We disguise who we are from ourselves. We do this to keep others away, keep ourselves happy and to, hopefully, chase the demons we deal with.

The disguise we use often depends upon the nature of the demon. Childhood trauma is a big one, but hiding from things we don’t want others to know, this keeps us happy, but also maintains the disguise.

Keeping up the illusion gets harder as we get older, and creating ways to deal with our demons may lead us down a darker path.

A path filled with pills, bottles and cutting, but writing creates a forum for our demons. It brings them to the forefront of who we are, and more importantly who we strive to be.

Writing, like meditation is our outlet and with that outlet we discover we’re stronger than we believed possible, even if we must discover it through our fiction.

Fiction is the one outlet which we can put a character in a situation and possibly work through the issues we’ve dealt with through them.

The process is difficult, but leads us to a different path, one devoid of pills, bottles and hopefully cutting.

Finding the right story to get through our trauma may be difficult, but keeping a journal of the trauma and story ideas helps.

In the pages of our journals we find an avenue to get through the life we had, have and hopefully will lead us to a better day.

Writing fiction helps us to find ourselves through our characters. It encourages us to get through another day and discover, we are better than we were told, and it helps us to know, just like our characters, things to get better.

They get better because we keep writing. We keep trying and we decide the disguise, though useful, isn’t necessary anymore.

When we write, we discover there are others who’ve needed the help. Who’ve waited for something to help them through their dark paths.

We write because we know there’s that one book which helped us, and we want someone else to feel the same hope we felt.

We lose our disguise because we no longer feel the need to hide from the world. We abandon the disguise, we get through it and we write to help others.


The part about writing that always confuses, the writing.

We write, because, well…it’s what we do. There’s nothing I can see myself doing for the rest of my life, definitely not my day-job. I don’t want to be slinging drinks at 50.

I have books by King, Maass and one or two by K.M. Weiland, not to mention Strunk & White.

These books have gathered at my desk for an intervention.

They’re not in a pile, they merely litter my desk like paperback landmines.

One or two sit open, they’re pages alight in streams of fading sun filtering through the blinds.

I see a few of my notes about this, that or the other and find myself drunk from the new knowledge of outlines, plot and character dissection, which oddly sounds like some medieval torture.

I’ve never been fond of these books, but my writing, well it’s on the verge of discovering what landfill flies actually eat, don’t ask.

The headaches are back, the stress of not getting things on the page, when I desperately need the release.

The little synapses are firing, but there’s not much to fire into when the stories are stuck in a no man’s land surrounded by paperback landmines, gas canisters of regret and bullets made of that little gooey stuff that comes out of bugs when you squish them.

I see the books, they’re little bugs telling me to do things I don’t want to do. Outline, plot, character dissection and a myriad of other little things my heart doesn’t want, but my mind keeps telling me, “Listen up, it will help.”

My heart is torn between what my writing wants and what my mind knows needs to happen.

I’ve read all the books, done some of the exercises, but that doesn’t feel like enough tonight. The pillow calls, but I’d rather wrap it around my head with barbwire than leave the desk, because I’m a writer and I have to write.

The writing doesn’t come, it spurts and spills like fresh blood from an artery, cascading across the page in large arcs.

The arcs begin small, but then, something amazing happens…I begin to write.

As a child I remember my father critiquing me for anything he believed I did wrong. If I stood with my hands on my hips, “That looks Gay”, or when I’d get bad grades, “You’re stupid.”

This type of critiquing didn’t go well with my creative side, it impeded it.

Now that I have kids and don’t say those things to them, I learned more about what is a good critique and a bad one and how TM figures in to my writing.

The one thing about TM, is that I no longer care as much about the past, or the future. I’m finally able to live in present, and with the present I’m able to handle criticism a lot better.

I recently got my edits back from an editor, though they’ll change the way I write, they’ll also let me grow as a writer, which is more important.

The edits were on a draft of a novel I wrote and they’re what I’ve wanted to hear from someone who knew what they were talking about.

I’ve attended Meet-Ups, but a lot of them are just a bunch of people gathered to drink at a bar, which may be fun for those who aren’t serious about the craft, but for me they limited what I wanted to do and they were detrimental to my craft.

I knew going in to writing that I needed work, and with the notes I received, I know what I need to fix, and I’m also now more aware of my writing issues.

I no longer live in a world where I care if I’m berated for not cleaning my room, but that prepared me for writing more than anything.

As a kid I had to have thick skin, but I also became aware that I could write to escape things, which went hand-in-hand.

TM allows me to worry less about the critiques I received in the past and let me focus on my present writing issues.

Being critiqued is part of writing, and being critiqued well are the best kind of critiques.

Before TM I was fearful of being critiqued and based what I knew on my experience with my father.

I now know that a critique should be a lesson and not a reprimand.

Whatever future, whatever past, each day brings us to our very last.

These words are something which ran through my head the other day during meditation. I’m not sure where they came from. Maybe I tapped into something which was screaming to be heard, or my mind thought, “let’s screw with him”.

