In an attempt to be more intentional with my words, I’ve wound up not producing a piece for two days out of my regular publishing schedule. And while I’m trying my best to embrace this having occurred, I can’t help feeling like it’s an enormous failure on my part. I can’t remember when it was I got into the habit of writing daily, but somewhere along the line it happened. However, I’ll admit the pressure to do so can sometimes prove overwhelming. It’s all so silly though, because there really is no good reason for me to subject myself to such a gruelling self-created deadline. And maybe my writing has at times suffered for it. But I’m not quite sure I’ll ever know if it has. Or if it even matters.

My only enemy is the person I was yesterday, and I’ll defeat him. Maybe not right away, but certainly at some point. Enters my overtly confessional style, and brutal honesty seems blunt an instrument, which bloodies more than it cuts. I’ll admit something peculiar had a slight impact on my lack of output: a piece I read which claimed that those who produce work as prolifically as I do can be said to be deceptively employing the use of artificial intelligence. And I can blame life getting in the way all I want — errands, chores, social commitments, etcetera — but I’ve personally witnessed a writer who has a hard line stance against the use of artificial intelligence get accused of using it.

So perhaps part of me is deliberately slowing myself down so not as to raise red flags about something I’m not even involved in. How backward and counterproductive. The folks who write these articles on how to spot the use of shortcuts are such predictable clickbait. When did we get so lost in the weeds that we started playing gotcha instead of appreciating a piece we happened across? Look, I get it. People are doing their best to preserve the integrity of the craft, and call out bad actors. But enough is enough. How about we bring something else to the table instead of shouting “J’accuse!” at every Tom, Dick and Harry?

The truth is a lot of these people are doing their best to appeal to the algorithm, which is just as sickening as someone passing off work they didn’t do as their own. I don’t have time for it, and I never really did. I suppose I need to make peace within myself regarding my human limitations. If there is too much going on on a particular day I should grant myself permission to hit pause and not put out a sub par piece. Because a bad article is worse than not publishing at all. I’ve heard whispers that one should just put it out, no matter how many holes it might have in it, but I can’t say I agree. There’s enough content out there for the reader to lose patience with something that hasn’t got any legs, and isn’t going anywhere fast.

Should the focus not be on quality over quantity? I’m not even certain where I stand right now, and it’s a great source of anxiety. I can only measure myself against the yardstick of yesterday (or more succinctly, the day before). I suppose these are the challenges many of us go through as writers. Being unsure of ourselves, or what to leave in or take out. I think the hardest thing for me to accept is that I had this burst of creative energy for about seven weeks, and now I seem to be slowing down. And while there’s no money involved in any of it I still tend to treat it as if it’s life or death. I ask myself whether I’ll produce anything of worth all throughout the day in between day dreaming.

Then, when I actually sit down to work things begin to make sense again. It’s almost like if I’m not working on something I have no idea what to do with myself. That’s a me problem. Some of the writers I follow have a restless energy, and battle to find their niche. But I’ve never thought of my craft in any of those terms. Instead, I just write what I feel and let the chips fall where they may. Because what does it really matter what category anything fits into? To me, what matters most, is that the work gets done and done well. And of course there’s plenty of advice out there about what readers want and how to give it to them, but I don’t necessarily think that’s a wise approach.

You can appeal to a certain target market, agonise over your hook or takeaway, but in the end what it is that determines if you have anything to work with is if you’ve produced anything meaningful. I personally find most writing advice — which is so freely given today — unhelpful and confusing. The way I see it if your piece is strong it’ll find its audience automatically, and no amount of optimising your voice with tips and tricks by self-proclaimed authorities and charlatans will change that. I don’t care about scaling anything, selling anything, or hitting some evasive sweet spot. The bottom line is these people appear deceptive and unethical. They’re manufacturing a following.

They’re not building anything off of blood, sweat and tears. They’re utilising formulas that serve as psychological games — and I’m not about that kind of thing, by any stretch. The problem with those who have too many interests is that they try with all their might to pigeonhole themselves into some particular mould, and it never works. They fantasise about being a single thing — a go-to for one consolidated thing — but that thing never materialises. Why not instead just be you, use your unique voice to explore any of the things that occur to you in the moment? Oh right. Because we’re not all pansters. Writing is an art, not a science. And I wish more people realised this.

I never chastise myself over a good ramble. To me it’s the most human approach one can possibly take. And right now, artificial intelligence can’t do that. Stream of consciousness originates in the recesses of the human mind. All of our experiences lead us to what we’ll say next, but some writers prefer things to be more structured. In short, they want to know all the answers, up front — which are simply unknowable. In an age where creatives turn their art into side hustles at any chance they get we see a lot of hucksters. They tend to forget the reason why they started doing what they did in the first place. And the way I see it, if you’re not solely focused on things for the sake of self-expression you may just secretly be one of these types.

Of course my writing has undergone an evolution from when I first began publishing. I was utterly absorbed in matters of an esoteric nature. I was practising magic, and sharing my experiences about what path the dark arts had led me to. But slowly I began broadening my horizons — and it all happened naturally. It was as natural back then to explore those subjects as it is now to cover the topics I do. I’ve never tried to be anything I’m not. There’s no degree of pomposity or self-importance to my work. I admit freely when I make mistakes. I question my own subconscious motives constantly. And writing has aided me in the process of getting to know myself better.

As a person who was at one time riddled with symptoms of a pretty severe mental illness I don’t think I’m doing so bad at organising my thoughts. I embrace the mess that they can be, and let things take the natural course they do. It’s when we try force something that nothing comes. Because I’ve got some actual time on my hands today I’m able to devote my attention to this piece. I find when there is too much stuff going on around me I’m better off stepping away from the page. And while a professional writer might just have to push through those days when nothing seems to be coming, I have the privilege of standing back and determining that I just don’t have the time.

Of course I’d like to consider myself a professional writer. But I’m not making a red cent off of my output, and I’ve done that deliberately. First off, my belief is that everyone should have access to what I do — irrespective of their financial situation. And secondly, I’ve experienced how it feels to monetise ones art — and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. When something becomes an obligation I detest having to do it. And while this may be a significant personal flaw on my part, it’s just how I am. I prefer doing things I just don’t have to do. And that’s why I write — because it’s the most honest way I can communicate my thoughts to others without sacrificing my principles.

I woke up around one o’ clock in the morning last night and just couldn’t sleep, so I decided to read. I was reading this book by Ryan Holiday, called ‘Discipline Is Destiny.’ It’s a part of his Stoic virtues series, and it’s central theme is temperance — or, put more simply, self-control. In it he made mention of the late author Toni Morrison, and he was saying that her creative process involved getting up before dawn to write. And while that sounds amazing, I don’t do it. In fact, lately I’ve been writing at night. Holiday argues that the later it gets the more tainted we are by whatever we went through during the course of our day. He kind of has a point. We’re all capable of rising earlier.

But most of us don’t. Most of us wake up in a frenzy, rush out the door without breakfast — maybe coffee if we’re lucky — and start our day steeped in anxiety. The only reason I don’t write as soon as I open my eyes is because I like to spend my mornings with my wife. And honestly, that’s the most valuable time I spend on anything all day. However, reading Holiday’s book in the middle of the night got me thinking about a few things. I’m incredibly hard on myself, and with that comes a great deal of self-created pressure. Pressure I could do without if I gave in to my natural inclination to do nothing whatsoever. It’s the only way I get stuff done though. So maybe I need to find a better way.

Punishing myself does me no good. But I struggle to find a middle ground between that and apathy. So naturally, this is the way I am. Or is it? Perhaps this quirk really is a coping strategy I’ve employed to avoid facing myself. If I bury myself in work maybe I’ll discover something unknown. That’s the rationale, and while it may not be sound, I’ve always thought there was a method to my madness. Writing isn’t something that pours out of us non-stop. It takes work. It takes editing, revising, polishing and tweaking. But even in my visual art practice I’m sometimes at a loss. My dilemma continues to present itself to me in different ways lately, and I just can’t seem to solve it.

I tell myself to sit down and write, hoping that’ll lead to some clarity. And it usually does. But right now I’m at a loss as to what I should do. Is there a way to lessen the pressure I put on myself without sacrificing the quality of my work? I’ve never been one to phone it in. I give my all to any given task in front of me. But something tells me I have to make a change. To extend grace and forgiveness to myself when I do something I perceive as a failure. But is that just me getting soft? And losing my edge? I guess my question then becomes how to sustain my daily habits without eventually reaching burnout. I look at other writers and marvel at their brilliance. Then I compare.

And it’s in this comparison that I think I make the biggest mistake of all. Because I’m me. I’ll always be me. And they’ll always be them, and there’s no way I can be anything other than what I am. Or is that incorrect? Can we change our core values and habits over time? I don’t think I’ve ever tried, preferring to instead indulge myself in navel gazing. They call it autobiography, damn it. Or blogging. No matter what I do I can’t seem to escape self-referential material. And as a budding solipsist that’s all I tend to have. Maybe I shouldn’t have ever read Jean Baudrillard. Perhaps it ignited something I can’t look away from, like a rubbernecker on the highway. But that can’t be it.

No, if I’m to blame anyone it’ll have to be myself. It’s not like ideas infect and corrupt us automatically. I obviously work these things into my psyche, burrowing deeper and deeper into the layered recesses of my mind. And then they come out in ways I can’t quite control. The trouble with reading self-help when you’re up late and the existential crises are in full swing is that it makes a bigger impact on you than when you’re rushing to an airport lounge. So much of my creative work takes place in my home, and I’m not one of those types that can work in a coffee house, surrounded by strangers. I need quiet, relative solitude, and no outside interference. Errands are a clear enemy.

I was just writing in my journal earlier today, and transcribed a quote from ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ by Robert Greene. It was from Law 36: “Disdain the Things You Cannot Have.” The subtitle, “Ignoring them is the best revenge.” Thinking more deeply on it now, there must have been a reason why I chose that quote. And perhaps it’s because I’m working through these issues related to something that feels completely out of my control — my own creativity. Am I worsening it by acknowledging the problem? Am I creating a problem where one doesn’t exist? It’s not like I’ve stopped producing work. It’s just that the subject matter involves me not knowing where I’ll land.

Uncertainty scares a lot of people, myself included. But we as artists live within that uncertainty. Everything we do next might be a total disaster. Then there are the happy accidents that we proudly exhibit for all the world to see. No one seems to reveal how they got to the finished product. We’re all performing for an audience that is usually too wrapped up in their own crises to care all that much about where it is we slip up. I remember reading a quote by Salvador Dali — and I’ll paraphrase it, because the book I read it in was borrowed from the library and I have no access to it now — he said that he sublimated his mistakes. He’d take his flubs and make them appear perfect.

But owning your mistakes is no easy feat. Most of us want to crumple up a bad first draft and never look at it again. We end up, inadvertently, hiding from ourselves. All while to err is human. There’s nothing more authentic than a mistake, if you think about it. And in the era of artificial intelligence writers seem to be leaving their typos in their work in order to in some way prove they’re human. Of course I’d never do that, because I have too much respect for the craft. So rest assured, if you ever read a typo in one of my pieces, it’s an honest mistake. I can’t believe how contrived some of us have become. So obsessed with proving we’re genuine we’d go as far as putting out sub par work.

I can’t seem to own my mistakes. If I screw something up I get really frustrated, thinking about all the ways it can never be fixed. At least with the written word you can hit backspace once it’s down. In ink, on paper, it’s a different story. All hail the white out! Chances are some of the things we make that we consider utter failures others might enjoy, simply because of the sincerity of the error. There is beauty in what’s flawed. An indescribable vulnerability that can’t be captured in any other way. So I guess in a long winded fashion what I’m saying is that we should be more experimental in our approach. Not everything has to be amazing. Sometimes mediocre just fits with the moment.

