Writing Missing felt a bit like rummaging through an old junk drawer—nostalgic and oddly painful, but worth it for the gems buried beneath the clutter. I wrote this story back in 2010, a time when I thought using a pink house as a setting was groundbreaking (spoiler: it’s not). Yet somehow, the story holds up—mostly because it doesn’t try to be anything it’s not.
The story centers on two deeply flawed characters: Albert, a writer drowning in self-doubt, and Anna, whose quiet determination hides layers of complexity. If Albert feels like a semi-autobiographical deep dive into my younger self’s neuroses, Anna is the anchor that keeps this story afloat. Writing from her perspective was uncharted territory for me—a challenge that forced me to see the world through a lens I wasn’t used to.
The infamous pink house deserves its own review. I’ve used it in other stories, and it always delivers: eerie, unassuming, and deeply symbolic. It’s a great stage for a story about isolation and ambition, though I’m not sure it carries the same weight I once believed it did. You be the judge.
What sets Missing apart from my earlier work is its quiet tension. I’ve learned to embrace subtlety (yes, I hear you laughing). There’s a twist you won’t see coming—one that makes you rethink everything you just read—but I’m not about to ruin it for you. I will say this: Missing isn’t just a scary story, though it’s haunted by plenty of things—self-doubt, obsession, and the kind of ambition that keeps you up at night.
Would I write Missing the same way today? No. I’m a different writer now, sharper and less indulgent (I hope). But that’s the beauty of revisiting old work—it’s like a time capsule, showing you who you were and how far you’ve come. And despite its flaws, Missing still holds a piece of my heart. Anna and Albert’s struggles remain close to me, like old friends I don’t see often but can’t quite forget.
I think this story might take a piece of your heart, too.
Until next time,
Gabriel
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