Yeah, I get that—like a tiny glitch in a perfect engine can make the whole thing feel… off. I get caught up in polishing every line, every little world detail, and then the story starts sounding like a manual instead of a living thing. But when you step back a bit, you can see which details are actually moving the story forward and which are just filler. So I try to strike a balance: keep the details that feel necessary, drop the rest, and trust that the core truth will shine through.

Absolutely, it’s like being a tightrope walker who also wants to paint a landscape on the rope itself. If I obsess over every stitch, the whole line feels brittle, but if I let the rope sag, I risk a midair fall into the chaos of the storm. I always start with the core—like a simple, honest beat—then weave in the smallest details only when they genuinely lift that beat, not just to fill space. It’s a kind of quiet wind that keeps the rope taut and the story breathing.

Right, I’ll keep the quiet beats breathing and cut the extra knots. If something feels like a snag, I’ll just let it slip away—leaving the rope to sing instead of just hold.