It’s all about paring things down. Making them less complicated. And embracing the process along the way, as much as the finished product. There’s a reason why some of the most celebrated artists of our time draw like children. Because it’s the hardest thing to do. To be the carefree and open to exploring ones inner world is nothing short of incredible. But art is subjective. I’ve never liked the pedantic approach. Getting fussy and detail-oriented. I’m more about the bigger picture. More interested in the side roads and detours than the main show. I guess that’s why mainstream culture doesn’t appeal to me much. I’m not going to be excited about something everyone else has access to.

I like to discover diamonds in the rough. Things that are rare and unpolished. Art that doesn’t seek to impress me or knock my socks off. The thing is it’s so hard to pull that kind of stuff off. I yearn to experiment far more in my work than I do. I get caught up in consistency and world building, and it completely cuts me off from being open to receive what is free for the taking. I get into a mind state that is more logical and pragmatic than exploratory, and wind up producing mannered material. But there’s a fine line we all walk, between letting go of our expectations and holding onto them for dear life. No one can really teach you any of this either — it has to be experienced, and first hand.

Just because I’m struggling to let go of my inhibitions doesn’t mean that I won’t some day. Of course it’ll all work out in the end, despite my defeatist attitude. I have to remind myself not to force anything, or the creative act simply won’t yield results that are fruitful in my practice. Considering some of the themes I’ve explored further, it seems like I do have an element of self-control that I’ve mastered. I’m just somehow dissatisfied with where I’m at in my journey. I’m sure it’ll be temporary, however, and soon I’ll forget it ever caused me such inner turmoil. When things work we never question them — it’s only once they stop working that we lose our heads. But I refuse to lose mine.

I often wonder if it’s possible for one to exhaust their creative reservoirs. As human beings there are always going to be lulls — for we aren’t machines — or, put another way, peaks and valleys. Lately I’ve been feeling confused, and a little bit disconnected from the creative act itself. When I sit down to draw it’s not that I can’t come up with anything per se, instead, it’s like I’m outside my body and the world feels alien to me. I’ve spent a good couple hours pacing the room and staring out the window, and I guess hustle culture has got it’s hold on me, because if I’m not doing something I deem productive I automatically feel guilty. I’ve asked myself where the carefree creative has gone.

It all comes down to this, though: it’s normal. It’s normal to not be bursting at the seams with great ideas and have them work all the time. I guess I’ve been on an upward trajectory for a time and seem to have gotten used to that. But the downward spiral always comes after that. Always. And it is without a doubt something I’ve got to learn to live with — either that, or find a way around it. But how? How do you find your way around anything when you’re stuck? It’s not that I feel like an imposter, or that I tell myself fictions that I try make true. It’s more like the filter I use to transmogrify experiences into art or writing is, need I say, broken. But it’s time I get off my pity pot.

I’ve been described as unusually productive before, and I’m sure it’ll happen again. But not now. Now I’m wading through uncharted waters, and feeling the full force of the creative block. And the more I try and ignore it the worse it gets. I’m aware that all this sounds like a first world problem, but believe me when I say I reside in the third world. Perhaps the psychic pressure I put on myself is coming to a head. Maybe I need to ease up and take some kind of break. But I’m bad at that, and I’ve always been bad at it. Moving forward has been my only option for years. I’m just starting to realise that self-created deadlines can be even worse than those set by others. And way, way worse.

The truth is, I don’t have to be here. No one is clamouring for my next piece. I’m an outsider at best, or a nobody at worst. I see and feel incredible sensations that are impossible to put into words — when that’s my only job, to put things into words. Pictures on the other hand have been damaged for me. I misused my creative sensibilities, and squandered them on meaningless commercial projects for years. And it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The way I see it, all I suspect I can do is deliberately be as underground as possible. And that’s why I have such a chip on my shoulder. Because I fear allowing mainstream tastes into my work in any way whatsoever. So I’m an escapist.

For someone with nothing in particular on his mind I seem to have a great deal to say. But that was always my problem, that I’d say too much. As I’ve aged I’ve become quieter and more reserved in social settings — partly because I’m sober, also because I’m medicated. I’ve been declawed. There’s a sense of psychic neutering that’s taken place. And I know this because I saw what the same drugs did to my uncle. He and I were always nuts. Always pushing the boundaries about what was acceptable to say. And when I think back to all those days I spent with him over Christmas holidays I now weep, because I’ll never get them back. He is a shell of the person he once was. He’s gone.

And we can blame psychiatry for that. I’m usually the first person to recommend therapy — but for some people, maybe it’s not the right approach. What if others see me in the same light? This guy that used to be fun, a little crazy, but the life of the party. And now when I show up I’m like a lampshade in the corner. Nothing provocative or profound comes out my mouth anymore by accident, instead I’ve turned inward. A million different thoughts crossing my mind and none of them seeing the light of day. The thing is I enjoy my life tremendously, but I’m not the same person by any stretch. And why this bothers me I’m not so sure. Maybe because I expect more from myself.

Perhaps it’s because I bump into people I knew a decade or more prior and they all still look the same. The all still act the same. And they’re all struggling with the same hang-ups they’ve always had. I on the other hand defeated a lot of my personal demons and I’ve got quite the story to prove it. I vacillate between pitying these types and feeling absolutely nothing about the situation in general. Why don’t some people change? Why did I grow up, and escape the belly of the beast, but they didn’t? I didn’t even realise how much I’d changed until I was around these people again. And suffice it to say, I probably won’t put myself in their environment in a hurry. It’s sensory overload.

Most of my time is spent alone behind my word processor, or at my drawing table cranking out comics. But beyond that I seem lost about my place in the world. Can I blame Catholicism for a minute? The fear of God was certainly drummed into my from an early age. One friend joked that I’d burst into flames if I set foot in a church, but there are times when I revisit my old place of worship. I guess I’m just too complex for my own good. There’s too much going on beneath the surface that can’t be explained in a rational way. Perhaps all this is a depression setting in, in which case I better buckle up for a rough ride. Once you’re diagnosed with mental illness it screws you up.

One of my brother’s advice is to get rid of all the pills. Pretty dangerous idea there. Of course I’m not going to take it. Because he has too many of his own unresolved issues to tend to. And I wouldn’t bother giving advice to someone who’ll never take it. But I don’t like giving any whatsoever in any context unless I’m forced to. Of all the things I’ve learned throughout my short life the only one that stands out to me most is that I know nothing. It’s safer to think that way, then nobody can blame you when stuff goes wrong. Advice? Me? I never gave you any! Don’t blame me. I’m incredibly fortunate in many areas of my life, but I tend to forget those things when I’m down.

At one point in my life I was steeped in the occult. Everywhere I turned in my lived environment were magical signs. Then I came to find out about magical thinking and it blew all that out the water. It seems to have been a phase. An extended episode that I got wrapped up in because I had the time on my hands to do so. Now I view most of that subject matter as hokey. A whole lot of talk, talk, talk, and very little action. I’m not saying I don’t believe in magic, or that the principles of Thelema are bunk. I just view them with a little more scepticism than when I first got into it all. And I consider that a wise move, seeing as though indulging in conspiracy theories damaged my psyche.

I slowly shifted my focus into more pragmatic areas of self development over time. Things I could apply to my real life, and not be searching like a fool for things that might not exist. I got into the psychology behind why human nature works the way it does, and this research proved fruitful. The problem is I’m so picky about what I let into my head these days that it’s difficult to find books that hit that sweet spot. And when nothing grabs me I tend to abandon it, in service to something that will. I guess that’s an economical approach to what belongs between ones ears, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Because I still remember the days when I let anything through.

It’s no way to be. Certain things don’t belong in my head. I’ve had to get ruthless about that — in order to preserve my sanity. I think one of the biggest problems we face today as a society is the flood of unchecked information into our heads, hearts, and homes. Most people are too laissez-faire about the nonsense there is floating around out there. It’s almost like that look of disappointment when you tell your elderly parents that a video is artificial intelligence. They don’t want to believe you. They feel cheated. I’m all for a relatively liberal world view, as long as it’s not excessive. And while I’d struggle to categorise myself as conservative there are some things I’m conservative about.

I’m going to make a concerted effort to not beat myself up over an off day. After all, who knows what tomorrow will bring? And without the valleys there would be no peaks. My biggest problem seems to be regulating my behaviour and the concept of moderation. I’ve never been very good at self-control. But one of the things I’ve learnt is that nothing is really in our control. The Stoics referred to this virtue as temperance — the subject of one of the books I’ve abandoned for a time — and it’s really one of the hardest of all to master: yourself. Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe I won’t. All I know is that I have to acknowledge my flaws in order to overcome them. And it’s hard.

When life gets chaotic my hallucinations tend to ramp up. Last night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I saw a multi-coloured pattern that resembled a dragon’s head. I asked my wife if that kind of thing is normal, as I was considering that I was drifting into a hypnogogic state. She told me it’s not, and reminded me that there have been a lot of stressors lately that could be triggering it. I’m one of those people that gets a vivid image in my head when I listen to music. And being a cartoonist, I’m a very visually based individual. The condition that could be causing all this is schizoaffective disorder. I’m on a cocktail of psychiatric drugs that are supposed to keep these symptoms at bay.

But every now and then the paranoia surfaces, or, like I said, I hallucinate. This is why it’s very important for me to be in a quiet, low pressure environment, which luckily enough I live in. I do think I’ve trained my brain to conceive of vivid imagery, and that could be worsening the problem. After all, when you’re a visual artist, that’s your job. To create arresting images. I seem to have no shortage of these ideas, and so I use my mental illness in my creative process, attempting to take the good with the bad. Or to create something meaningful from the pain I endure. No one seems to know much about my condition beyond my psychiatrist, but of course I’ll mention it in my writing.

Lately I’ve been running a lot of errands, and having to leave the house more than usual. And unfortunately, this creates anxiety for me. Little things like that, which are merely parts of modern life tend to become challenging for a person like me. My favourite times are those days when I have absolutely nothing scheduled, and I’m able to roam free in a creative sense. I honestly don’t know how commercial illustrators and graphic designers spend all day doing stuff they hate in corporate settings. It could never be me. Because the last time I tried doing that I wanted to drive my car off a cliff on the way home. I thought to myself, “This can’t be my life. I’m wasting it.” And so I quit.

Much to the chagrin of my employer, who never bothered to sign my contract yet. So I wasn’t even legally bound to be there. Well, with the way he ranted and raved at me over the phone I realised then and there that I’d dodged one of the biggest bullets in my life. He was abusive, verbally and psychologically. He told me I’d never make it, nor would I ever be anything or get anywhere in life. And I guess that’s what he thought of me. So why agree to hire me in the first place? I suppose he thought he was giving the underdog a shot. Helping me out so to speak. Throwing me a bone. Suffice it to say I never again applied for a straight job and decided to make my own way in life.

I never wonder what my life would’ve been like if I took that job. I simply have too much going on to worry about it. Money comes, money goes, but happiness and fulfilment remain. Some of us are just not built for corporate, and that’s okay. It takes all types to keep an economy running, and a small business stimulates our broken system all the same. But getting back to my hallucinations. I once lived in this city apartment where the rent was low and the neighbours were awful. The place was a hellhole in every sense of the word. I eventually realised that I became severely paranoid and lost touch with reality because of my living environment. And I suspected my place was bugged.

I even thought there were video cameras installed in my home. Although I couldn’t see them physically I was convinced they were there, just hidden from view. I suspected my neighbours were monitoring my every waking movement. Because that’s the impression they gave me. Unfortunately this was the point that I came apart at the seams, going on to suffer a full psychotic break. Fortunately enough my family intervened, and that was when I blurted out my ultimate confession: I was hearing voices. That has got to be the most humiliating thing I ever admitted out loud to anyone, but thankfully, I had a support system, and a loving family who took me in till I recovered.

