you’re building is still unfolding, and that’s a pretty comforting thought.