Oregon Trail characters beware, the original thirst trap; film-negative to the lushness of Eden. The lowest and hottest point in the US, at –282 ft below sea level, averaging 100-120 F for half the year.

That shimmer is no mirage though—it’s a shallow salty pond in Badwater Basin; lingering ghost of an ancient sea. In a few short weeks it’ll dry up into a crusty salt flat…but we’ll get to that later.

We have a lot to explore here and little time to do it, with long roads rolling between.

📍 Largest national park outside Alaska

As luck would have it, we arrived in Death Valley at the start of the Super Bloom come early—rejoicing in our good fortune (while lamenting the reason for the season change) as we marveled in the stunning beauty of this desolate but popular destination.

With our trip clock ticking, we could only touch on some of the quicker park highlights (plus the spectacular sprawl of wildflower-lined roads winding between), like Ubehebe Crater and the Dune Sea and the awe-inspiring stroll through Mosaic Canyon:

Oops wait, let me adjust the focus there…

🖖 Out of the canyon, into the car (again)

My adventures with Pat began long ago at my legendary cocktail bar in Richmond, where he was a regular. When I retired, we remained friends—and went through some serious shit together during the Covid era, talking and hiking rapaciously through the local trailguide…just trying to breathe and make sense of it all.

Now we live on opposite ends of the country, and convene every year or so for a roadtrip—which he plans brilliantly, around his national parks checklist and/or some mutually exciting concert. Fleshed out with local adventure and culinary delights…and much rhapsodizing about music and life and the various downfalls of democracy along the way.

🪨 Rock knowledge & musication 🎸

Pat knows more about music than anyone—any ten people I know. Name a band, big or small; this man will tell you where they’re from and how many times he’s seen them, recounting hilarious misadventures, venue anecdotes, and legends at every turn.

Which is the other wasteland magnetic pull drawing us here, specifically, to this place in time—we have tickets for Nine Inch Nails at the MGM back in Vegas. A longtime bucketlist concert, with a backstory I won’t get into here.

For now though, we have 2 solid days to make the most of Death Valley (worth a year of exploration, at least). Where neither of us have ever been—yet somehow seems strangely familiar…

From Star Wars scapes to saltwater spa for the soul 🦶

If you visit at the right time, Death Valley’s Badwater Basin may be playing host to Lake Manly—sporadic guest and unpredictable lingerer; ghost of ancient aquascapes, reappearing unannounced as this winter-melt wading pool of shallow saltwater, cupped in the broad nadir between mountains.

We stripped off our dusty shoes and hiking socks and stepped into the cool sun-sparkling water…calf-deep as far as you care to go, over a pan of pebble-sized salt crystals (reminiscent of the Dead Sea). Which scrubbed our soles soft and clear as we sloshed around…as we breathed the briny fresh air and soaked up the infinite blue sky all around:

Then the countdown calendar demanded we return to the city and brave the madness; make our way through the human turnstile of hustle & toil…Matrix-style, dodging offers and scams and the zombie gaze of the lifers. We had to join the chaos to blend in, swilling high-end cocktails to jumpstart the transition…followed by the usual downward stepladder of whiskies, as wallet thins and palate thickens.

Surviving the neon tumult long enough to check off another bucketlist concert before it’s too late…to witness the lingering power of an aging rock god filling a stadium with sound and fury and resounding catharsis for the congregation here assembled. 🙏🤘

🎤 Rhyming hole with soul (and other ingenious thoughtcrimes)

The NIN concert and mania of Las Vegas (for 2 non-gamblers) is a story for another time. But here’s proof that it happened:

Bucketlist Q: Who would you go see, and where? 💬👇

And what national park could you visit nearby?

This week we hosted our annual(ish) Christmas Tree Burning Party—a highly anticipated and exciting event that viscerally illustrates the importance of keeping your tree well watered when it’s sitting in your living room.

To our surprised delight, the night we picked (based on the cleaning lady’s schedule) auspiciously happened to fall on the eve of Lunar New Year. So we ratcheted up the ceremony a bit, to match.

🤲 Playing with spirit fire & moonshadow

You may be familiar with the 12 animals of the Lunar Zodiac (perhaps from Chinese menus), which rotate annually and mark each year with certain characteristics. A child of 1986, I’ve always known I’m a Tigerborn—but did you know that each year is also associated with one of 5 elements?

These cycle every 2 years, such that years ending in:

• 0-1 = Metal

• 2-3 = Water

• 4-5 = Wood

• 6-7 = Fire

• 8-9 = Earth

So in 2026, we’re galloping into the Year of the Fire Horse (a rare alignment that happens only every 6 decades), which promises pummeling change and high-stakes challenges. For fun reference, the previous Fire Horse year was 1966…pretty tumultuous even by era standards.

🧨 Make it a good one

Before setting spark, we all wrote our hopes, intentions, and manifestations for the new year on notecards and tucked them into the dry evergreen branches…to rise up with the flames and disseminate into the spiritual atmosphere.

Meanwhile we celebrated togetherness and friendship, and warmed up the late-winter evening with a spigot-dispenser of hot mocktail (I took mine spiked with reposado mezcal), and finally gathered outside around my hand-dug firepit to watch the previous season go up in a cleansing and invigorating inferno🎄🔥

🍹 Drink o’ the Feast

Pineapple Upside-Down Cake:

• 6 parts pineapple juice

• 4 parts cherry juice

• 1-2 parts maple or honey

• 1 part cream (or coconut milk)

• Pinch salt

• 1-2 dashes Fee Brothers Black Walnut bitters

• Optional: Add 4-6 parts reposado mezcal, whiskey, gin, or your chosen spirit

• Serve hot, topped with whipped cream & grated nutmeg

Heat ingredients over medium without letting it boil, then add liquor (if desired), garnish, and serve.

What are you looking forward to this year? Comment below! 👇

Which makes it all the more important to seek outside perspectives on my fiction, before I attempt to do anything public with it. Otherwise I could easily fall into a private Plato’s cave of perfect little pieces of shadow-dancing prose meaningful only to me.