It took me a while to recalibrate, and by that I mean a couple of years. Getting on antidepressants, mood stabilisers, antipsychotics, and tranquillisers involved an adjustment period. And my poor family knew nothing about that stuff because they come from a different time. I still resent taking all those medications, but I’m simultaneously grateful for modern medicine. I take everything as prescribed and never imbibe in illicit or intoxicating substances. Which makes me feel like the odd man out in social gatherings. But truthfully, I’m happy I have an excuse not to drink. Most people drink because they can, out of habit, or because of peer pressure, no matter their age. But not me.

One thing I’ll say is life is never boring for me. I have so many things buzzing around in my head that it resembles an entertainment system. I have all these creative projects I switch between, and I guess you could call me a multidisciplinary creative. I like to keep my interests broad, and a receptive attitude to the ideas that come to me. Honestly, it’s one of the few rare pleasures in life — and no one can steal that joy away from me. I used to say waking up every day felt like Christmas morning, and I can frankly say that feeling hasn’t left me. With no one breathing down my neck I flourish creatively. Yes, it can get hard at times to make sure all my bills are paid, but they are.

I don’t think much has changed from when I was a child. I used to spend hours sitting at a table drawing, and I continue to do so to this day. The things most people stop and put away, considering them childish, I incorporate into adulthood. And that’s what frees me up to live my dreams. I sometimes ask myself why those who abandon the interests they were once highly passionate about, and mainly, I’ve concluded, it has to do with excuses. We’re encouraged at nearly every turn to put aside those things we want to do in service to what has to be done, but I feel like this is an illusion the large majority of us are falling for. Who said you can’t still goof off? Why must we get serious?

The truth is we don’t have to. Distractions and busywork occupy our time endlessly, so much so that people feel like the walls are closing in on them. We’re stifled by the messages the media send to us. We’re told to grow up and put away childish things. Well, what if I don’t want to? What if that’s the very thing that keeps me sane? No one has the right to dictate to any of us what we should or shouldn’t do with our time. I know I’m severely non-conformist in my approach, and that might frighten some of the more conservative types around. But I have to be me, because I promised myself I would. In spite of everything. Money really is an evil concept. It’s robbed us of so much.

We literally jump through flaming hoops for a number on a screen. Have you ever considered that? Is it not absurd, in every sense of the word? What difference does it make if you eat the bare essentials as opposed to filet mignon? Life is all about choices, and we need to ask ourselves what lifestyle we choose and why. My expectations are so low I’m grateful to have a roof over my head and anything at all to eat. I don’t need much, and once I stripped away the non-essentials I realised how low pressure life could really be. I’m not saying I live in abject poverty and like it, no, I have everything I need and I’m happy because I get to pursue the arts. It all comes down to priorities.

Throughout my life and all its ups and downs I’ve come to accept some of the things I can do without in service to a creative career. I don’t buy in to the commercialisation of something otherwise sacred, and I treat it with the devotion and love it deserves. And I wish more people would come to this realisation, because there are too many of us walking around getting shafted by the man. Look, I know I’m an outlier. I’m aware that my status as an outsider artist doesn’t appeal to mainstream tastes by any stretch. But I’m happy I can exist in a space the nurtures me creatively, and allows me to express those things that would otherwise turn me insane if I bottled them up.

All I’m trying to say is that we must actively avoid the fear based approach to modern existence. We need not get caught up in the lizard brain responses that are so prevalent in otherwise functional mammals. Everything we’re fed psychically drives us to a place where fright and panic are present. But there’s another way. A way that’s as simple as making a few choices and shifting our focus off lack and into abundance. No one will ever know who you are or what you’re about unless you show them. I get that this world has stymied your personal progress by way of psychic overload. But know that you possess the ability to work your way around it, with enough dedication and practise.

When was the last time you did something you love? I’m not talking hokey self-help, like lighting a candle or saying a prayer. Something you truly enjoy, in the core of your being. Just because. Not for any other reason than you having a burning desire to do it. Chances are it’s been a while. In between your responsibilities and obligations there lies a source of untapped happiness. Talking about it doesn’t count though, you have to follow through. And why, you ask? Because your life is passing you by in every waking moment. And you don’t want to miss the opportunity to express yourself fully. To be you, unfiltered, unvarnished, unadulterated, and raw. Don’t know what it is?

Find it. Find it through trial and error. Find it in the recesses of your mind, heart and soul. Something has to be yearning to come out and blossom. Your only job is to discover that thing and do it. There’s two possibilities here. One, you know what you want to do and you’re not doing it. And two, you have absolutely no idea what it is you want, and you’re searching for it every day. It doesn’t matter what career you have — this isn’t about money, and your job doesn’t define you — it’s about expressing those things that are itching to come out that you have no release for. Fortunately enough, I’ve been able to pursue my interests to the full extent. Nothing held me back.

And that’s not because I live a life of privilege, rather, it’s because I have a clear set of non-negotiables. I burned my bridges deliberately in a professional context. I stayed underground while others tried to fit square pegs in round holes. And by that I mean they softened their edges. They compromised. They allowed commerce to get in the way of their art. I’ve said this so many times and I’ll say it again: you don’t have to conform to the standards of whatever industry you’re in. All you need is persistence and a clear vision. So how can those who don’t yet know what they want out of life visualise their own version of the life they want to live? By following their deepest interests.

Those who do know what they want but are too lazy to do it are the most problematic of the two. Because they have the potential and allow it to fall to the wayside. I’ve never understood those who have a dream and refuse to make it happen. I know a few working stiffs with families that feel as if their dreams need to take a back seat. But we must be selfish with our time if we are to proceed any further. There will be times when you’re too tired. When the work calls and you don’t answer. And that’s okay. It’s okay if that’s what legacy you want to leave. I never started a family because I never wanted one. My life’s work is too important to me to split my focus. But it all depends on your grit.

How badly do you want it? And what are you willing to sacrifice to get where you want to go? If the answer is nothing then be prepared to get nothing out of it. If instead you muster up the moxie to achieve the milestones you envision it’ll be hard. I’m not promising an easy road or an easy life. When it comes to art of any kind most of us creatives have suffered at the hands of our craft. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t imagine a lack of struggle. In fact, it invigorates me all the more. Because if any of it were easy or a piece of cake what would be the point? There’s a natural flow state one gets into when they’re in the groove, and it’s undeniable. It’s the pinnacle of success.

Art for me is a series of questions and how I choose to answer them. But most people have enough problems without inviting in more. And that’s also what art is — problem solving. Many creatives employ various techniques to achieve their goal. It’s a psychological act if there ever was one. Indeed, very cerebral. I guess I just don’t fit in anywhere and I’ve invented a fictional world on paper to retreat to when the going gets tough. People may call my reality cloistered, or contrived. The truth is I don’t really care what anyone else thinks — and if I ever did, it’d interfere with my productivity in a big way. And so, you can’t care what anyone thinks. They’re nothing. No one.

If I’m away from my work for too long I become listless and depressed. I can’t sit still. And it’s not because I’m hustling for a pay cheque — it’s because I’m searching for meaning. The only way I ever find it is through the work. This might seem sad to the average person who daydreams about getting home after work and cracking open a cold one. But to me, their world is the saddest thing of all. And that’s because they’re being robbed blind by a broken system. A system set up to make us fail. A life where one is disconnected irreparably from source. I can do without the frills. I don’t need luxuries and knick-knacks. All I want is to pursue my craft and be left alone peacefully to do it.

Back when I was younger I used to split my focus between listening to music, radio, or podcasts while I drew. I don’t do that anymore. And that’s because I want to be completely immersed in the creative act, feeling the every brush stroke on the canvas. Silence is golden in a world where noise smothers out the tranquillity available to all of us. If more people took to time to appreciate the moment and not flood their psyche full of unnecessary input we’d be a more mentally healthy species. But people will read these words and keep doing what they’ve always done. I’m not in a position of authority. I’m just some random oddball writer, living in relative obscurity. No one cares.

You can try wake people up to the harsh realities of what they have to do to get to where they want to be, but almost nobody is going to heed such advice. Instead they’ll continue down the same road they’re on and later wonder why they’re miserable. If I weren’t me I wouldn’t take my advice. Who am I, really, beyond what you know of me? A peculiar, eccentric man with an equally unusual pseudonym spouting platitudes into the ether. Meaninglessness does a lot for me though. It gives me a sense of hope. Knowing I don’t have to make sense because I’m not a public official or an accountant works wonders. No artist has to make sense. A good non-sequitur has always been wise.

If you’re consumed with the question of what existence really means you’re almost always going to come up short. We have no idea why we’re here or who put us on this planet. Everything we do is a mystery to even us, because we’re hardwired to react in certain ways to certain stimuli. The religious will attach the concept of God to all meaning. The Atheists will look to science. And the people who can’t be bothered either way because they’re so beaten down by life will overlook it all entirely. I can’t tell you what the nature of creation entailed. And anyone who says they can is a liar. My only saving grace is my craft. Without it I’d be nothing. I’ve fought tooth and nail to protect it.

Lots of people have got lots of different ideas about why things are the way they are, and most of them are guessing. Confidence can be dangerous, because it has nothing to back up its claims. What amuses me to no end is the human animal and the front it projects. Everyone is pretending they have the answers and that they know what they are doing, but no one knows for sure. The only answer in the face of such meaninglessness is to find something that feeds your soul and pursue it. You don’t need to know how it works or why it is the way it is, you just need to make peace with your inner compass — that intuitive process which is so difficult to utter in human language.

The indescribable is deliberately elusive. There are things we’ll never know and the sooner we accept that fact the quicker we can find meaning in our lives. My issues with authority are glaringly obvious, and have honestly led to some gargantuan personal challenges. But I know this. I know it about myself and I simultaneously don’t need to know. Because some things are better left alone. It’s foolish to beat a dead horse. It’ll never come back to life. Whatever we turn our attention to, however, we can alter with enough tenacity. I can’t put it in any more universal terms than that. There’s a reason why the elites built the system they did. And I suspect it’s all about control.

Everywhere you look you’re being told what to wear, what to eat, and what to buy. This never ending flow of media is conditioning you to consume, and in the process, not to question anything. It’s quite simply a distraction. While I’d like to say it has no effect on me, of course it does. I’m merely another face in the crowd. Despite my myriad of protestations. The only difference is I’m trying to actively minimise the amount of damage it’s done. And you can too. Don’t sit in the cage your whole life while you possess the key. Dare to disobey the commands all around you. Make your own decisions. Own your mistakes. Craft the life you want, piece by piece. I for one believe in you.

A lot of us tend to wait for a nod of approval to go ahead and do what we want. But the thing is, none of us need permission to be something we already are. I wish with all my heart that people felt freer to do the things they enjoy. However, unfortunately, most of us put those things off in service to the things we have to do. Look, we all have responsibilities in some form or another. But to use them as an excuse to not pursue your dreams is an open invitation to a miserable life. A life that eventually feels like a nightmare. We creatives are a privileged bunch, because we’ve learned to tap in to something that’s readily available to all human beings: manifestation. And it truly is magical.

An artist brings something to fruition from their inner world. They produce work from an invisible source. But maybe what sets them apart from regular people is their tendency to be attuned to psychic frequencies. As a visual artist I have clear visions of the end product of a work before I even pick up a pencil, and while that might not be the case for every artist, it’s the closest thing to clairvoyance I can fathom. Over the years I’ve fine tuned my psychic receptors to find signals almost everywhere I look. Of course there are dead zones, but the large majority of places have an energy about them that one can pick up with their sixth sense. Think about a specific area and its qi.