It’s possibly the first and not the latter, but neither would be surprising.

Our future is there in front of us, yelling at us, telling us we can do amazing things, if we’d just do them and quit stalling or being afraid, but fear is always what keeps us from doing things.

Fear drives us to commit horrible crimes and fear creates people who otherwise wouldn’t be heard if not for their fear.

Stealing away from fear, our lives are our own. They are run by us, and only us. We do the things we want, because fear has less hold on us than anything else, but the fear is always there, it’s just hidden away.

Our past may not be the way we wanted it to be, no ones never truly is, but it’s there to learn from, to destroy the fear residing inside and chase the demons of our past into the night.

The night holds fear, but only for those who fear it. There are many things to fear in our world, none of them are truly about fear, more about we believe fear to be.

Fear is that heartbeat in the bottom of your throat, the gasping for air in pool and lies we’ve told.

Our fear, our past and our future are nothing but what we make them out to be. They stand by waiting to be called into battle, but there is little we can do until the battle call is heard.

Fear keeps us from fulfilling who we should be, and not who others believe we are.

Fear disrupts, causes chaos and changes our very subtle rhythm in our hearts, There is nothing more controlling about fear, than the pain of fear.

This pain causes things to wear us down. Take our mind from us and causes us to question who we are, or who we want to be.

The fear of our lives is under our control, how we control it determines how we live our lives, or if we live our lives.

We fall through our lives, waiting for the very last, living in fear of that last day.

We should ignore the fear of our last day until it arrives and then only at that moment when our last gasp comes out will we know that our fear of death meant nothing.

Searching through the files of our lives, they must look like the deleted technology of a long-lost civilization, long burnt down, crashed and falling to ash.

We watch the reel, enjoying the moments of joy and cringe at the moments of self-realization.

Each of these moments have created who we are, the wrinkles, age and that odd grey color in our hair which we swear wasn’t there yesterday.

These moments are unspoiled by time, life and the things we’ve done since.

Through the years of tears, and every one has a year of tears, no one’s life is perfect.

Staying in a reel, we see watch the life we had, and think about the things yet to come. The loves, loss and the disappointment.

There’s nothing more disconcerting than not being able to see these things. Pulling these files from their roster, some collecting dust, others fresh from the other day, none of them are bad, they just are what they are.

Leading our lives through years, days and hours, each new thing we discover is different, but it may feel the same.

We have the same feelings, but different. The same pain without consequence or the laughter without the joke.

There are some of these which lead to our goals and our strength.

Running through the life which never changes, or appears not to things don’t fall away.

These things add caution and fire to what we want. Going  through, we see the difference of who we’ve become, what’s fallen away, what our foundation has become and where the ash has fallen.

They gather in the field, each one of them finding something they hadn’t thought would be there.

Standing in the sun, the crisp air moving through the pasture, the scent of lilacs flows through.

The lilacs, like the people are window dressing for the start of a story, they are something to use, something to give the reader a taste of the future of the story.

Will the scent of lilacs be used later in the story? Will it ever come up again, who knows.

The story we tell, and the window dressing we use to invite readers into our story is what makes us writers. There are our tools.

The window dressing is only a peak, just as the field, whomever is in the field, the crisp air and the scent of lilacs is dressing.

Each of us use different things for window dressing, but it’s all window dressing.

Standing in the middle of the street, he waves his arm while another taxi flies past him.

The ledge he stands on suctions him to curb, the drop is hundreds of feet, but he still tries to get a taxi, even as another ignores him and flies by in a gust of air.

Depending on how you read the above, or whether you understand that the story is possibly science fiction, you see the story differently.

Each story is different because each writer is different.

Something you write may not be published when another writer’s work is, that’s just how it is, and genre doesn’t matter.

Our writing is ours; it belongs to no one else. We write because we’re writers.

What are you using for window dressing to pull readers in?



Getting through your nights and days, you stare at the things you wish to do, the lives you wish to live and the projects you wish to write.

Through different thoughts our mind comes through in the worst way.

We only see certain things. We only exist in certain places and in all our journeys we laugh at the things even our mind sees.

What happens when we see the life coming at us?

You know the one. We see it in our dreams, but it’s always too far off to grasp.

Within our dreams we see the world differently, this is because our dreams suspend the reality which our subconscious hides while we’re awake.

Tapping into the reality within our dreams is the true way to write what our heart wants, and it will bring out the writing which will make things seem different.

Our journey is to get through this life, find out as much as we can, move on to whatever comes next and gain more knowledge.

Maybe in our next life we can live our dreams?

The truth is, why should we wait until after death, when we could do it right now, in this life?

Life comes at us in different directions and keeps us guessing, this is why we dream.

A suspension of belief happens. We’re free to do what we need, and free to see what only our mind sees.

This discovery will make your writing better, keep your mind sharp and dress your stories in a way which will baffle you.

Keep writing and don’t forget, write down your dreams and tap into the reality of your mind.