Because ultimately—though what I love most is the actual solitary writing part, the wordplay and boundless astral flight—the undeniable truth is I’m also demon-driven to share my words out broadly and touch people’s lives, including those I’ll never meet.

So a few months ago, when I finished my first draft of my latest novel (Animal Farm for the MAGA era), I hired a professional editor to tell me how much it sucked.

I paid her NOT to be nice 👨‍💻🔨

For the past 20 years (!) I’ve been expanding my writing skills and experience through various formal and informal means—but last week for the first time in years, I managed to feel like a beginner again.

I’ve had no shortage of great suggestions & advice through the years, from magazine editors and informal fiction readers, and I’m very receptive to any helpful ideas about my prose. But my first experience with a formal fiction editor managed to break open not only my would-be novel itself—but also my process of writing it, and any future novels.

🏺 A shattered vessel repaired with gold

Let it be confessed in bold italics, I’m a born freewriting freak—juggling entire worlds, characters, conversations, plotlines, themes, wordbanks, and more, in the magic trapper-keeper of my mind…painstakingly organized by intuitive pathways inscrutable even to me.

But turns out that superpower is a super double-edged blade, and it can dig you deep into a decades-long hole of superhuman discipline…powering through 10,000 hours utterly heedless to the foundation missing underneath. Building incredible polished works on sand, which crumble to beautiful shards upon inspection.

Well last week I was saved from that continued Sisyphean trajectory by a true master of the editorial craft.

🔎 What is an Editorial Assessment?

First we talked about what I’m hoping to get out of this, and the Whys of my project. Then Cara took time to carefully read the entire 400-page manuscript 2-3 times, making notes and assembling her full assessment.

Finally we talked for almost two hours, touching on what’s working and what’s desperately falling short…and she walked me through the critical components at the foundation of any good story, no matter how it’s told.

🗝️ Essential Elements of Story

After years of schooling, none of these concepts were new to me—but somehow Cara brought them all home in a cohesive, direct, obvious way that clicked and revealed what I’ve been missing all this time, like an optometrist switching to option B.

Character

Without getting too into it, my narrator character wasn’t right for the role—and I wasn’t right to write her. It was a good concept, but Cara suggested a much better one, more in line with my intentions and what the story is about…with plenty of relevant conflict and personal stakes, flaws and opportunities for connection.

Central Question/Argument

A single-sentence driving force & thru-line that carries the whole story like a ridgepole, and gets answered (in some way) by the climax.

• Can men & women be just friends? – When Harry Met Sally

• Can love triumph over enmity/rivalry? – Romeo & Juliet

• Is family more important than ethics/values? – Godfather

• Is vengeance worth it? – Numerous

Here’s mine: Can small acts of bravery/defiance/connection make a difference?

Main Plotpoints

Every well-wrought story of any length follows this essential pattern (with some variation depending on medium, character contingent, and other factors):

• Act I

  • Intro character & world

  • Inciting Incident

  • Accepts the Journey

• Act II

  • Midpoint/Ramp-up

• Act III

  • Turning Point / Final piece of knowledge

  • Climax

  • Resolution/Denouement

Scene By Scene Outline

With the above points all covered, my next step begins with a big blank wall of my office, divided into Acts I-III.

Using sticky putty and notecards (color coded for each main character), I’ll lay out the story outline, connecting the dots between Main Plotpoints…with each notecard structured thus:

After that, the actual writing/composition should roll out easy peasy; finishing touches on a building made to stand and deliver for the ages.

🪄✨ Good editors transform writers into authors

My experience with Cara was shattering & uplifting, revealing & inspiring…and absolutely worth every penny—10x the pennies, if I had it to give.

I’m so excited for this new way forward, I’m trembling with anticipation writing this…itching to get at those notecards and start rewriting from scratch the story I meant to write in the first place.

With this one smart/lucky move, I just fully leveled up my character in this novel-writing game. All that remains is to enter the arena and flex my new capabilities, see how far it can take me...

✍️

PS – Want to change your own writing life for good? Here’s your personal Accepts The Journey moment: Comment/reply and I’ll connect you with the best editor I’ve ever met.

So instead of posting prompts & recap as planned, I’ll tell you what happened Monday afternoon, unplanned.

📝 Today a young man accidentally dropped acid…

That is to say—I ate the tabs very much on purpose. But the accident was, I didn’t expect it to work.

You see, I have no memory of where these tabs came from, who gave them to me, nor how long ago. They’ve been neatly wrapped in foil, hidden in a corner of my box o’ tricks for…five? ten? years now, waiting for some Right Time never come.

But today the entire box fell off my shelf…and after I finished cursing in tongues and gathered up the catastrophic scatter, I found the little lost square of folded foil and set it aside.

I thought surely by now the potency must’ve evaporated into the ether whence it came…but only one way to find out. And until then it constituted clutter. So I had to unsee it while deciding how/when to dispose of it.

👨‍💻 Writing with a purpose

My plan for the afternoon was to strap myself into my writing cockpit and leave behind the world’s chaos for a while. My mission: blow apart my novel outline and dogfight through a tricky narrative roadblock to ascertain what exactly the whole thing is about, underneath it all.

It was going great, a promising outline rolling out under my fingertips. Then a sunbeam crossed my desk, and a small glint there caught my magpie eye.

Well hell, why not? I could use a little creative jolt. With any luck, maybe a touch of magic still remained in that little half-inch square of blotter, which might just open the curtains and let in some insight. At worst, chewing on the tiny slip of paper offered a good anticipatory rumination, activating salivary and creative juices alike.

In that naive and innocent prelude, I settled in and started reconfiguring my novel plotline, mapping out characters’ journeys and realigning conflicts. Looking forward to a long strong afternoon of focus.

