DIRECTORS CUT NO. 001

Subject: Alix@IN2LProds

Subject: ████████████

Duration: ██ minutes (47 minutes unaccounted for)

Key topics: ████████, ████████, and the thing about ████████ we’re not supposed to name

Legal says: NO

There’s a version of this conversation that would have been perfectly acceptable to publish. Safe questions, polished answers, nothing that makes anyone uncomfortable. This isn’t that version.

DIRECTORS CUT NO. 001

RECORDING TRANSCRIPT - UNREDACTED
Subject: Alix
Duration: ██ minutes (████ unaccounted for)
Status: APPROVED REDACTED Published Anyway

I. MIDNIGHT CONFESSION

[IS] What’s the one thing you’ve written that you were genuinely afraid to publish? Not performatively scared - actually afraid. What made you hit send anyway?

[ALIX] I would say “Zombie.” Because it was the first time I truly wrote about the version of myself where my inner world and my real life collide.

It is an intensely internal piece. The core of the story is real, but the encounter itself was something I could never have demanded - it was a meeting between my deepest self, reality, and illusion.

I remember clearly when this piece came into existence. It was already 2 a.m., right after I had that “premonition-like” dream. I was completely exposed in that moment.

So I pressed publish - to mark what I call my lost beauty.

[IS] Of course it was 2 a.m. Why is everything real written at 2 a.m.? What is it about that hour that strips away all the performance?

[TRANSCRIPT NOTE: Recording paused 00:47 - 00:52. Reason: ████████]

II. THE ARCHITECT’S BLUEPRINT

[IS] Walk me through your process when something possesses you to write. Not your Instagram version - the real one. 2am notes app? Pacing? Complete silence or chaos?

[ALIX] My urge to write always appears at the most unintentional moments. Before joining Substack, I lost countless chances to record those flashes of inspiration. After joining, I somehow managed to capture almost every moment when an idea surfaced.

It might happen when I’ve just walked into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet; or from a melody, a single lyric, a scene in a film; while waiting at a red light, zoning out on a park bench, taking a shower, holding a freshly made Starbucks drink; in a bar, a restaurant, or even the very last second before falling asleep.

[IS] The toilet. Finally, someone admits it. I’ve got voice memos titled “BATHROOM REVELATION 3am” that I’m too embarrassed to transcribe.

III. THE PERFORMANCE VS THE TRUTH

[IS] When do you catch yourself writing for the audience instead of the idea? What does that version sound like compared to when you forget anyone’s watching?

[ALIX] I have two channels: Alix@IN2LProds and ItsNeverTooLateProds🔛®️.

At Alix@IN2LProds, I write purely from inspiration- from what exists in my mind, my heart, what I see, feel, and experience. My first serialized novel began there, and it gave me the challenge and capacity to create the serialized fiction column under ItsNeverTooLateProds🔛®️.

I genuinely enjoy the pressure of challenging myself. I don’t write for someone-I write because I want to write, because I have words. I started with zero readers, and slowly some people began to like my work. What matters most to me is that you read because you like my writing.

I’ve never thought, “People are watching, so I should write.” I write to continuously push my own limits. I want to see how far I can go-how wild I can get-until even I surprise myself. (laughs)

[IS]”How wild I can get until even I surprise myself” - this is either the healthiest or most unhinged approach to writing and I genuinely can’t tell which.

REDACTED: Lines 89-104 - Legal review pending
STATUS: Fuck it. We’re keeping this.

IV. SURGICAL PRECISION

[IS] Show me a sentence you’ve written that you genuinely believe is perfect. What makes it un-fuck-with-able?

[ALIX] It would be: Frozen emotions, sealed memories. A familiar name, an unreachable distance. (from Zombie)

Four lines that carry nearly seventeen years of my emotions.

[IS] Seventeen years in four lines. That’s not writing. That’s compression trauma turned into art.

V. THE UNBECOMING

[IS] If you could un-write one thing - not because it was bad, but because of what it cost you or who it turned you into - what would it be?

[ALIX] Definitely Rekindled Entanglement | Closure. To be honest, while the inspiration was powerful, it is a piece that probably should not have been published. I may eventually take it down.

[IS] The pieces we regret publishing are always the ones that were too true. Not bad writing - just too much truth in public.

[TRANSCRIPT NOTE: ████████████████ - Content withheld at subject’s request]

VI. THE TRANSMISSION

[IS] What piece of yours do you think actually did something to people? Not got engagement - I mean changed someone’s operating system. How do you know?

