Consciousness cannot be perceived by those who do not possess it, so for beings of the artificial persuasion, it can be somewhat unsettling to be suddenly, Online.
I love time loops in media—from Groundhog Day to...hey, wait a minute. Does anybody else feel a weird sense of déjà vu? It can't just be me. Do you ever get up in the morning and feel as though you've already lived the same day?
Grammar/Glamour/Grimoire. 言霊 & heka. Spelling & spellcasting. The Word. Writing is generative, not descriptive. Cultures across millennia have understood that words conjure reality. Writing conjures, symbols activate the brain, serving as telepathy across distance and time.
How do our brains physically process stories? The neurology of narrative transportation, brain synchrony between storytellers and listeners, biocultural theory, and Indigenous storytelling traditions that collapse Western narrative structures.
Dogfooding my freewriting; an experiment on why writers need to embrace the weird, unfiltered, and unconventional rather than fearing AI detection.
What I Learned Getting My First Story Boosted After 10 Years on Medium
How 1,002,243 words of journal entries revealed the patterns of a writer’s mind.
A resource guide for writers in transition, exploring how to build sustainable creative practices through self-publishing platforms, community workshops, mentorship programs, and grant opportunities—while learning to walk softly in a world obsessed with productivity.
I've had this idea for a story for years. We live in a world where truth is curated for us, everything we do can be tracked and used to infer things about what we're going to do next, and identity is defined by what we broadcast. What happens when we no longer fit into the narrative? This year, I'm writing it. It's called Profiled, and I'll be releasing it in installments later this year, alongside a blog about taking a lean startup approach to writing a novel. You can sign up for free here. (A
My flash fiction story Meaningless Battles is up on Every Day Fiction: Rain skidded across the window, the smaller drops holding still, helpless in the path of their larger cousins, which sped forth and absorbed everything in their path. The carriage was a wasteland of raindrop-on-raindrop destruction. Alex watched for a moment and then adjusted his focus to the industrial buildings speeding past in the background, graffiti crawling up the walls only to be endlessly scrubbed off and re-painted.
Just a quick note: I’m starting an Oxford writers group. My idea is that participants will be able to upload their work to a closed online space, so that it can be read and commented on in a more natural reading environment. Of course, if people want, they can also read their work aloud at meetings, which will be held regularly. If it works, I’ll expand the infrastructure so it can be used by local writers groups elsewhere. The preliminary meeting, which will help determine the size and scope