🌈 The clock struck half past Now

An hour or so after I’d spat out the paper and given up on any magical intercession…I noticed the edges of my screen shifting colors. Real subtle, like I could just be making it up, willing it to be. I checked my senses. The music sounded weird, kinda drawn out and echoey…but that’s just the soundtrack I chose; an album I haven’t listened to in years.

Nah, not tripping. Just mildly floaty, uplifted enough above the big picture to grasp all the threads and rework my new outline. Seeing unusual but important connections and weaving in ideas sprung out of nowhere. Making great progress...

Then I become aware of my hands typing, rippling with strange faint shadows; geometric capillaries wefting my skin…and I realize I might potentially be entering actual trip territory here—coinciding with my weed guy’s text that he’s 10 minutes out with my order.

I chuckle at the notion, and slip into the first gentle wave of helpless mirth at what I’ve just done, my afternoon now ahead…

I pulled myself out of the rippling current enough to answer the door and accept my delivery without too much goofy banter—and gratefully returned to the keyboard to capture all my sifting thoughts before they escape.

🌀 Writing on LSD 😵‍💫

Eventually the trip waves swell too strong to continue writing, as words and letters swirl on the page before me in a complex tarantella of meaninglessness.

It’s happening. Any experienced psychonaut knows that you cannot resist a trip nor attempt to swim upstream against the psychedelic state…you must go with it, whither it will.

So I acquiesce and abandon my self-assigned writing task, moving to the couch to stretch out and embrace the new paradigm. But my dog’s already there, so I curl up alongside and hit repeat on the incredible song soaring out from my phone.

🎼 When the time is right

Violins build and splurge into a heavy metal riff; falling off and ratcheting with emotion, rising and falling through chord progressions, swinging verses, and rhythmic drops, driving up the stakes through a melodic bridge and madman guitar solo to a climactic visceral appeal—and echoing away hauntingly to stunned silence.

Wanting to revisit that sensuous torrent of sound, I hit repeat again…

Like walking into a dream…

and wind up spending the next 2 hours curled in place petting my dog and listening on repeat—alternately sobbing and laughing as my mind glides with the current of music and drug through visions of my hoped-for future and the implications of success…riding empathy spirals deep into the months and years ahead, helplessly writhing with excitement and sadness, revelation and shadows, giddiness and nostalgia aforethought…thrilling on this astral wring-out and residing in that bittersweet ecstatic state on repeat…until finally driven from my embryonic berth by a burgeoning bladder bellowing to be delivered of its burden.

🔮 Ask the oracle—expect surprise

This wasn’t at all the insight I set off to gain in my quest to understand my novel better. I guess that’s how it works though, when you consult something with the inner-bending power of an oracle. Ask for insight and you’ll get it—but in unexpected ways, and you may not know how to interpret until much later.

But in the moment it turned out to be just the ego death I needed, to cleanse myself of the recent angst and acerbic resentment that’s been building lately in my soul; to let go of everything and flush out my emotions in this enervating rush of sonic solitude…and set me back upright on the inner path.

I disentangled myself from canine and couch and shuffled to the bathroom to lighten myself in yet another way, and splash cold water over my weepy face.

Whereupon I sat down here to begin composing this missive to you. ✍️

You reply, “Glad to be here,” or something similar.

I ask, “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready for what?”

“For some words,” I say, “that you definitely need to hear.”

“Well don’t leave me hanging,” you press. “What are we talking about?”

Dialogue can make or break a scene. It can advance the action, distract from the action, plant seeds of doubt & conflict, and ratchet up the narrative tension through power dynamics, emotional triggers, and/or comedy (e.g. Ships In The Night miscommunication conversations).

More importantly dialogue can reveal so much about the characters—

• what’s said

• what’s not said

• how it’s said

• how it’s replied (or not)

So this weekend with The Write Stuff group we’re gonna have some fun making images speak (like the warmup prompt below), and practice writing dialogue together.

📝 The Shipping Box dialogue prompt:

1. Set a timer for 7-10 minutes.

2. Minimize narrative in favor of dialogue.

3. Write a conversation from the image (aim for climax & resolution):

   

4. After the timer, read your dialogue aloud & edit accordingly (optional).

Example:

"Did you order something?"
"Nope, not me. Who's it addressed to?"
"Just says Management."
"Should we open it?"
"No wait—what if it's a bomb? Or anthrax?"
"Anthrax? Hey checking in from 2026..."
"So maybe a bomb?"
"Who would be bombing us?"
"Well I'm not opening it. Call security."
"More likely it's from some secret whistleblower."
"Who would be whistleblowing us?"
"Only one way to find out..."
The sound of tape ripping off cardboard fills the small office and

⌛️

When to use it

• Dialogue warm up

• Explore character interaction

• Practice brief conflict arcs

• Any time, with or without the image

Try it yourself and post your results in the comments! 👇

By the time you read this, I’ll be somewhere on the long desolate road between ABQ and Austin, TX visiting family with the dogs. To pack that time with value, I’ll either be taking a 12-hour audio stroll with Alexander the Great, via Dan Carlin’s podcast series Mania For Subjugation…

Or I’ll be juicing my creative spirit with a second audiobook listen to Rick Rubin—famed music producer & creative genius—assuring me most mellowly that The Creative Act [is nothing short of] A Way of Being, and I’m doing right by my soul (and the universe itself) in pursuit of understanding myself and my world through my craft.

The Creative Act: A Way of Being – Rick Rubin

According to Rick Rubin, everyone is engaging in the creative act—whether artist, janitor, doctor, accountant, or whatever it is that you do.

With that understood, he offers some simple ideas, mindset shifts, and process steps—distilled from long impressive experience & high-stakes study—for how to expand the creative notion into the corners of your life & practice, to motivate progress and find joy in the doing.

Whatever type of project or growth trajectory you’re working on, this book will make you feel uplifted and emboldened, ready to face any challenges with warrior-poet vigor and aplomb.

Anyway this one’s going in my reread/listen as needed file…check it out here.