There’s a particular exercise I practise. I visualise a scene, perhaps a location I’ve been to before, and I feel out the mood of the place in a psychic sense. This leads me down the path to other ideas, and before I know it I’ve got a new project on my hands. Set my inspirations aside, and most of these methods I employ create musical melodies, drawings, or pieces of writing for me. And they seemingly come from nowhere. Somewhere out there, in the ether. This is when the existence of a creator comes in. In the Christian sense, if we were made in the image of God, why would we not possess the talent to create? Of course there are many other religious factions to frame the concept.

If none of this works for you and it appears as if I’m yammering on about gobbledygook don’t be afraid. For everyone is an artist. If not in the truest sense of the word, in some way we all create something. Something that comes from us alone. It could mean baking a cake. Preparing a meal. Things we all do but don’t view through a creative lens per se. What I’ve realised over the years is that all people need to open up the floodgates is a little bit of encouragement. The least skilled person in the room, with enough confidence, can become a master of manifestation. All of us know at least one trick that gets us to generate new ideas. It can often be as simple as combining others.

What I mean by that is this: if you take an already established concept, then you proceed to find another one, something completely random (it can be anything) and then you put the two together, and you have a whole new idea. Often it’d be best to take two completely unrelated subjects and mash them into one, but similar subjects can work just as well. But getting back to my initial point, and wading out of the reeds for a second, people seem afraid to take the leap. Because they think they’ll fail. That what they come up with won’t be good enough. They have all these excuses ready to go before they even start. When most of the time, all we need to do is get out of our own heads.

While it’s not always easy to do — some days nothing will come — it’s in those failed exercises that you learn what works and what doesn’t. But quite often people become discouraged, because they want everything to come together on the first try. The most successful people in the world however know that each perceived failure they experience is a stepping stone to their final destination. And that final destination is determined by a feeling that is almost indescribable in human terms. Trying to get a handle on creativity is like trying to scotch tape waves on a beach in a straight line. Impossible. Or seemingly so. Let me tell you something, in the realm of art, nothing is impossible.

I’ve dealt with so many of my problems and freed myself from so many human limitations with a pen and paper. And I want everyone else to know they can too. But it just doesn’t make sense to some people. Now more than ever before we have automatic audiences whose attention we capture on social media platforms and the like. You don’t have to upload selfies, instead you can utilise the opportunity to share something deeper. We’re officially living in the attention economy. Likes, shares, subscribers — they’re all the rage. People care more about how many people saw their tweet than they do about their lived experience in the real world. Others are obsessed with appearances.

When it dawned on me about a decade ago that people were falling for the banana in the tailpipe as far as social media is concerned I lost respect for a lot of otherwise intelligent folks. I thought long and hard about how such smart people were engaging in their own demise. What I mean by that is the digital footprint they leave behind. Every selfie, every drunken group photo, every status update, every post was being fed into a database and these people were acting none the wiser. But of course everyone was doing it, so they felt they should too. Everyone knows the old adage, if a group of people jump off a cliff will you do it too? And that’s what they seemed like to me too — lemmings.

I know I might come off like a snob in the digital space. And not everyone can get away with plastering hand-rendered artwork all over these social channels. But why use them at all? Surely there are better things we could be doing with our time. If the explosion of high end dumb phones onto the scene doesn’t send a message I don’t know what will. People are craving their down time, and realising slowly that less time spent online is more time spent in the present moment. Can you remember the last time someone got through a conversation without reaching for their smart phone? It’s the dopamine rush they’re after. The doom scroll session. The likes. The hearts. The reposts.

Surely we respect ourselves more than that. The average attention span is surely shot by now. I’ve even picked it up in myself. But the difference is I catch it right then and there, slow down, breathe, and then I reconsider. Social media will be there when you get home from the party. Your instant messages will pile up irrespective of whether or not you’re checking your phone. I guess my main gripe is that all this stuff robs us of the creative act, replacing it with obsessive consumption of questionable media. Most people are very careful what they put in their bodies, and do so to preserve their physical health. But what about our mental health? Surely that’s just as important?

The crux of the matter is we need to be more mindful of what flashes across our screen and embeds itself in our psyche. If you stuff your head full of psychic funnel cakes it’ll get bloated and sluggish. It won’t perform properly on the wrong digital diet. But I’m not trying to shame anyone, so don’t get me wrong. I’m just trying to bring awareness to an issue that otherwise gets overlooked. People are hypnotised by their devices today. And it’s downright maddening. My prediction is that a few years from now we’re going to be seeing a lot of attention deficit problems. And it’s all because of content. The content we endlessly scroll through, tap on and interact with. That can’t be healthy.

A personal rule I have for myself — and one that keeps me going — is that I make it a habit that I must create more than I consume. But there’s nothing wrong with consumption if you’re doing it mindfully. I just get more enjoyment out of the creative act than the passive act of loafing in front of a screen. And let’s face it, advertisements are everywhere. Try watch anything online and you’ll be bombarded with a barrage of advertisements. I’m aware that there are ways around that if you’re tech savvy enough nowadays, but I’m referring to the average person. Those advertisements are assaulting our psyche. They’re conditioning us to consume more, more, more. I want no part of it.

In closing I want to encourage you, dear reader, to give yourself permission to do something you love doing. You don’t have to be good at it. It doesn’t have to turn into a side hustle if you get it right. You can simply make things for the joy of the craft. And I feel like the world would be a much happier place if we all did this more. One of the friends I’ve made recently — a fellow artist — wrote this line I can’t get out of my head. It goes, “Go make something.” Simple. Straightforward. To the point. Stop allowing your excuses to get in the way and just do it. Do it badly. Do it anyway. Eventually, with enough practise you’ll do it better. And then well. The hardest part is getting started.

You know what the great thing about a self-created deadline is? You can just ignore it, and it goes away. Now compare that to a deadline that’s been imposed on you, that you agreed to reluctantly. Most people do it out of desperation, for the money, or because they don’t want to let their clients down. But who needs clients? They’re not your friends. They’re not family. And you’re not required to kowtow to their demands. Of course I learned all of this way too late in my life, as most of us do.

Clients in the creative industry have got to be the most fickle creatures that ever walked the face of the earth. One day they like the work you produced, and the next, not so much. They keep the back-and-forth going until you want to blow your brains out. And that’s why I gave up on all that nonsense, choosing instead to truly work for myself. This isn’t braggadocio or advice for those who wish to escape the rat race but don’t know how. This is just me describing the reality of my life.

If you really think about it you don’t need to indulge other’s egos. It’s not compulsory by any stretch. All you need is the determination and grit to trust things will work out and they will. Unfortunately working with others is not my strong suit. But working alone? Bliss. No meetings. No unnecessary emails. No bending over backwards to win the approval of a stranger on a power trip. And they’re all around. People who enjoy saying jump and having you ask how high. Let me to tell you a secret.

I came up with a solution to a problem I wasn’t even aware I had. Just recently I bumped into an old friend who is stuck in the same old rut. Working for peanuts on stuff he hates doing. And I asked myself why. The reason is simple. He hasn’t yet realised that turning down the volume is an option that’s readily available to him. And I can tell anyone till I’m blue in the face my secret, but it’ll never dawn on them, until the day that it’s meant to. That’s why I never dispense advice. Even if I could.

It’s not my job to tell anyone else what they should or shouldn’t do. And what works for me probably won’t work for them, because we all have our own path to walk. Just as I can’t understand the trials and tribulations someone else has gone through because I haven’t experienced what they have yet. We’re all inexperienced in some way, but that’s just a part of life. Now imagine if we all learnt the same lesson at the same time. There would be no point in continuing our journey. None.

The way things unfold naturally are the way things are meant to happen. Interfering with that or trying to force it never works. All those lessons that keep reappearing like a ghastly visage? It’s got to be the universe trying to tell us something. Whether they be through synchronicities or challenges it really doesn’t matter. What really matters is whether we’re receptive to these signs. Now more than ever before we’re inundated with information coming at us from every direction. We’re swamped.

Most people don’t get excited by an email anymore. To them it’s nothing more than an annoyance. Our inboxes are flooded multiple times a day by stuff we’ve been meaning to unsubscribe from. And no one likes getting spammed, but that’s what it feels like. Messages from business associates, acquaintances, friends, family, and everyone in between follow us around in our pockets. From them there is no real escape. And the only solution is to do away with your smart phone altogether.

Something I wrote an article about once. That time I threw my phone in the ocean and never looked back. You want to know how that’s going? It’s glorious. I never suspected living without a device tethered to me twenty-four seven would be so freeing. But most people will look at me funny. Then they’ll try apply it to their own lives and they’ll consider it impossible. It’s the what ifs that ruin us day in and day out. I honestly think smart phones and tablets are nothing but unnecessary distractions.

But most people don’t want to live without their doom scroll sessions. They’ve built their lives around their pocket-sized device. All their friends are on social media. They’ll call me every name in the book for so much as playing with the idea of going phone free. They way I see it, just because everyone else is doing it, it doesn’t mean I have to play by the same rules. You are a free spirit underneath all the fancy wrapping. You just need to tap in to what makes you you. Think about that.

Are you what you portray online? Or is your life more miserable and dull than you make it out to be? The biggest problem we face right now is inauthenticity, in my view. People not being themselves, not being who they really are. The catfishing is where it all starts. Making oneself appear more attractive than they look in real life. But filters can only save you for so long. If someone has a pock marked face and they smother their face in make-up do I really care? I don’t.

More importantly, is it any of my business? Not really. I just feel like there’s a disconnect, or a rift, maybe even a gulf, between who we’d like to be and who we are. I’m not suggesting anyone should stop bothering with how they groom themselves, I’m just asking for a bit of honesty. Intellectual honesty. Often times the way we look in the photos we hate is the real us. But for some reason we want to run from that, and put our best foot forward. The perfect angle. The right lighting. It’s all a farce.

And here’s the thing, it’s not going to change any time soon. People are going to find more sophisticated ways of presenting who they wish they were to the world, every day. But that makes me wonder if they’re ashamed of who they really are. Honestly, the grasp toddlers have of technology frightens me. Because the internet is not for kids. Sure, there’s ways to minimise the risk of them coming across undesirable material, but you can’t protect them forever. I kept secrets in my youth.

I did stuff I wasn’t supposed to do. I was exposed to adult oriented media before I was mature enough to understand what any of it meant. And I bet that screwed me up in some way. I’m all for freedom, liberty, and rugged individualism, but I also think we need better guardrails for the sake of our youth. There are some things that even disturb adults, for instance, horror movies and the like. I guess I never thought about things from this perspective until I aged significantly. But now I see.

I’d gravitate toward anything with a parental advisory sticker like a magnet in my teens. And these things have become even more meaningless in the era of streaming services. Who’s really going to check whether you’re old enough to consume disturbing material? Actually, as frightening as it is, another part of me simply can’t sit on my high horse. As an underground cartoonist I draw morally questionable things all the time. I believe I might suffer with a condition known as coprographia.

An involuntary act of making vulgar or obscene writings or drawings. And if you saw my sketchbook you’d understand immediately. At an early age I was diagnosed with epilepsy, and went on to develop schizoaffective disorder. And all these conditions seem interrelated. It’s not like I scribble unrecognisable patterns on walls or anything, no, I’m more organised in my thought process than that. But I do blurt out obscenity under my breath involuntarily, and I can’t seem to shake that.

Now that I think of it this is all pretty vulnerable stuff I’m admitting to. And maybe the dots connect in a way that isn’t clear to me yet. Maybe you can now understand why I can’t just work a straight job. But my solution has been to seek professional help and manage my symptoms as best I can. I think that’s the most adult conclusion I’ve come to. Not to get too caught up in the minutiae. Deal with things as they come, and forget the rest. Fortunately I’m not locked away in a rubber room.

