I swear July snuck up on me like a plot twist none of us approved. One minute I was saying, “I’ll start fresh in July,” and the next minute July said, “Surprise! I’m already halfway done.” My writing so far this month has been… let’s call it “warming up.” I’ve opened my manuscript, stared at it meaningfully, and even scrolled through it like a Victorian ghost haunting its own novel. Actual words on the page? Those are coming soon — allegedly. My goal for July is simple: momentum. Not perfection, not brilliance, just steady forward motion. A few pages, a few scenes, maybe even a chapter if the stars align and my coffee is strong enough. I’m focusing on showing up even when the writing gremlins whisper dramatic nonsense. So yes — you’re not alone. July is already sprinting ahead, but we’re catching up. Here’s to a month of small wins, messy drafts, and the occasional moment where we surprise ourselves by actually writing something good. Let’s do this!

“…how long had those tablets moldered inside that chest, waiting for eyes to read them? While I’m sure you will doubt the truth of the outlandish events they relate, my dear niece, in my transcription, I do not leave out a word.” 2021 “Cloud Cuckoo Land” Anthony Doerr Scribner Fiction FICTION NOVELS First Edition September 2021 This quote comes early in the novel’s framing device, where Antonius Diogenes addresses his niece while passing on the discovered ancient tale of Aethon. My Take: Doerr beautifully captures the quiet miracle of writing and storytelling — the idea that fragile words (etched on wood, paper, or tablets) can survive centuries of decay, neglect, and doubt to reach a new reader. It’s a loving nod to how stories outlive their tellers, especially fitting for a novel that weaves together ancient manuscripts, besieged libraries, and future preservation efforts. The act of faithful transcription becomes an act of hope and defiance against time.

I love writing, reading, and speaking — in roughly that order. Turning 50 brought a surprising clarity: I’ve spent my entire life writing for other people. Ghostwriting, bespoke pieces, marketing plans with no byline — I’ve genuinely enjoyed every bit of it. But now I write for myself, on my own terms. I write because I love the English language. Studying it is one of my greatest hobbies, and I balance my practice between analogue notebooks and digital tools. I share my work online because I enjoy the reciprocal energy of feedback — the way a single comment can spark a new idea or sharpen a sentence. I’m always on the hunt for new books, and I love helping other writers strengthen their voice. How may I help you today?

“Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark.” From: 2005 A Field Guide to Getting Lost — Rebecca Solnit My Take: The quote reminds us that the things we most need — transformation, clarity, reinvention — rarely arrive through control. They come when we loosen our grip, when we stop trying to predict every outcome, when we allow a little darkness to exist without immediately reaching for the light switch. The unknown isn’t a threat; it’s an invitation. A threshold. A place where the self can expand in ways certainty never allows. Most people try to avoid the dark. This quote shows that you can learn to walk into it on purpose.

The Quote: “I realized I didn’t want to write in code anymore.” From: 2021 The Anthropocene Reviewed — John Green My Take: There’s a moment in writing when you stop performing and start telling the truth — not the grand, cinematic truth, but the small one you’ve been carrying quietly for years. That’s what it means to stop writing in code. It’s the decision to stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not, to stop sanding down the edges of what hurts, to stop hiding behind cleverness because vulnerability feels too expensive. When you write without code, you’re not trying to be profound. You’re just trying to be real. You’re admitting that your life has been messy, that your fears have teeth, that your joy is fragile, that your hope is something you have to rebuild over and over. And somehow, that honesty — the shaky, unpolished kind — is what makes the work feel alive. Because the truth is, writing isn’t about revelation. It’s about recognition. It’s the moment someone reads your words and thinks, Oh. I’ve felt that too. And suddenly the world feels a little less lonely, and you feel a little more like a person who belongs in it. PSA: Sometimes it feels like I’m getting quietly escorted out of Skool rooms I didn’t even know I’d entered. A few pages, a few people — gone. No explanation, no message, just a digital door closing. I’ve reached out for clarity and gotten silence, which is its own kind of answer, I guess. If my writing ever rubs you the wrong way, just send me a DM. I’d rather hear it from a human than from an automated ban button. I’m here to connect, not to confuse.