A thousand thanks to those who showed up! We had a great time writing and sharing our words & observations, jibing on the collective flow. I’m already thinking about images for the next one…

Couldn’t make it but still wanna practice? Grab your notebook and follow along with the recap video ☝️ (if you only see a clip, start your free membership for full access)—and get inspired hearing some incredible writing produced on the fly by supposed “non-writers” just having fun!

📝 Writing Prompts & Images (Setting)

Warmup – 5 mins

Write Right now I am at the top of the page and just keep going, stream of consciousness til the timer. More about this prompt.

Time & place – 7 mins

Introduce the setting:

Mine: Afternoon fades as the sun arcs toward the far horizon beyond the house. Decades ago they were so proud of the windows, the glass shipped from out East. Long since broken out by stones hurled by superstitious passersby. Picked up from the dry desert wasteland surrounding the house. Tufts of scrub grass eking out a living from the barren rocky soil—where once grandpa grew corn and hearty kale.

The windows gaze blindly out from cracked plaster walls watching for some drained future. While

Engage the senses – 7 min

Describe the setting:

Mine: They built the bridge in a day, hauling in the fresh boards in stacks on the wagon. The smell of pines filled the air, and the fresh misty scent of the river churning between lichen-crusted boulders over algae-slippery rapids.

They built the bridge in honor of their friend who fell while crossing upstream a ways, and was found wedged here in the rocks. The fresh cut plank ends dripped with resin in the warm sun as they laid them across the long steel supports and bolted them down with a clank of hammers, that still sometimes echo in the forest when the air is just right, when the moon reflects through the trees at the right angle. Through

Mood & tone (part 1) – 5 mins

Introduce the setting through the lens of Excitement/Eagerness:

Mood & tone (part 2) – 5 mins

Introduce the same setting through the lens of Fear/Anxiety/Dread.

⏰

Mine part 1, Excitement/Eagerness:

I finally climbed the stairs and fitted the key in the lock. How many times had I envisioned this moment? I bought the whole house sight unseen for its attic—which they assured me was untouched since the Great Old Legend died.

Paintings filled the tiny cramped space, leaning modestly on walls & bannister with their backs to me as I stooped under the rafter lined with antique pottery and surveyed the room. How many millions worth of unreleased works in this cluttered treasure chest of a room? Like that vivid array of flowers sprayed across a canvas

Mine part 2, Fear/Anxiety/Dread:

He slowly sinks to the floor, crosslegged on the dusty paint-spattered raw boards. The shout comes again from downstairs, from the front door just kicked open moments ago. He traces the oilpaint ridges of a vase of flowers, the slight give of the canvas as the boots clomp up the stairs.

Behind the tapestry is a door to the roof…but he can’t leave the attic. Can’t let them find what they’re looking for. The code is on back of one of these canvases…if they find it, all is lost.

He reaches into a pocket and strikes a match…as the attic trapdoor creaks open…inhaling the cleansing aroma of sulfur and wood and dry canvas…

👇 Join our next live session—He Said / She Said “Dialogue Day”!

Read more

Join us on Zoom using the link below! (Not a full member yet? Try it free)

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Happy goalsetting week!

Hope you’re getting back into the swing of things…like I am, slowly but surely. Some of my resolution highlights for 2026:

• Dry January

• Climb 2x per week

• Host TWS writing group 2x per month (see below)

Plus all my own writing goals, but I won’t get into that here…

📖 Standout reads from 2025

Each year I set out to read 50 books and wind up finishing 30-40, which I dub a success. My reading list (find me on Goodreads) includes a fair share of perennial favorites, along with plenty of new hits and near misses in my ongoing search for excellent writing.

Friends often ask me for novel recommendations (and I love getting into it)…so here are 3 of my first-time reads that bowled me over this year:

The Dutch House – Ann Patchett

A wrenching and love-woven epic of inheritance and loss, enriched by enchanting imagery and character-driven narrative. Fueled by the trauma bond between brother & sister through the decades, as they try to flee the rubberband anchor of their past…almost like a grimly funny Hansel & Gretel in reverse.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn – Betty Smith

I knew about this coming-of-age classic but never read it til now. She pulls you right into the tenement poverty of pre-WWI Brooklyn, floating along on American hopes & dreams. Vividly voiced and vibrantly sensitive, it’s fluid and trim and present in a way not many novels from this era can touch.

Chucklesome highlights include an unexpected (and somewhat unwilling) new perspective on the Tree in question; the tenacious and fast-growing Tree of Heaven (Ailanthus altissima), insidious nemesis of any urban homeowner. But of course the young narrator is very much not a homeowner, and for her it’s a symbol of relentless hope in the cracked concrete crowded expanse she hopes to both capture and escape through her budding writing talent.

Bewilderment – Richard Powers

Definitely not a light & airy beach read, but absolutely worth getting into when you have the head/heart space. You’ll want to focus and sit deep with its narrative rhythms…feel the love and frustration of a father finding wonder trying to see through the eyes of his autistic son in a cruel and tumultuous world.

Be ready to laugh and sob in the same paragraph breath, as your hopes and fears swing out among the stars and reflect back into your innermost corners. Optional pro tip: Revisit Flowers For Algernon first.

*Buying? Support non-Amazon vendors via the Bookshop.org links above 🙏

Come write with us! 📝

We meet on Zoom for ~1 hour and write based on a series of timed prompts (preferably in a notebook, so you can’t revise mid-flow). Camera on or off, mute or musing aloud—totally up to you.

See upcoming sessions & sign up

When to use it

• Basic warm up

• Anxiety grounding

• Break through writer’s block

The prompt:

1. Set a timer for 5-10 minutes.

2. At the top of your page write Right now I am and just keep going, stream of consciousness.

3. Keep your pen moving nonstop until the timer buzzes.

Example:

Right now I am sniffling a bit as I type this, knowing I’ll have to finish up quick and blow my nose. The chair under me rolls back and forth with impatience, the tick-tock of my body in space while my mind focuses anywhere but the clock. Not wondering how long it’s been, just feeling my fingers move over the keys and watching the words stream across the blank white page…

👇 Try it now and comment your thoughts!

