Welcome to the Writing archive, a space for anyone obsessed with words, ideas, and the craft of storytelling. Here, I explore techniques, tips, and the mindset needed to turn thoughts into compelling stories, essays, or poems.
From overcoming writer’s block to honing your voice, this category is about more than just mechanics—it’s about expression, creativity, and the thrill of seeing your ideas take shape on the page. Dive in and discover strategies to sharpen your writing and embrace your voice.
An inconspicuous typographical mark of hesitation became a cultural tell. Machines learned our rhythms and readers learned to be suspicious. The result isn’t the death of good writing but a migration away from polish and toward the uneven signals of humanity we instinctively trust.
Writers everywhere (especially on social media) insist they can identify AI writing immediately. That we recognize it by its clarity, structure, and polish. But haven’t those always been the hallmarks of competent prose. This essay explores the panic over AI and how it says more about our myths around writing than it does about the writing itself.
I wrestle daily with whether my writing is good or shit. Most of the time, I write into a quiet vacuum, unsure if it matters at all. Yet the act itself—struggling, digging, pinning down fleeting thoughts—feels alive. It’s writing for me, for discovery, for sentences that exist anyway.
At 51, after 2 strokes and decades of misfit labor, I’m learning to embrace my flaws. Like kintsugi, my breakage and repair tell a story—my story—of struggle, survival, and the art of becoming whole again.
I woke to the impossible—my shadow moving without me. The house held its breath as the dark pressed close. Every step deepened the divide between body and self. A psychological horror short story about identity, fear, and the haunting space where the self begins to split.
I’ve spent my life pretending to be someone else — an engineer, a writer, a version of me that fits what others expected. But when I write, I feel the edges of who I really am, even if the words don’t make sense. This is what it means to question your memories, your past, and your place in the world — and to keep writing anyway.
Through “My Untold Story,” I wrestle with creation, control, and consequence. I watch my characters breathe, stumble, and fade within unfinished pages. This poem captures my intimate reflection on the creative process, the burden of imagination, and the ache of seeing the stories I long to tell remain untold.
Starting a blog. Everyone’s doing it. Why not? Freethoughtable. Even seeing it in print makes me cringe. Sounds ridiculous. Why did I start this blog in the first place? Like the world needs another blog….