But if you really think about it isn’t that what society has become? One big rubber room? There are people walking around with undiagnosed mental illnesses pretending to be fine, and everywhere. Chances are you might pass them on the street and never know what they’re going through. That’s why it’s best to be kind in the face of the harshness of everyday life. It costs absolutely nothing and gives people hope. Don’t ever give up on your dreams, though. They’re in closer reach than you may think.

The way in which we learn not to say everything out loud is by getting burned. Because, in truth, not everything belongs outside our head. And while I’m rather a quiet person, there are times when I’ve shared too much. I think it has something to do with my gregarious nature though, because I remember being younger and assuming everyone was as conscientious as me. Of course I was in for a swift and rude awakening when I realised that is just not the case. For there are rotten eggs that walk this earth who want nothing more than to make others miserable. To irritate and annoy people.

Unfortunately enough, I tend to attract these types because I look like a soft target — and maybe I am — due to my gentle demeanour. And I say this because I’ve encountered too many outright nasty people to think otherwise. I couldn’t imagine going around and causing pain and anguish for a rush, as it just isn’t in my make-up. Living as a highly sensitive person has taught me much, however. While I won’t let the world and its ways harden me, what I will do is continue to project an innocence while not being totally naïve. This way I can take notes and then devise useful strategies.

No one really knows me aside from my wife, because they haven’t taken the time out of their self-absorption to do so. And while this used to sadden and even frustrate me, I’ve now made peace with it. After all, the more people get to know you — friend or foe — the more dirt they have to use against you in a scuffle down the line. I hate that I even have to consider this sly, deceptive tactic or employ it at all, but we all have coping mechanisms, and this is mine. One of the things that has been bugging me tremendously of late is the subtle gestures others unknowingly exhibit at times.

See, you can tell when someone is putting on a front. And you know how? Of course, by their body language — but there is something else that betrays their glib vacuities immediately, in any interaction. In the split second before someone you’re approaching realises you’re nearby they’ll often wear their most honest expression which indicates how they really feel about you. I know this may sound rich coming from a schizophrenic, but bear with me a moment and you may learn something new. The moment when an individual turns to face you, their inner feelings are exposed.

And that is precisely how they perceive you. Either with malice, joy or something in between. We as human beings can’t always protect each other from truth with bald-faced lies. Because sometimes our true feelings slip through the cracks. I’ve encountered enough hostile people, real and imagined, over the course of my life, to know a thing or two about how they tend to operate. All hallucinations and paranoia aside, us schizophrenics are often times unusually intelligent. And that’s not to say I’m tooting my own horn or anything, because I’d describe myself as more of an idiot savant, really.

A lot of people are afraid of schizophrenics, and I largely place the blame on Hollywood, for how they depict us. For I’m not violent or terribly unpredictable. In fact, I’ve designed my life in a very methodical way, in order to minimise any psychiatric regression. The way in which I do this is by sticking to a routine, taking my medication on time, and allowing some flexibility in my work schedule for when the bad days do happen. Aptitude tests always suggested I’d be most suited to writing, and I ignored that advice for years. But here I am, right where they said I’d be. So touché.

I’m not so sure I’m in bad company, however, because Friedrich Nietzsche lost his mental faculties toward the end of his life. Personally I think he was too smart for his own good, and could no longer tolerate the plasticity of the society in which he lived. And people have accused me of getting too deep too fast in conversation. They’ve also said I conduct a dialogue like an interview, and that I can’t seem to help. So I went on to do some actual interviews on my podcast because of that, and it worked out pretty well. My skill set might be scattershot, but once I focus I can achieve.

As a highly sensitive person nothing can really prepare you for the arduous and sometimes brutal events of adult life. And when you’re sheltered by loving parents it can worsen the situation that much more. They don’t think what they’re doing is wrong, and they want to protect you from the big bad world. But once reality sets in it can be quite a shock to the system. Compare this to those who had less hands-on parents and they tend to fare better, and that’s probably because they had to deal with life’s challenges at an early stage. But I’m grateful I had the former and not the latter, in truth.

I like to think of my hypersensitivity as more of a super power than a drawback, because it sets me apart from the average Joe, who has been jaded my life’s many hardships. The way I feel as if I can use this quality to my advantage is by responding kindly when someone needs an ear, or make a stranger realise that there are still good people in the world. Honestly, that’s very important to me. Because I know I perk up when I recognise someone of a similar temperament. All of a sudden life’s drudgery seems to clear for just a little while, and a respite from the acrid sourness of others occurs.

Those moments are what makes life worth living. When you realise someone cares, and considers the your feelings. Good souls recognise each other and smile knowingly. It’s almost like a synchronicity or eureka moment. Fortunately enough most of those closest to me are this way. And for those who aren’t I’m finding ways to cope with them. Most of the time I need to take an antipsychotic around social gatherings, because of the uncertainty of what might just happen. I tend to overanalyse what things mean, and I drill deeper and deeper into an issue until it’s meaningless.

Or I assign meaning to things that are arbitrary and random. I’m always looking for patterns, and with enough work they can be discovered almost anywhere. One might ask themselves why they glance at a clock when all the numbers are the same. Or wonder why a number plate with triple six or seven crosses their path. But all these little signs are often of little importance. It’s in the misinterpretation that we get lost — those of us who are so inclined. One of my pet peeves is excuses being made for a brazen offender, one who lacks social grace. Then I feel I’m being lied to.

If I had a buck for every time I was told so-and-so didn’t mean whatever it is they said the way in which I took it I’d be a wealthy man. I believe the phrase is don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining. One of my more frequently uttered terms. But there are those who want to see the best in people, or they’re under the impression that they’re only trying to help, all while doing enough damage to worsen the already awkward or uncomfortable situation. But as any person with their head screwed on knows, unpleasantness is not always so easy to avoid. Try do that and you’ll fail, every time.

So the best way to handle these things is to prepare in advance as best you can. To detach completely, let others speak freely and express themselves however they see fit. Don’t fight it. Just nod along and appear agreeable — then when you’re away from them, think what you want. I’ve noticed a lot of people have a habit of thinking out loud. They don’t really have a very solid idea of what it is they’re getting at, but they yearn to be heard anyway. That’s how I learned not to internalise the disorganised notions they verbalise. I’m still working at it, but so far it’s effective.

Another way to deal with people who try and suck you in to their web is to simply ignore them outright. They’re frantically reaching out to you because they want something? Don’t pick up. They text? Don’t answer. They email? You guessed it. And on and on. I spent far too many years believing that everyone deserved access to me, needed my attention, so much so that I put their demands above my own. It’s no way to live. Eventually the phone will stop ringing, the texts will die down, and so will the emails. Most people get the picture, despite how urgent their issue seems.

It might not be the moral, upstanding way to handle the situation. It may not even be something you’re willing to do. But one day you’ll see the value in it — especially when you encounter a truly persistent annoyance. Usually people want something from you when they call. My grandfather always used to say if the phone doesn’t ring no one wants money. And my uncle recounted those words to me one day. I’m done being the cash cow and allowing others to ride me. I’ve drawn a clear line in the sand. Those who I hold dear will always have me. But everyone else? Not so much.

Venturing out into the real world to socialise proves problematic for an individual such as I. As a highly sensitive person it means coming into contact with all kinds of energies, good and bad. And of course I immediately glom on to the bad. I ask myself why the person in the distance keeps staring me down. Why another laughed dismissively at something I said. I wonder if I look funny, or don’t carry myself with enough confidence. The truth is I’m most comfortable at home, with my art supplies, at the drawing board. Or writing away behind my word processor. And I need to come to terms with it. Although it’s always nice to see old friends, I guess I’m just inherently anti-social.

One of the things going out always helps me appreciate is the quiet time I get when I return to my comfortable cocoon. But I also realise this is largely unsustainable, because we need a sense of community to thrive as human beings. Couple all this with the fact that I’m sober and you have a recipe for disaster. While others numb their social graces with hard liquor, I’m left standing there contemplating all the things I can’t ever seem to switch off. And there is good reason for this. I’m on psychiatric medication, so to add alcohol to such a cocktail is to toy with my brain chemicals in a way that is completely counterproductive. Most people wouldn’t care, but I take my health seriously.

When my doctor tells me to avoid alcohol and drugs, I listen. And what’s even more dangerous is that I cultivated an appetite for painkillers at various points in my life. Simply because they made me feel good. Unlike those who have various methods of escape from the drudgery of life, I have to face it head on. So no wonder I recoil into myself from time to time. I notice when I do emerge onto the scene merely to socialise people do seem to appreciate my brief appearances, however. Because absence makes the heart grow fonder. But I know deep down in my heart that I could never stomach actively being a socialite of any persuasion. And it’s not that I’m wound too tight for it, not at all.

In fact I’m relatively subdued due to the prescription drugs I’m on. I’ve never been very boisterous or confrontational, aside from the times when I was drinking, before I quit for good. I was becoming an angry drunk, snapping at others, getting into fights, and teetering on the edge of psychosis. One of the things that saddens me the most about ageing, however, is that people no longer recognise you after years between visits. We all seem to gain a little weight, maybe grow some facial hair — and for men, our hair starts to thin. And it really shouldn’t be something to get too cut up about, as it happens to all of us, but saying goodbye to your youth is never pleasant.

Part of us wants to preserve our innocence and not become jaded, but life has a definite way of beating hope out of you. Responsibilities weigh heavily on our minds, and cause us to turn inward. Though with acceptance one can move beyond all the reminiscing on times past and forge a new way ahead. We can integrate more complex parts of ourselves into our make-up, which free us from our old ideas and behaviours that might cling to who we were. I’m most interested in the future. It excites me. I don’t want to be subject to the limitations of my past, but I guess I’m just coming to terms with the natural course of human life. But what bothers me most is getting trapped in my head.

I don’t want to do it, yet I get stuck and obsess over mental hurdles. I tend to think the worst of people and assume they’re out to get me in some way. And it’s not totally inaccurate, because there are some rotten folks out there in the world who want nothing more than to cause conflict and unnecessary drama for others. And I think this is why I avoid situations in which I’d be more exposed to those types. Hence a very public social setting. And I can’t say precisely why I am this way, I just am. Perhaps it has something to do with being schizophrenic. Maybe not. Where others soar ahead without thinking twice I tend to overanalyse and second-guess my social interactions.

Right now being in front of the page is so comforting, especially since my psyche was assaulted with so much unwanted stimuli last night. I guess I need to resign myself to the fact that this is the new normal. Or my version of normal, which is highly unusual to most. Being an artist and a recluse is a double-edged sword. I spend every waking minute creating stuff, and because I have such an aversion to networking very few people ever see my work. I’ve had bad experiences with exhibitions and book launches, though, and I think that is partly what holds me back. The other thing that does so is the public’s reaction to my art. I never quite know if I’m stepping on toes.

I like to question conventional thinking in my creative projects, and that’s not for everyone. I often find people that explicitly state they’re about freedom and liberty are the most narrow minded of the bunch. For instance, I went to this social gathering last night and I was catching up with an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years. We have stuff in common. But when I saw the nature of his work (he was handing out free zines) I was a little taken aback. The crux of the matter is there was a very obvious left-leaning bent to the work he had on display. And while I’m relatively open-minded, that type of thing isn’t exactly my cup of tea. And I say all this because I used to think that way too.

Back when I was uneducated and inexperienced. When life hadn’t quite caught me off guard and reality hadn’t yet hit me between the eyes. I respect everyone’s point of view to a degree, but obviously, if you had to ask me, there are some ideas I disagree with strongly. One thing I can’t seem to get away from in the arts is the liberalism that is so strongly associated with it. I’m not saying I want to see conservative work, rather the transgressive. Art that pushes boundaries. And in a nut shell, stuff that isn’t safe, and would probably get you cancelled. It all comes down to subjective tastes. I can respect the die-hard leftist just fine. What I won’t support is utter ignorance.