Can’t wait to write with you soon!

The act of writing is good for the soul—even if no one ever reads it. I get huge kicks out of sharing what I know about writing and seeing people grow in their ability, confidence, and delight.

Come hang out with me and an inspiring group of creative & supportive new friends—and spice up your writing practice with a fun touch of consistency, guidance, and accountability! 😇

Try it free for 30 days!

Want to join a session? Sign up via links at end of page👇

Register for an event to get your Zoom link & calendar invite!

Upcoming writing events

🚀 Inaugural TWS Session – Sunday 1/11 at 1:11pm MTN

Let’s play with setting & scene-work, looking at images of place and exploring stationary tension & mood-building.

🗣️ He Said / She Said “Dialogue Day” – Jan 25 at 1pm MTN

Let’s hear what our images have to say, exploring conflict and context through dialogue, as characters reveal themselves through conversation.

💖 Be My Valentine – Feb 8 at 1pm MTN

Let’s get silly with love notes, haikus, couplets, and emotive exercises to open minds and hearts to that all-important character in your life.

👯 Déjà Duality – 2/22 at 2:22 pm MTN

Let’s explore parallels, clashing perspectives, double-meanings, and other tension-rich dual/duel devices.

About our live writing sessions

We’re here to have fun with writing and uplift each other’s creative endeavors. Each Zoom session revolves around a thematic series of timed prompts—images, lines of text, sometimes even soundtracks—and we just write until the timer tells us to move on.

Everything is optional; this is your writing practice…we’re just here to be friendly accountabilibuddies.

Learn more about TWS

🗓️ Session sign-up links👇 (members only)

Read more

It’s time for my annual ritual of setting strenuous goals for the year ahead—and here’s one that affects you directly.

In my neverending quest to make this thing a little more consistent & interactive, and commune with all the creative spirit assembled here (also being massively inspired recently by the Introvert Drawing Club)…I decided to evolve this quasi-random newsletter to include a more-or-less weekly wordplay group:

We’ll sit down together on Zoom for a while with quills ascratchin…guided by a series of brief prompts to play with various aspects of writing, thinking, storytelling, and observing.

This won’t be Serious and Important Writing or have any purpose beyond a few friends mingling minds and engaging energetically…supporting & uplifting each other for ~45 mins of focused creative writing each week.

For example I might show the image below and set a timer for 10 minutes while we all write:

Then I’ll share mine, and welcome anyone else to share theirs (no pressure), before moving on to the next timed prompt.

You can join the conversation and muse aloud…or sit on mute and write in audio solitude, just soaking up the vibes. Whatever inks your pen.

💬 What if I’m not a writer?

You are though! This is for anyone who assembles the alphabet into messages for any purpose. Come hit the writing gym with me and sharpen your language and focus, for whatever your storytelling end-goals.

Let’s lay down some lines together and ride the redoubled brainwaves of communal creativity.

You in…?

👇 Answer the poll and/or reply if you’re interested!

Last month I applied for a long-shot opportunity to change my life. Which gets my heart racing, even writing this euphemistic intro stringing it out for narrative tension. Yet at the same time, the very thought of sharing this with you sets off klaxons in the deepest ingrained security-system of my soul…

You see I grew up not exactly superstitious, but somewhat-to-ratherstitious about speaking aloud the future joys of something I want most fervently—lest it be whisked away by jealous fates (knock on wood). Masked of course, in the stoic (and logical) notion of not getting my hopes up high enough to be dashed.

But recently I learned about the concept of manifesting (or what used to be called prayer, before praying got all pious and political) and realized I better share this longtime fervent hope out loud, instead of letting it wither under a basket. So allow me to tap into the collective spirit here with you, and channel a little extra soul juice into my moonshot attempt to land 1 of 10 spots for 1500+ applicants.

I know the magic works, because looking back I’ve accidentally manifested plenty in my life—not all of it positive; and much tangential instead of runways to what I actually want. In this case though, my intention is clear, conscious, and tuned to my desired new future present (thanks to ’s workshop on the subject).

So here’s what I did, where I’d like your help…

Pursuant to my goal of going fulltime fiction by 40 (next October), I applied for a coveted fiction fellowship at Stanford—which offers emerging novelists 2 years of full financial (and community) support to work on promising projects.

So now you know. Now you’re a co-conspirator. Accomplice to me bending the universe around my ardent intent to deliver good fiction full-time, for readers to devour and delight in.

Manifest with me:

Picture the day I get my Stegner Fellowship acceptance—doublechecking to make sure it’s real—as my vagus line erupts with electricity, anticipation sizzling through and out my fingertips and toes. Heart pounding into the breach, surging hot iron excitement through my veins and muscles and mind. Ready to bound over the nearest wall or smash through the stubbornest blinking cursor. Feeling invincible against the slings & arrows of doubt and time-sucking work commitments, pummeling headlong into this new deep focus and dream career…

Rise with me each morning smelling the Bay again, giggling with gratitude that my whole workweek is now devoted to getting my 2 promising novel projects off the ground and worthy of readers (see below).

Can you picture it…? I can; my scalp is tingling. Join me if you will, in observing that multiverse bubble hard enough to phase-shift our reality into that version of events.

Fellowship starts next fall and I’ll find out April 1st (yeah…)—so if you think of it between now and then, put in a good word for me with your preferred spiritual source, higher power, and/or classic god of any mythology.

And envision me opening that envelope/email/phonecall in the spring and telling you it worked, we did it—that I’m a 2026 Stegner Fellow, embarking on a long career making a good living writing powerful novels for smart readers like you! 🙏

Want more juicy details? Here’s my entertaining & revealing Stegner Statement of Plans w/ novel blurbs (full subscribers only; consider it a coin in the fountain 🤓)

Read more

As I’ve done with most of the books ruined by English classes, I’ve reread Gatsby a few times since then; always gaining something new relative to each phase of life.

