Let’s Start Here
Hi. I’m Ivana.
I write.
Sometimes with grace, sometimes like I’m carving words into the side of a building with a fork.
Either way, you’re here, I’m here, and now we’re both stuck in this strange little corner of the internet I decided to claim as my own.
You should know upfront:
This place comes with no welcome mat.
No faux-politeness.
No “journey to discover my voice” bullshit.
I’ve had a voice since I could talk. I just got tired of pretending to whisper.
The 90s Raised Me (Sorry About That)
I’m a 90s kid. Back when the world still had some character.
Before social media turned everyone into sales reps and spiritual advisors.
Before every human being became a brand and every brand started pretending to be a human being.
I wrote my first words on a yellow legal pad.
Typed them up on my aunt’s typewriter, which weighed as much as a small microwave and had exactly two moods: stubborn and possessed.
I didn’t need Scrivener or cloud sync or dopamine hits from likes.
I needed ink.
And maybe a snack.
Those early pieces? Fiction, space adventures, obsessive movie reviews.
I was a film buff before that word meant “I watched a couple A24 trailers and quoted Fight Club once at a party.”
Look, I still love storytelling — but somewhere after the mid-90s, film just kind of… died.
Yes, I said it. Cinema flatlined somewhere between The Usual Suspects and The Matrix and never woke up.
(You’re welcome to disagree. This is a safe space. But also… you’re wrong.)
I Was Always a Writer, But I Was Also a Coward
You know what’s wild?
I’ve been writing my whole life, but it took me YEARS to say it out loud:
“I’m a writer.”
Not in a soft “journaling in my Moleskine” way.
Not in a LinkedIn bio way.
In a blood, guts, and brain fog way.
But for a long time, I let the world convince me I had to earn it.
That I needed permission. An audience. A paycheck. A book deal.
Preferably all of the above, wrapped in praise and retweets and probably some very organic matcha.
I chased all that.
And guess what?
I still felt weird saying it.
I still second-guessed everything.
Still thought maybe I was just “pretending.”
So yeah — I was a writer.
And a coward.
But not anymore.
This Place Is Different
I write mostly on Substack now — that’s my home base.
You’ll find the link below, because that’s what classy people do: we hide our neediness in footers.
But here, on this site, on Lady Liberty Writes — it’s a little messier.
A little louder.
A little more me.
If I want to post a recipe? I will.
If I want to talk about my cat’s existential crisis or a 3-day rainstorm that emotionally wrecked me? Done.
If I want to drop a political grenade and see who’s still standing afterward?
Well. You’d better believe I will.
This Is Not a Lifestyle Blog
This is not a curated feed.
This isn’t branded.
I’m not here to “serve content.”
I’m here to write like it matters.
Because it does.
And if you’re here, maybe it matters to you, too.
You won’t find pastel quotes or Pinterest boards.
There’s no “5 Ways to Be Your Best Self” — unless one of those ways is “Stop following wellness influencers and go touch grass.”
You also won’t find me censoring myself to avoid offending some random online potato with Wi-Fi and a victim complex.
I don’t do performative niceness.
I do honesty. With sharp edges.
What You Will Find Here:
- Stories — fiction, non-fiction, barely-fiction. You figure it out.
- Kitchen Things — because food is my love language and I’m not above emotionally manipulating people with baked goods.
- Bookshelf — what I’m reading, what I’m hating, what made me want to throw the book across the room in the best way.
- People, Places & Other Ghosts — because we’re all haunted by something, and I like to name mine.
- Notes & Fragments — half-formed thoughts, almost-poems, rage scribbles, tiny rebellions.
- Coming Soon: Residual — the stuff that lingers. The aftertaste. The things I’m not sure how to file. Like life.
So..
Anyway, that’s enough for a first post.
Stick around. Or don’t.
This place isn’t built for followers — it’s built for thinkers.
For wanderers. For people who feel too much and say too little.
For anyone who still believes words should mean something.
If that’s you, cool.
If it’s not… you know where the door is.
— Ivana
Lady Liberty Writes 