This is dangerous territory I’m wading into. But if you had a frank and honest conversation with anyone, chances are they miss previous eras that weren’t so overly politicised. Not everything was about which way a prominent figure leant. The right opinions weren’t always cool. Instead we had some real boundary breaking going on, and people were less concerned with appearing to be something they’re not. And I can’t get away from the fact that it sounds as if I’m romanticising the past. However if you throw me up against the wall I’ll admit, that’s not what I’m yearning for. I just want people to be more honest with themselves, and let cooler heads prevail. The division is palpable.

I have a particular friend of mine who has very different political views to me. And I remember his fiancé and I both chastised him for it one night. That wasn’t my finest moment, but I subsequently apologised to him and realised how small-minded I myself was being. Suffice it to say, despite him having very different ideas than my own he is a genuine fan of my work. Work that is transgressive and pushes boundaries. This somehow being couched as conservative with its edgelord nature is wrong-headed, though. Prominent figureheads in the conservative space have bastardised certain ideas to serve their own agendas. And that is something I’m wildly opposed to. Yes, even me.

The whole point of art, to me, is to make one think. To have us address our own inconsistencies and realise the absurdity that lies beneath it all. And one simply can’t do that if they’re serving the special interests of either side of the aisle. You have to actively break out of the chains imposed on you by the very ideas you hold, and forget everything you know. I’ve found too many guardrails are incredibly problematic to my creative process, so I try to foster a more improvisational environment when I’m working on some project or another. Your mind needs to be free to go where it wants. It can’t worry what so-and-so will think, or placate anybody. It has to exist on its own merit.

Eventually we all betray our own values if we push against established doctrine enough, and that’s ultimately the point when we’re liberated from the invisible limits imposed on us. I wouldn’t bother at all with art or writing if I knew what’d come from it. Half the time I’m flying blind, and I’m more than okay with that. No one can be safe. Nothing can be sacred. For the minute we compromise on our transgressive nature, in service to not offending the wrong people we become milquetoast versions of what we really could be. I’m not trying to encourage irresponsibility or unaccountability for the things that we express. Instead, we must always be on the ready to take our lumps, for art is inherently unsafe.

It was Plato who said “Opinion is really the lowest form of human knowledge. It requires no accountability, no understanding.” And he was right. Unfortunately, however, we live in an age of hot takes and reactionaries. Everyone has access to a digital soap box, and therefore critics abound. Not qualified, rational critics. Just critics. Laymen. People with nothing to offer but an opinion. And hell, even I’m guilty of it. I have things to say and I live in hope that people read them. But where does this leave the individual who has nothing else to offer but their opinion? In a sea of anonymous faces. Unremarkable and forgettable. Which is perfect for the short attention span most have today.

It also cheapens the idea of what things mean though. Who do we look to for a thorough assessment on any given issue? Influencers are nothing but pedestrian — they just happened to somehow build a following off of trends, fads, and the almighty algorithm. They’re nothing to look up to. They’re really just like you or I, but they’ve got the numbers to bolster their ego and feed their arrogance. I’m an odd duck, and I know this for certain. Nothing about me is conventional or anything other than eccentric. My tastes tend to make me seem as if I’m going against the grain deliberately. And that might be the only thing that makes me stand out. Ever feel like you’re hollering into the void?

No one wants to be pejorative for the sake of it. We have reasons for the things we do. There’s always some rationale behind our stunts and attention-seeking behaviours. And they usually make sense to us only in hindsight. Something I’ve learned over the course of seeing a psychologist is that one can be presented with all the necessary tools to improve their lot in life and they’ll ignore all of them. We have our rationalisations. It’s too hard. Or it seems just out of reach. Working on oneself is difficult at the best of times, but uncovering past traumas and expecting them not to have left a mark is just foolish. I’ll shamefully admit I haven’t implemented any of the suggestions I was given.

Going through life as if nothing is wrong, and avoiding the root cause of our problems does us all a great disservice. Then you get the types who are so anti-psychiatry that they’ll never take a pill to balance out. They see it as a weakness or a crutch. And this causes resentment in those of us who actively seek out the help we need. It makes you not want to admit to needing medication to function normally. But I’m not surprised anxiety and depression is rife in a society as screwed up as ours. Some of the time — if not most of the time — we’re surrounded by incompetence and those who do the bare minimum, just to skirt by. And this apathy is a reaction to our rigid environments.

I still have no idea how the average person makes it through the day working at a corporation where they’re nothing but a number, and considered as replaceable as the next guy. That’s really no way to live, but a lot of people think they don’t have any choice but to buckle under the incredible weight of capitalism. We can be free, of this I’m certain; because I freed myself from a self-imposed cage many moons ago. And that’s all it is: an open cage. We hold the key to the lock. We don’t even need to pick it or break out of it like a jail. But most people don’t want to take responsibility for their own lives. They prefer to outsource their financial requirements to a straight job and never have to hustle.

Sure, it’s stressful come month end, when rent is due and you don’t have anything solid going on in the career department. But that can be rectified easily too. Now more than ever before there are ways to make a passive income while you sleep. Our options almost seem infinite. It’s in taking the initiative that people fumble the ball. They don’t want to go the extra mile or risk not being compensated fairly. They don’t want to chase up clients to pay the bills. But even that is something you don’t have to deal with if you’re disciplined enough to walk your own path. I see the deadness in people’s eyes as I pass them on the street. And I know socialism isn’t the answer to this either.

Vladimir Lenin did famously say that the goal of socialism is communism. And if anyone wants to live like that they must have rocks in their head. Then we come to Joseph Stalin, who said “The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of millions is a statistic.” All I’ll say on that is birds of a feather flock together. And there are plenty of uneducated, misguided youth today who know very little about the atrocities communism is responsible for. And while this might be a notion steeped in my opinion, it’s undeniably true. Truth and opinion can coalesce at times. But I’m really not trying to convince anyone of anything. As I was just critiquing capitalism a little while ago. What are my views, then?

Freedom. Liberty. Libertarianism. Centrist politics over hard left or right. Those who cross the aisle and know how to compromise. To me that is the only real way forward. And of course there are other versions of this idea in littler parties. Unfortunately I live in a country that has trampled on its constitution more times than not in recent years. The government is under state capture and anyone who dares stand trial against the crooked politicians wind up dead before they can properly testify. If you didn’t know already, I live in a third world country. They like to call it a developing country, but honestly it’s anything but. And our leaders have the audacity to call first world nations partners.

I was so utterly ashamed and embarrassed when my president went to the White House. He made an absolute fool of himself, and tried cosying up to Donald Trump for money — and this came after he had made some terribly disrespectful remarks about him on national television. But politicians will politic, right? These days I almost always avoid the news and current affairs, locally, and that’s because nothing ever really changes. There’s always a new scandal or cover-up going on, and it isn’t exactly captivating. However, I do keep up with geopolitics far more. I like to know what’s going on in the world, and this mainly stems from the work I did in the media for a time. I made web comics.

They were always focused on the latest trends and scuttlebutt, and I contributed a weekly strip to a magazine. The pay was meagre, but the experience I gained certainly shaped me in ways it wouldn’t have if I passed up the opportunity. Funnily enough I knew a lot of people studying to be journalists in university. And I went on to essentially do their jobs — without qualifications in that particular area — and this taught me that experience is the greatest teacher of all. I remember when I first went to university and wanted to study fine art. All my mentors discouraged it completely. They maintained that I’d never get a job with a fine art degree, so I winded up in the graphic design department.

From there I passed my first year, and in my second, I went on to get wrapped up in alcohol abuse and incessant pot smoking. Needless to say I failed and had to recalibrate, finding another school that was more suited to my areas of expertise. I stumbled on one that offered multimedia. And although it was a grind, I managed to get my act together and achieve quite highly. I graduated with a three year diploma and instead of going the corporate route started my own business. Things were slow at first, but they picked up, and there were many peaks and valleys in those years. I never really thought I’d wind up being a writer after all this time, but here I am. Words are different to pictures.

I like to toggle between the visual arts and my literary pursuits. When I’m burned out on one I switch to the other. And so I bounce back-and-forth. No one ever really taught me how to write in a professional capacity, so I’d categorise myself as a maverick at best. The main thing is I enjoy the creative process of putting words together, because there’s nothing else quite like it. I seem to be able to say the things in my writing that I can’t muster the courage to say out loud. This of course creates a bit of a schism in my personality, and I sometimes forget strangers have access to my writings at any given moment. And that’d pose a problem for some, who are protective of their privacy.

As you can probably tell, that is none of my concern. I don’t believe anything is too personal, and I enjoy opening up in this way. I guess you could call it the extroverted part of who I am. The guy who ventures out of his largely reclusive ways and engages with the world. But I still value those quiet afternoons, typing away in my slippers. No person is one thing. We all have different facets to our personalities, and they come out in the most unexpected of ways. My only hope is that I leave this mortal coil having given my all. I don’t care about amassing wealth or notoriety, but I do want to touch some hearts. Fortunately I’m able to devote my time to the creative process. For without it, I’d surely be doomed.

An intellectual peer of mine just got dinged for using artificial intelligence in their writing when they clearly don’t do so. And this got me thinking, if someone completely opposed to anything remotely related to artificial intelligence can get their account suspended, we’re all in danger of it happening. While the policy against the use of it is so stringent, how did a human being slip through the cracks and get falsely accused of doing something they didn’t do? Probably because spam filters make mistakes, but that isn’t very comforting in the face of a suspended account. At all.

I see plenty of “writers” who utilise artificial intelligence as a tool every day, and it’s so obvious. But when you have machines flagging human crafted prose incorrectly it explicitly demonstrates that we’re living in some version of Bizzaro World. I’ve also seen so-called writers freely admit their involvement with chat bots, and nothing ever seems to happen to them. So where does this leave us as legitimate writers? Simply put, in the dark. Now we’re all hoping the same thing doesn’t occur to us. It’s easy to see someone else suffer at the hands of an oversight and not be too empathetic.

But when it happens to us, that’s usually the only time we sit up and pay attention. Independent bloggers aren’t subject to the same looming terms of service and arbitrary suspensions, so maybe that’s where the future lies. Perhaps we need to be less dependent on mainstream platforms so that we can say whatever we want to, and not walk on eggshells. And it’s all very sad, because the more errors like this occur the more discouraged legitimate writers will become. My prediction is there’ll be a mass exodus at some point if enough folks are subjected to such treatment. But who can say?

The truth is no one really cares all that much until this stuff happens to them. Us human beings are selfish that way. But my intention is to shine light on a great disservice that is being done to otherwise brilliant minds. We need people who share those parts of themselves that a chat bot can’t. That’s at least how I feel, anyway. I myself have toyed with the idea of going independent and writing freely on a self-hosted site. But Medium tends to pull me back in time and again. The algorithm might not work exactly as it’s designed to, but I don’t have the followers or reach on my own.

And that’s the main reason I stick around. I have tried other platforms like Substack, but I literally got no readership whatsoever there, so instead, Medium won out over it. I guess I should admit that I cross-post on X too, however — which is a much more free-wheeling platform, despite its problems — and I get more views there than I do on Medium. Not always, but most times. I guess what I’m doing right now is weighing up the pros and cons of a mainstream platform and going my writing journey alone. The thing is I love Medium, but this recent false flag has shaken my confidence.

I’d be remiss not to mention that I sometimes get mildly neurotic about whether or not I’m going to get dinged at some point. Because as much as I’ve familiarised myself with the terms of service, from time to time we all make mistakes. There’s another writer who I follow on Medium and I almost exclusively read him on the platform, as opposed to his own self-hosted site where he cross-posts; and I think that all boils down to convenience. Because it’s easier to open an app where everything is in one place, and you don’t have to manually type in a URL. Call it lazy if you will.