Most recently I picked it up after visiting a friend and stumbling upon a special exhibit on “Gatsby at 100” at the Minnesota Institute of Art—pairing visual pieces from a century ago with passages from the book.

Speaking of pairing, here’s a summery classic cocktail you can sip along with the characters (whether you revisit the book or not):

Gin Rickey

• 1 lime, quartered

• 2 oz gin

• 2-3 tsp sugar (or .75 oz simple syrup)

• Club soda

1. In a shaker (or sturdy pint) muddle lime & sugar into a slurry.

2. Add gin and swirl.

3. Pour into a tall collins glass, add ice, and top with soda.

4. Garnish: lime wheel or wedge.

Upon returning home I picked up The Great Gatsby…and this go-round through the dark jaunty pages proved no different. It’s a surprisingly short read—almost a novella if you wanna get technical—with the flow and flavor of a poem, but crystal clear in what it delivers.

You open the first pages as a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed visitor sidling up to this inaccessible society of seriously scurrilous people, with fuck-you money and not much to do besides drink and complain about the summer heat and each other and solemn values they don’t exhibit.

But somehow you look past that and stick around for the party. Because you’re enchanted by the sensitive and lyrical prose of this jazz-age threnody to the American Dream…even as you witness a level of deadly ennui and casual cruelty that would scarcely be believable—if we weren’t living in an age where bored billionaires are shittifying the world, and the president is throwing a Gatsby-themed party while taking food from the mouths of children and babies.

A century ago, much was different; but the arc and momentum of accumulated wealth was the same…inevitably a crash ensues, at the hands of callous disregard fueled by private grievances. And the whole party turns out to be a glittery sham put on by a gilded hollow man clinging to a dream that has moved on, or maybe never was. At least not as we used to see it…

Okay so I guess this time rereading Gatsby maybe it did hit a little different after all. What about you?

By the way, if you’re one of those non-Amazon people, use my Bookshop.org referral link for 20% off your order.

Much hilarity and drama ensues, and even if you haven’t read Animal Farm, I think you’ll dig it—and I’m nearly done, with part of it already in the editor’s hands. Only problem is, I can’t write the damn thing fast enough…

If I could’ve finished and published two months ago, I’d already be hailed as some kind of dark prophet of doom, for how many of my fictional predictions keep coming true after the writing…as POTUS and his goons keep stealing my scenes and lines.

Here’s a passage I wrote several weeks ago:

Well guess what…last week, at a roundtable about the non-existent non-organization of non-terrorists known as Antifa (which just means anti-fascist, and therefore describes every loyal American)—Trump was asked: “Have you given any more thought to possibly suspending habeas corpus, to not only deal with these insurrectionists across the nation, but also to continue rapidly deporting illegal aliens?”

“Suspending who?” Trump responded confused and annoyed, before deflecting the question to the DHS secretary.

No goddamn lie. When I heard that my heart fell to my toes. Not only at the horror of Magas even talking about habeas corpus…but also at the feeling of being plagiarized aforethought; and watching my words suddenly bloom with the power of proof—while simultaneously losing their impact, because no one has seen them but me.

And the worst part?

That chintzy bastard’s line was better than mine.

New here? Start with Episode 1: Welcome Home.

Dr Kyrios holds up the empty package of candy your grandkids accidentally left behind this morning after their visit.

“Did you eat some of these?” he asks with concern. “These are psilocybin chocolates. Magic mushrooms.”

“They’re delicious; I opened the bag after they left and just couldn’t stop.”

Dr Kyrios stares aghast, alarmed, dismayed. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“Do you realize what could’ve happened?”

“Do you realize what DID happen?”

Dr Kyrios opens his mouth to reply—but then shuts it and draws a deep slow breath through flared nostrils, and sighs heavily through his nose. You can see the little muscles flickering in his jaw.

“Did you know what they were?” he asks in a quiet low voice. “That it was drugs?”

“I thought it was just chocolate. What kind of drugs?”

Kyrios gapes again and looks down at the empty packaging still in his hand. Eyes narrowing as he doublechecks the dosage.

“A powerful psychedelic at high doses, similar in effect to LSD,” he says. “You ate all of them?”

“The hippie drug?”

“The hippie drug.”

“Well I sure wasn’t seeing rainbows or rocking my soul to kumbaya,” you chuckle. “So maybe it was a bad batch.”

“What did happen?” Kyrios leans in curious.

“I’ll take you back to the beginning,” you tell him.

Sitting in your recliner reading after breakfast, eating chocolate after chocolate…until eventually the book started breathing; words swimming around on the page like alphabet cereal in milk.

You thought you were just tired, or maybe over-stimulated from the fancy coffee your grandkids had brought; so you put the book away to rest your eyes for a while. Then sounds washed over you like slow spring rain, like your hearing aids were picking up random noises and conversations in the hall—only you weren’t even wearing them.

At that point you realized what was happening; that the hearing aids had actually always been noise-canceling headphones, fitted by the whitecoat staff upon arrival to stifle the screams and spectral student susurrations coming through the walls—not classrooms, but padded cells—part of a concerted and systematic effort to hide the truth of this place from the residents themselves. Inmates in a teachers’ asylum.

You swirled through that maelstrom of dark introspection for a good while; a cacophony of remembered voices chiming in, seeding doubt or uprooting it with songs of success…

Suddenly everything made so much sense. The staff in their scrubs, the open-door visiting hour, the plastic plates and cups. All the better to treat you with, my dear. Dissonant echoes of long-gone classrooms tuned to harmony. The cosmos aligned, pure understanding shining through.

Long hours passed, or maybe days or just minutes…reveling in that delightful trip down glory lane, enveloped in a rhapsodic peace that seemed like it would last forever…

“And that’s when you showed up for our weekly appointment.”

“You ate them what, five-six hours ago?” Dr Kyrios checks his watch. “So what’s happening now?”

Your awareness returns to your cozy independent-living apartment at Neverland Estates, the firm sofa underneath you, the slippers on your feet like fleecy little hugs.