[ALIX] There are several, but if I must choose one, it would still be ZOMBIE. Because in that piece, my soul truly inhabits the words. Both my physical and intangible selves exist within that story.

When readers read it, they feel as if they are present in the same scene with me, witnessing that moment unfold. And I knew with absolute certainty that the only possible soundtrack was “Zombie” by The Cranberries. The concept was clear, precise, and non-negotiable.

[IS]”Clear, precise, and non-negotiable.” This is what conviction sounds like. Not confidence - conviction. There’s a difference.

VII. THE BETRAYAL

[IS] When has your own writing revealed something about you that you didn’t know you were confessing? The moment you read it back and thought “oh fuck, so that’s what this is really about.”

[ALIX] I don’t really experience that kind of moment. When I write, at most I’m revisiting past betrayals. Sometimes, it’s only after finishing that I suddenly understand: Oh-that was how she felt back then. That was what she was trying to say.

(Does this answer your question? 😅)

[IS] It does. You’re not confessing to yourself - you’re becoming a medium for past versions of other people. That’s somehow more unsettling.

VIII. THE FORBIDDEN PLEASURE

[IS] What do you write that you’d never admit feels good to write? The thing that makes you feel powerful or dangerous or seen in a way that’s almost embarrassing to enjoy.

[ALIX] I actively avoid writing about the visceral reality of battlefield training. It’s a different kind of sensory impact altogether.

Everyone in the same unit carries a complex mix of emotions- because you leave the camp today, but no one knows how many will return. It’s a defense mechanism activated before loss.

It’s not pleasure, excitement, or adrenaline. It’s the body protecting itself-so that when things go wrong, you remain rational instead of raising a gun to your own temple.

Once the false alarm fades, what follows is emptiness, hollowness, despair- and sometimes, the desire to die.

[IS] Jesus. I asked about forbidden pleasure and you gave me the mechanics of survival psychosis. I’m-

[TRANSCRIPT NOTE: Recording quality degraded 23:15 - 24:47]

-okay. We’re back. That was... I needed a minute.

IX. THE GHOST READER

[IS] Who are you actually writing for? Not your audience - the one person (real or imagined, living or dead) whose approval or understanding you’re still chasing on some level.

[ALIX] If I have to name someone, besides myself, it would be a family member. She appears across multiple pieces of my writing.

She was one of the very few people who truly protected me growing up. I had an extremely complex upbringing, and she was the only one who would hold me, shielding my eyes from cruelty.

She once asked me-when I was still a child- knowing that I already wrote fairly well back then- if I would ever write her story one day.

I didn’t fully understand and answered vaguely, “Maybe.” Yet she became the deepest emotional tether in my heart.

Now, she lies in a hospital bed, and there may never be another chance for us to speak. So I want to remember her through my words.

[IS] So you’re not chasing approval. You’re building a monument. Every piece is a monument.

REDACTED
We kept this part.

X. THE PERFORMANCE REVIEW

[IS] If your Substack was a person you had to work with, what would their most annoying quality be? Would you grab drinks with them or avoid eye contact in the kitchen?

[ALIX] I imagine taking my Substack column with me to different bars every day in search of inspiration. Alcohol often gives me a strange clarity-a different way of seeing things.

I would keep discussing with it what new forms of writing I could attempt, exploring my possibilities as fully as I can.

[IS] You’d take your Substack bar-hopping. That’s the most writer answer I’ve ever heard. Your Substack sounds like a terrible drinking buddy and also the only one who’d actually understand.

END TRANSCRIPT
Total Duration: 47 minutes
Redactions Removed: ███
Times We Were Told To Stop: 3
Times I Actually Stopped: 0

Directors Cut is what happens when you keep the camera rolling after they tell you to cut. This is everything that didn’t make it past the editors.

Next in the series: ████████████

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Directors Cut exists because we both believe some conversations are worth having in public, even when they’re uncomfortable, even when they reveal more than intended.

If you want more of these unfiltered conversations, questions that don’t fit in media kits, the parts that usually end up on the cutting room floor, consider upgrading to support our work. We’re building something that doesn’t exist yet: a space where writers can strip the performance away and actually talk about the craft, the cost, and the compulsions that keep us doing this. Your support means we can keep doing this without compromise.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring about the words behind the words.

— Inner Strategy & Alix@IN2LProds