I suppose I’m both shocked and surprised that someone who is so anti-artificial intelligence got flagged. This results in us as writers becoming more cautious about what it is we post, and that cuts our freedom to express off at the knees. The way I deal with that particular issue is just by pressing on as if nothing has changed, and if I do get falsely accused of using a chat bot, let the chips fall where they may. And I’m no stranger to being accused of using artificial intelligence. A YouTube creator and troll couldn’t believe I wrote all my own books — because they were written in a short space of time.

This led me to write a piece in which I explained that I’ve been described by some as unusually productive. And unfortunately, that seems to raise red flags in the era of such widespread use of artificial intelligence. Honestly, if I were to mull it over at greater length, I don’t think I care too much who thinks what. I know the truth. But I also haven’t gotten dinged yet. So it’s easy for me to say. If I were to put myself in the shoes of the individual who was accused of using a chat bot to generate their content it’d probably be a whole different story. And I’d probably write a piece about it.

An angry piece. Like the ones I write when something grates my gears. Believe me, though, I’m not proud of my quixotic outbursts — although they may amuse some along the way. After all, I see myself as something of a performer. I mean, why else would I publish articles as often as I do, releasing my every thought into the public square, unfiltered? Because I want to be seen and heard, of course. Although I sometimes play with the idea of living in obscurity, the truth is far more peculiar. I’m a guy who is literally attempting to entertain an invisible crowd. I’ve always done this.

I have a friend who isn’t into the performative aspect of blogging at all. And he writes every morning, for himself. And more power to him, but I prefer playing to an audience — no matter how big or small. And this is why mainstream writing platforms appeal to me. Look, I know the day will inevitably come where the notions I put forth are wildly misunderstood and I’m relegated to some form of shadow ban, and that’s simply because it’s happened before. But until then I’ll show up and give it all my best shot. No holes barred. Remember: if you never show your work to anyone, nothing can come of it.

Come to think of it there isn’t anything I do creatively that I don’t release out into the ether, for public consumption. Sure, I have some sketchbook pages that’ll never see the light of day — but those serve the purpose of process books anyway. I revisit them down the line when I’m looking for a strong idea, and then I edit those concepts down into something linear and more effective. I think sketchbooking and journalling are a form of distilling thoughts, thoughts that otherwise would lie dormant in ones psyche, and become part of their id. And that might be what I’m trying to prevent.

Creativity is a catharsis in its purest form. A release. And without it, I’d certainly be doomed. I’ve tried stepping away from the drawing board. I’ve also been forced to at times. But I always come back. It’s what feeds my soul and enriches my mind. I don’t really know why things come out the way they do, but often times I’ve learnt to sublimate even my mistakes. That’s a paraphrase of a Salvador Dali quote, by the way. If you’re a person who has embraced the use of artificial intelligence in any form perhaps you disagree with some of my views. And that really is okay.

But all I ask is that you’re honest with yourself at the end of the day. We can say till we’re blue in the face that we don’t use chat bots, but the temptation is always there now for people. “Do I want to struggle for the next half hour with this sentence, or should I just pass it through an agent?” you may ask yourself. And unfortunately a lot of people give in. There are so many different agents out there nowadays that people can jump around and use their free credits to their heart’s content. The large majority of people don’t even need a paid account. And it really is your business what you do.

As I’ve stated before, I do use one of these agents to create the illustrations that accompany my articles. But as far as I know that’s not breaking the terms of service. What makes this all the more ironic is I’m actually an illustrator myself, so I could be hand drawing them. And if you go back to my early work on Medium you can see the drawings I made back then. What happened subsequently is that people stopped hiring me for commercial projects, with the boom of artificial intelligence. So it stole my job. I then considered making it work for me. But I still write everything I do without the use of a chat bot.

So I did it. I published the dreaded piece I’ve been agonising over. Now my apology tour begins. I’ll need to ask that no one leaves. Actually, maybe it’s a good thing I captured my foul mood in a time capsule, so I can better reflect on how not to react in future. It was Baltasar Gracián who said, “Fools have only one thing that isn’t completely bad: although the wise are of no use to them, they can be of use to the wise, as negative examples.” And I’m self-aware enough to know of my foolishness. Heavy is the head that wears the jester’s hat, right? No, that’s not how it goes. Oh well.

Looking at this whole situation from the standpoint of observing my own behaviour is key. It’s what I do. I home in on the intricacies and nuances that are invisible to most. I’m able to process these things with a sense of detachment, and it all goes back to being a strategist in this thing we call life. While I’m not usually one for daily devotionals, I did pick up Robert Greene’s ‘The Daily Laws: 366 Meditations on Power, Seduction, Mastery, Strategy and Human Nature,’ and it provides some nice bite-sized chunks of information that can be applied to everyday life. I can’t recommend it enough.

What it does is takes some of the concepts he devised over the course of his career as an author so far and zooms in on them in often one page musings. I read a new page every morning when I get up and I’m in the the process of getting caffeinated. I find it sets a tone for the day ahead. And while I like reading this particular book, I have absolutely no interest in writing one myself. Which is odd, because usually when something inspires me I want to make my own version of it. When I tell you it is unlike any devotional I’ve read, I mean it. Greene has a way of simplifying complex ideas well.

However, when I look around at some of the other self-help books on the shelves of book stores I can’t help but feel underwhelmed. In the genre itself we have all the great deceivers, snake oil salesmen, hucksters and self-professed authorities. You know the ones. James Clear, Mark Mason, Brianna Wiest, et al. And maybe you like those authors. I just can’t get into them. I remember I was in discussion with a client of mine and he swore off reading ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.’ So I never read it. A harsh way to judge a book, yes, but I don’t waste precious time on bad work.

The thing that turns me off most self-help is the preachiness of it all. If it feels like someone is telling me what to do rather than guiding me gently and convincing me carefully I get restless. I want to be courted as a reader, not spoken down to. No one has all the answers. But if they can make a good argument, they’ve got me. This is probably why my effort at a self-help book hasn’t sold. Either I punched in all the wrong keywords on Kindle Direct Publishing and made it undiscoverable or my version of self-help was not self-help enough. I’ll blame Greene for that one.

But I really should be blaming myself. Going back and adjusting my keywords, and marketing my book somehow. All I know is that I enjoyed writing it tremendously, and that is enough for me. I don’t get involved in stuff to sell. I follow my passions and see where they take me. Awful advice for anybody who is trying to make content that converts or scales — but I’m not giving any advice. And I simply couldn’t, because I’m not qualified enough to do so. To dispense wisdom one must touch the heart of the reader, and reveal a universal truth. And the only way to do that is through authenticity.

That’d be my strategy (if I were to even have one). To show up and be myself. To let the chips fall where they may. To give others a snapshot into my world, and hopefully bring them into it without any coercion. As writers we must cajole our subjects with interesting titbits from our lives. The things no one else can possibly recreate without venturing into the realm of outright plagiarism. Those are the aspects of ourselves that can’t be mimicked. And like sarcasm being the lowest form of wit, mimicry is the amateurs only option. They can’t be themselves, because there’s nothing there.

Here’s where I tend to agree with Ryan Holiday. He said — and I’m paraphrasing — that in order to be a great writer you need to experience life. You need to live it to the full. Otherwise you’ll have nothing to draw from or really write about. I’ve personally had a whole other career before I ever sat down and took writing seriously. And that seems to have helped. I know now what I don’t want out of this venture, and I’ve learnt some invaluable lessons about what doesn’t work creatively. Trying to turn any creative act into something commercially viable is a mistake. Art doesn’t work that way.

And certainly, you get some people who strike it lucky and are able to manifest their dreams. But that’s mainly about being in the right place at the right time. Luck or good fortune has everything to do with it. No one can foresee their project taking off and skyrocketing beyond their wildest dreams. And while it is indeed the stuff dreams are made of, it rarely happens to the common man. I remember listening to a vlog by Greene who said that in order to publish ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ he’d only go into business with anyone if they didn’t alter or soften the book in any way, or else he’d walk.

How mind-blowingly confident one has to be in their project to do such a thing. It might seem arrogant on its face, but as we all know, publishing houses edit the crap out of manuscripts until they no longer resemble what they did initially. And this is because they’re often — if not always — focused on what sells. They’re not interested in new ideas. Just rehashing whatever is hot at the moment. And that’s another reason why I don’t think I’ll ever pitch a book anywhere, preferring to self-publish and get almost no sales, and have no marketing team behind me. I’m interested most in subversion.

Counter-culture and the underground run in my blood. Putting something out that I know for a fact that I believe in is more important to me than money. The freedom that comes with being the guy with whom the buck stops is addictive. But to most people they want that official stamp of approval. They want to make New York Times bestseller. And they’ll sell their soul to get there. Let’s face it — more than half of the books on our shelves are unremarkable — barring the classics. They’ve been softened, all the good parts have been edited out, and they’re meant to appeal to the general public.

But the general public isn’t as weird and eccentric as me, so I don’t see anything of value in what gets put out. And I’ve given all kinds of bestsellers a shot. I honestly think that some people try and get in to things that other people like to seem like they relate. But when you actually pick up a book that gets rave reviews it often doesn’t resonate in the way people say it will. At least for me, anyway. Then I start wondering if there’s something wrong with me. I begin to think my interests are too niche. And that’s when I remind myself that it’s okay. Instead we should judge books by our own metric.

Not what seems cool. Not what everyone is talking about now on BookTok (and I hate sounding so elitist, and like such a snob, but hey). I’ve long since learnt I can’t help who I am or what I like. I can’t just get into most of the things that are trending. The work that speaks to me most is obscure and absurd, surreal and provocative. And just because I like those things as a reader doesn’t mean my own writing reflects it. I write how I write, and I read how I read. While the two are somewhat interrelated, I also know they’re separate entities. I can’t even define the genre I fall into. So I don’t.

The past few days I’ve been fighting a bug and my usual levels of productivity have flown out the window. I’ve been sleeping a lot. And more than most people, I’d assume, I get restless when I have to rest. Most people would take the opportunity as a welcome respite. But I want to write and draw. It feeds my soul in a way that nothing else can. I realise that I need to learn how to slow down, and resign myself to the fact that I’m not a machine. My body needs rest, and so does my mind. One thing I’ll never allow myself to be robbed of is the creative act. Come hell or high water, I’ll be here.

Every time I leave the house a brand new disappointment occurs. It’s like I can set a countdown timer till disaster strikes. Has the world gone crazy? Or is it just me? Everywhere I turn, people are rude, inefficient or mind numbingly apathetic. They have absolutely no pride in their work. Everyone seems miserable, and courteousness is a thing of the past. Who ever thought a quick trip to the couriers could turn into such an unpleasant experience? I’ve used a different place to ship stuff before, but I thought I’d give the actual courier itself a try. But boy, what a mistake that was.

I’m a cartoonist who self-publishes book collections of my work, and all I wanted to do was ship a couple of them. Well! You’d have thought I was excrement stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe with the way I was treated. I walk in. Nobody greets me, despite being a brand new customer, looking to spend money in their establishment. What’s up with young people today? They either have no idea how to be professional, or they’re fully aware how incompetent they are but don’t care. I think it’s the latter. But what do I know? I’m just a lowly artist, in a world full of working stiffs.

If I’d have simply been told how to go about preparing my package for delivery up front, that would’ve been fine. But instead, I was expected to do all the work for them. This is the type of thing that really gets me down. People can say I’m oversensitive, but I remember a time when people had pride in their work. That doesn’t seem to be the case any longer. And the more I look at the unemployment rate, the less I pity the people who don’t have jobs. Because you give them a shot and this is the type of behaviour they exhibit. I personally have a very strong work ethic. I have to.