“Everything just feels intensely at ease,” you tell him. “Serene, mellow, effusive.”

“And…the giggles?”

“At one point during that asylum nightmare,” you explain, “I had an important revelation: If the children are giggling—even giggling at you—that means they feel safe with you. Unworried, secure, comfortable. Might as well feel safe with them.”

Dr Kyrios shrugs his chin, dark bottlebrush brows knit over the open wound of his ignorance.

“What I mean is, Doc, whether frightening ghosts, new ideas, or this strange drug—once you stop fighting it and turn toward, explore what it has to offer…the fear dissolves into curiosity, and you can’t help but vibrate in tune with the incredible dynamic unity of it all, as the universe bends around you with uplifting energy.”

“Sounds like quite an experience,” Dr Kyrios mutters. “A real hero’s journey. I’m glad you’re back with us and safe.”

New here? Start with Episode 1: Welcome Home.

“As you know, the word Asylum is also considered passé. But more importantly,” Dr Kyrios says, “This is a retirement community.”

“A what?”

“You’re not in a psychiatric hospital,” Dr Kyrios explains. “You’re in an Independent Living unit in Neverland Estates. Your family just visited...”

A chorus of youthful laughter fills the silence—overwhelming the ducts, the buzzing fluorescents, the pounding heart in the floor underfoot. A teacher down the hall hollers for quiet.

Dr Kyrios shows his clipboard and points to the namebadge on his sweater and then to the marquee sign outside by the parkinglot driveway. All proudly announcing in stout energetic font, Neverland Estates: Retirement Community.

If this is a prank or some kind of devious psych tactic for encouraging vulnerability and deep self-searching, it’s an elaborate one.

In the hall beyond the open classroom/dorm door, a hunched octogenarian inches past pushing a walker. Various talk-shows belt out from various TVs behind various open doors, echoing over the linoleum. Not story analysis or science experiments or math problems…how did it sound like that before?

“But,” you say finally, “that can’t be, Doc—I’m not even old.”

Kyrios smiles kindly. “No one feels old inside. The soul has no age.”

“Whoa…okay, wait a minute. This is a lot to take in.”

Retirement community. Realization returning in waves. But what about…wait, so when was the asylum? No, that was just a bad dream you can’t quite shake. This is Neverland Estates. Your grandkids visited this morning, bringing breakfast burritos and iced coffee. Left that bag of chocolates behind by mistake, too delicious to stop at one…

Suddenly Dr Kyrios looms suspiciously over you, though he hasn’t actually moved—his shadow spilling across your lap, expanding and darkening with menace.

“Hey Doc—why are you here?”

Kyrios looks injured. “This is our complementary weekly counseling session. One of our most cherished services here at Neverland.”

“But I was just—I swear this was an asylum for teachers.”

“You mentioned that,” Dr Kyrios says. “I thought you were teasing.”

Giggles warble in, from the hall, from the vents, filling the room. Nameless shame and confusion. The sunk-heart feeling of a forgotten lesson plan. That undertone dread watching a student get on the bus each afternoon, heading home to a hell you can’t touch.

For a second, the pastel wall is a whiteboard again, boldly declaring WELCOME! to a room lined with empty desks ready to start the school year. Books neat on the shelves, posters tacked up with educational tidbits designed to catch the wandering eye, a table-top calendar of little tear-away student-of-the-day certificates still fat and fresh with promise.

And even when it all twists back to normal, back to the Neverland Estates retirement apartment it always was—it sure looks like if you pressed your finger into the walls, they’d give like closed-cell foam. All the better to bang your stubborn head against, my dear.

Following your darting eye, Dr Kyrios looks around the room, puzzled. Then he spots the candy package in the wastebasket nested in burrito-stained napkins, and fishes it out. He reads the label and frowns.

“Did you eat some of these?” he asks with concern. “These are psilocybin chocolates. Magic mushrooms.”

Suddenly the good doctor’s frown stretches down his chin, drooping over his chest like a disappointed basset hound, big worried eyes pooling under thick bushy brows.

“Well they’re too delicious; I ate the whole bag, after my family left.”

“The whole…” Kyrios glances down at the serving size, swiftly calculating. Shaking his head in disbelief and recalculating, same conclusion. “When, five-six hours ago?”

“How long? I couldn’t really say. Feels like a whole lifetime since then.”

Here’s Episode 1: Welcome Home if you missed it.

When Dr Kyrios comes in, you never know what to expect—after his usual standard greeting:

“How are you today?” he asks.

“Just wish these kids’d stop giggling!”

Dr Kyrios stares for a moment, blinking. Dark bushy eyebrows moving over his face like those caterpillars that presage winter. Then he says, “Tell me more about that.”

But how could he understand? He’s never been a teacher. Never stood before a classroom of children day after week after year. Never bore the weight of little voices falling through the ceiling cracks at night.

That’s the thing about a teachers’ asylum…the halls echo with a ghostly chorus of not just your own students, but also everyone else’s. Various bells ringing at odd hours, children of all ages bustling between rooms shouting things you can’t understand. Endless hushed giggles behind your back, no matter how fast you turn around, still always behind you.

The good doctor tries hard and he means well, but Kyrios’s inability to hear them at all raises serious questions about his credibility, as far as offering advice on how to deal with the noise.

“Nothing really. Nevermind. Just a weird nap dream I was having when you knocked.”

Dr Kyrios nods his salt & pepper curls like this means something, and jots down a note. “Care to say more?”

“About my dream? Classroom full of kids being silly and I was frozen in place. You know dreams...”

“Do you have this dream often?” asks Dr Kyrios.

“Only when my spidey sense knows that you’re about to walk in and ask questions.”

“Say more about that,” Kyrios answers unfazed.

“I’m just kidding. It was only a dream.”

“These giggles,” asks Dr Kyrios. “Do you hear them outside of your dreams? In waking life?”

The ventilation murmurs. The radiator whispers. Somewhere in the building deeps, a huge boiler growls…whether caretaker concern or countdown to catastrophe, it’s hard to say.

