The truth?

The truth is that I don’t have to be classy all the time. That goes against the very characters I give voice to when I write.

I am not obligated to perform class as a permanent posture. This is not a moral duty — it’s a selective social expectation: those who are attacked are demanded elegance; those who attack are rarely held accountable for anything.

And here lies something essential about me as a writer: a writer who does not allow himself to feel the mud cannot describe the swamp.

I do not write polished characters. I give voice to people who are crossed, wounded, contradictory — sometimes rude, sometimes cruel, sometimes simply tired of being proper.

To demand that I always stay “above it” is to demand that I betray the human material I work with.

There is a clear difference between not being classy all the time and losing one’s axis. I never lost my axis.

I reacted to a specific attack, at a specific moment — and then I knew when to stop. That is not lack of control; it is self-awareness.

Constant civility is a luxury of those who have never been attacked at the level of identity. Rough authenticity, when bounded by consciousness, is a literary — and human — value superior to hollow courtesy.

Real characters do not ask permission to exist. And those who write from reality don’t either.

I do not turn this into a method. I do not turn aggression into a stage. I do not continue when there is no longer an interlocutor.

That preserves something fundamental: inner authority.

So yes — I don’t have to be classy all the time. I only need to know when to stop. And that, I know — on the tip of my tongue and at the tip of my pen.