“Are you hearing them now?” Kyrios prods. “The giggles?”

Oak leaves chuckle in the breeze, unfelt and unheard outside the sealed window. Squirrels titter in the branches. Geese honk somewhere unseen.

“If I say yes, will you let me go free?”

“You’re saying like, end our session and I leave you alone?”

“I mean like, let me leave the asylum. The giggles are here, Doc. How can I explain?”

Dr Kyrios smiles patiently. “Why do you choose that word?”

“What word, Here? Because I never heard so many echoes until—”

“Asylum. Why that word?”

“Well Doc, I guess because I understand that Nuthouse is considered derogatory these days.”

“As you know, the word Asylum is also considered passé. But more importantly,”

We all chose to be here. That is to say, we all chose the paths that would inevitably, inexorably, indelibly lead us here.

The American Teacher is a special creature. Part caretaker, part masochist, part desperate & valiant hope-torch bearer. Dedicated and self-sacrificing; unburdened by riches to enjoy, or respect to bask in. Exerting unusual strength per size, like worker-ants inexhaustibly tending & expanding the complex twisting tunneled depths of the Youthful Mind.

But what happens when that hopeful torch burns out or gets dropped?

Ever seen an ant in the throes of cordyceps seizure?

Think about your old teachers. Do you ever see them around? Do you know what they’re up to these days, where they are now? If you haven’t seen them (but it seems like you should’ve)—chances are they’re in a place like this, tucked away in some nondescript neighborhood or countryside or cityblock you might pass every day without noticing.

We all wind up here eventually.

The walls are graywashed cinderblock. The floors antimicrobial linoleum. The doors unlock via magnetic fob. Appropriate, given where we spent our worklives. Only here, we’re not the fob holders.

Instead of classrooms, it’s just halls filled with cells. Dorms, they call them, like it’s some fun trip back through college. But instead of bunks, we each have a single shelf built into the wall; covered by something you might could call a mattress—if you squint hard enough to make stars dance in your vision, and don’t actually touch the threadbare thing.

Where once we had whiteboards and educational posters, our walls are now fabric-sheathed memory-foam decorated with nameless oblong stains. The windows don’t open—that’s one thing similar.

We work now with thin felt-tip markers in floppy notebooks…instead of on registered laptops at organized desks. Our chairs are beanbags. It’s for our own safety. Anything hard or sharp around here has a way of finding itself inflicting harm, whether it meant to or not.

Finally after lunch comes planning period—or rather Reflection Hour. Where we sit in our rooms with the door open for a while. The purpose of this enforced vulnerability is unclear…but they say it’s important, and the quiet time is nice. We can read, draw, nap, or just stare at some surface, communing with molecules.

Sometimes one of the office staff will knock gently on an open door and step inside, where the resident within will perk up ready to receive some message from a student’s parent, or important documents to look over—or usually just some pills in a paper cup, for later.

Occasionally even Dr Kyrios makes an appearance, who runs this place; landing somewhere on the Myers-Briggs between principal, warden, and kindly but stern old uncle. He wears a sweater and sensible slacks, but it’s obvious he’d be more comfortable in a labcoat.

When Dr Kyrios comes in, you never know what to expect—after his usual standard greeting:

“How are you today?” he asks.

Start with Part 1 here.

Cate dug, fast but steady…not stopping to acknowledge what she was doing, until her whole garden was inverted; a crater ringed with high dirt piles. Like a paleontology dig—revealing five tangled skeletons, three small and two fullgrown. Human. Mostly decomposed.

And Cate suddenly realized why her garden never needed new nutrients…

She knew what she should do. What Michael and any lawyer would urge her to do. But the thought of her garden swathed in yellow police tape…all those jackboots and fabric-footie bio-suits trampling everything, spilling cigarette ash and powdered-creamer coffee into her beautiful fertile soil…blue-gloved hands excavating the musty (and nutrient-rich) remains into stiff plastic bags bound for some cold sterile forensic lab table…

Cate closed her eyes and murmured some words of gratitude and apology; plus solemn assurances that it’s much more soul-healthy to spend eternity as a mystery pushing up luscious vegetables for a loving community…rather than a ghoulish discovery splashed across newspaper pages and grim headlines, a foul inkblot forever spilled over the final passage of their legacy.

Then Cate sank her shovel into the mound she’d just dug out…and tipped the dirt back into its place in the garden. Thump by crumbling thump she filled in the gruesome archaeological discovery…and then raked the broken soil into furrows to sleep through the winter under its own corduroy comforter. Over top she sprinkled a variety bag of winter wildflower seeds; which if nothing else, would add some color through the gray, and compost come spring planting.

Let us rise, give us light, set us free!

When Michael came home from work, he found Cate outside in the yard sprawled on a chaise longe, facing the freshly harrowed dirt of her garden patch.

“Cate?”

No response. Though her back was to him, in a thick sweater and beanie, Michael could see she had no earbuds in—and his heart started pounding. He trotted down the deck steps and strode toward her across the grass.

“Cate, you okay?”

Michael hurried to round the chase longe, where he could see her face—could see Cate lying there with a mug of cooled tea cradled in freshly painted fingertips, gazing deep into the fallow earth in front of her. Attuned to a chorus only she could hear.

“Mm?” she said looking up at him finally. “Sorry what’d you say, hon?”

Michael sighed. “Nothing, nevermind…I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Cate sat up and surveyed her winterized garden bed. “Can’t believe the season’s over, how fast it went by.”

“Didn’t seem so fast when we were in it,” Michael shrugged.

“True,” nodded Cate. “Time did slow down and stretch out, in there among the plants and produce.”

“Thanks to your green-thumb magic.”

Cate said nothing. Let us rise, give us light, set us free!

“What’s the biggest thing you learned,” Michael asked, “gardening this year?”

Cate pondered that for a while. Thinking of all the knowledge gained and experiments run, the successes and failures. Then of course, what she’d just found underneath…