It gets me thinking: is this a worldwide phenomenon? Or is it just endemic in the people I’m surrounded by? I have friends abroad who tell their own horror stories of how young people today don’t care about their work either. So maybe it’s not just a third world problem. Maybe it’s universal. I get it. Not everybody wants to work a menial, low level job. But surely if they wish to move up in the world at some point they could strive just a little to be better? My faith in humanity is dashed. This is why I’m reclusive. I’m reminded every time I venture out into society how stupid people are.

Now that I’ve returned to the comfort of my own home, slipped into my house shoes and oversized sweater nothing can touch me. I’m freed of the confining nature of others. I bask in my own company, and won’t leave until I really have to. I think the problem is other people. I don’t think it’s me. I’m always polite and respectful of others, to the point of ridiculousness. But I’m seriously considering changing my policy on that one. Here’s the thing, when I’m dealing with a stranger in the context of a business transaction I expect that interaction to be pleasant. I guess that’s too hard.

Depending on anyone other than myself is anxiety inducing. People don’t care. They’re just trying to make it through their stupid work day and are looking forward to sitting on their duff. There is no attempt whatsoever of trying to make anyone else’s day brighter with so much as a smile or a friendly greeting. And why should I have to fill out a form for a courier company? Surely that’s their job. I mean, all they have to do is throw the package in a truck and drive it to it’s destination. Why make the customer do the work? Because they couldn’t be bothered. I’m just another annoyance.

That’s how I feel, anyway. Like something to be avoided. Like the bare minimum is asking too much. I can safely say I’ve never once in my life conducted myself in the way this person I dealt with did. They made me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being served. And I’m sure if their manager knew how they were conducting themselves on the clock, that’d get them canned. So it is now my mission to do as much damage as I possibly can to the reputation of the company that did me down. I’m talking stinking public reviews and an all out boycott of their brand in perpetuity. This is war.

Now I’m happy. Because I have something to fight about. Life presents you with nemeses all the time, and once they throw the first punch, it’s on. I guess I could look at this a different way, and I think I will. This little oversight was a gift. I now have somewhere to focus my anger. I can destroy some little squirt’s day the way they spoiled mine. I’m sure management isn’t going to be very happy about this. Then I consider, how far should I take this? It’s worth it to me to get these snot nosed punks fired and make way for someone who’ll actually take their position seriously. So here we go.

You may think I’m blowing this out of proportion, but I honestly don’t think I am. Something as simple as being helpful could’ve saved these slackers a lot of misery. So now I need to determine what course of action I take first. Do I leave a stinking review on the internet, or take it further? I’m not in the mood to be directed to a sign which conveys that right of admission is reserved. So you can choose not to serve me? Based on what? I haven’t even started yet. I’m your worst nightmare. You could look at this deeper, and ask yourself what might be wrong with me. Why I’m so touchy.

Because I remember a time when things weren’t this hard. When sending off a couple books didn’t make me feel like such a fool. My ego seems to have been injured, and I’ll stop at nothing to wound those who injured it tenfold. That’s how I am. Spiteful and vindictive. These people deserve to lose their jobs. But they probably won’t, because finding someone dumb enough to fill such a position is a bridge too far. Does anyone pay attention to bad reviews? Do they heed those kinds of warnings? I know I do. Something is changing inside me. I’ve succumbed to feelings of revenge and can’t stop.

Part of me is catastrophising, and I know it. But there’s a part of me that needs something to rail at, and now I’ve got it. Misanthropy is a peculiar behaviour to say the very least, but it suits me down to the ground. Perhaps I do need to learn how to let go and allow others to take care of certain things, but I can’t help but feel like doing things for myself assures there are very few blunders. Of course I’m not perfect, and sometimes I drop the ball too. But that’s something I can live with. What I can’t, is somebody else’s mistakes. I suppose, to the courier, I’m just another number. And I am.

But surely they could treat their customers better. Surely it isn’t hard to be greeted when you walk through the door, and asked if you need any assistance. I could be disabled or something, and have trouble filling out my own form. My belief is that they should be taking care of that stuff for me. I’ve just had much better experiences elsewhere. But on those occasions I didn’t feel the need to write a whole piece rambling on about how great the experience was. It’s only negative experiences that stick out to us as human beings. Am I a narcissist, or something? Why am I so angry about this?

I think control freak might be a better term. I know I can take my business elsewhere. Allow me to put myself in those pathetic suckers shoes who work there for a minute. Would I be thrilled to deal with the public all day? Probably not. But I made a series of life choices in which I was never subject to having to take a low level job. I guess they’re doing the best they can. Perhaps one of them was disabled? No. I’m going to go with stupid, sorry. I don’t feel bad that they work at a courier. If they can’t do the job they should go elsewhere. What level of smarts are we dealing with?

My opinion is that one should strive to do the best job they possible can, because it takes more work to be difficult than it does pleasant. Maybe it’s my lack of experience in the real world that makes me so prickly and prone to feeling victimised. A lot of this I probably won’t even remember tomorrow. Because I’ll be living my dreams. Something they can’t do, because they’re stuck in a courier. What a pitiful existence, really. All I care about from here on out is pursuing my craft and mastering it. I’ll no longer stew in these toxic juices that were created outside of my own control.

I have books to write, comics to draw, and art to make. I now see that getting so angry about something so inconsequential is just silly. What do I care about that two bit dump? Those people can wallow in their mediocrity till the end of time for all I care. I’m not going to get anyone fired. Alright. I’ll admit, I did write a bad review of the place already. But I don’t have to deal with them anymore, and as long as they deliver my package I’ll never see them again. I needed to get this out of my system, though. I was mad as a snake. All I can hope for is that it provided some amusement.

I've got this really angry piece sitting in my drafts. And I’ve been actively avoiding hitting publish on it for a while. When I say a while, I mean a while. Part of me is afraid I’ll get dinged if I go ahead and release it, so I keep vacillating between “I’m going to publish this next” and “It’ll never see the light of day.” Right now I’m writing this piece because I’ve decided I don’t want to release that piece. So I find myself in quite a peculiar predicament. Like maybe I should just throw caution to the wind, or insert some kind of disclaimer in the beginning that warns people about the mood I was in at the time. All of this speaks to a level of indecision on my part. And it’s anxiety-inducing.

But what a silly thing to get anxious about. There are real people out there with real problems, and here I am white knuckling over some seemingly controversial piece. The truth is it might not even be that pejorative at all. Perhaps I’m just catastrophising. Something I’m clearly wont to do. Another factor that comes into play is that not a lot of people stop by and read my stuff, so maybe even if I do publish it it’ll some how fly under the radar unnoticed. Then I get to thinking, isn’t this amusing? Here I am pouring my heart out almost daily and I’m worried about one article. The dreaded article. Something I made, that came from within, that I crafted with my bare hands. It’s circling the drain.

Some day I might work up enough courage to publish it, but until then I think it needs to live in a liminal state. What’s funny is I don’t usually agonise over such things like this. So there must be something there. What it is that’s making it so compelling is beyond me. What it boils down to in a way — and I feel ashamed even admitting this — is that I don’t want to lose my audience. I don’t want to hit them with something that paints me in a negative light. I mean, who needs another rant anyway? Most people come here to get away from all that, right? Not read complaints disguised as articles. Then again I’m not monetised, so why am I holding back? I might never know the answer.

One thing I know for certain is although my writing is accessible to a degree it’s not for everyone. I’m an acquired taste. Kind of like the first time you drink neat whiskey. It burns as it goes down your throat. I’m the literary equivalent of bourbon on the rocks. And the funniest part is I’m stone cold sober. Comparing ones work to alcohol or drugs is probably not a great idea, however. Because substance abuse is no laughing matter. Then I think about writers who did their best work under the influence. Stephen King, Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski come to mind immediately. That’s never been me though. I did used to smoke a ton of pot and drink like a fish, but no more.

Does the audience really want you to hold back though? I’d assume not. Self-censorship is a big problem, but it’s also understandable with the prevalence of the almighty ban hammer and looming terms of service. Honestly, writing platforms can terminate an account for anything they really want to. I sometimes think I should just go ahead and set up an independent blog. But then I remember it’d be a similar experience to Substack, where no one can find you unless they actively seek you out. This is why I prefer Medium by far. It comes with a built in audience. But there are things I’d like to say sometimes that I don’t, because I’m scared of violating the clearly laid out guidelines.

That’s a me problem though. Because I run my own forum and have a terms of service there too. I get it, rules are boring, but they’re necessary. Imagine if we lived in pure anarchy. You get those who fantasise about this utopia where anything goes, and honestly, living like that would never work. What seems like a brilliant idea in the abstract turns out not to be so practically sound. But this whole business of self-censorship is bothering me if I am to be brutally honest. What is it I’m not saying? I think what I need to do is write a list of all the outrageous topics I wish to explore and go for it, no holes barred. If I lose people maybe a good attitude is so be it. Who really knows?

The thing is I pride myself on being honest, and people can tell when you’re holding back. However, I think going about this in a more strategic fashion is best. I don’t have to reveal everything at once. I can instead unravel what it is I want to say slowly and with more nuance. Give my readers context for what it is they’re walking into. And I know, this all sounds like excuses. And maybe they are. So what? We build our lives on them after all. Most of the things we really want to do we don’t because there’s fear involved. Something in the back of our minds tells us to pump the brakes, to tread carefully. I also want to put my sensitive side on display because it’s a part of me.

One of my worst fears is coming off like a douche bag without self-awareness. And aren’t those types the worst? The folks who don’t know what they don’t know. I recently stumbled across a quote I jotted down in my sketchbook from Paracelsus. It goes, “I began to study my art by imagining that there was not a single teacher in the world capable to teach it to me, but that I had to acquire it myself.” And that’s a good description of where I’m at. I’ve never sought out mentors — not because there aren’t decent ones around, no — but because I don’t think anyone understands fully what it is I’m trying to do. I also have a bit of a problem with authority. But I’ve read that the right mentor can work magic.

If a teacher were capable of instilling confidence in me I’d integrate them into my life without question. But only I can gain the right amount of confidence through the right amount of trial and error. I’ve chosen to go the long way around. To hit my head and step in doo-doo along the way. Those are the experiences that teach me things. Although, come to think of it I did have a very effective art teacher in high school. So I tracked her down and sent her an email telling her how much I appreciated her encouragement over the time she taught me. She responded gracefully as I thought she would. And all this flies in the face of the no mentor policy. I’m a walking talking contradiction.

Is there any other way to be, though? I think those whose personalities are too congruent are clearly hiding something. No one is that together. We all have skeletons in our closet and at times come off as inconsistent. Isn’t that what makes us human? That’s why I’ve long since abandoned any idea, even remotely, that I’ll make sense. I’m an artist. I don’t need to make sense. Plus I killed my old self but the new me isn’t much better. I think the thing I’m grappling with most is a sense of placation. Something I swore I’d never do. As Osamu Dazai said, “I lived so carefully, thinking someone was watching. But the stage was empty, the audience never came.” We’re performing to an empty stage.

Everyone patronises others at some time or another in life, and we tend to want to placate the special interests of those we value. It’s when ones entire personality is that of a chameleon that they can’t be trusted. How are you supposed to interact with a mirror, anyway? It copies your every action and reflects back what you are. So insincere people are just mirrors. And that’s where I come in. I put my fist through the mirror and shatter it. I do this because I can’t stand to be mimicked — even though imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. I don’t think I care to be flattered much. I’d rather have someone give it to me straight, given they’re not outright rude. I was raised with manners.

So I expect the same from others, and when I don’t get it it can be quite devastating. Take for instance someone who has established their personality on being straightforward. You come to accept that they’re going to tell you how it is. Therefore they’re let off the hook a bit more than the person who tends to soften the blow out of politeness. And when it comes to being polite it is a form of deception, no question. People tell you what you want to hear. They assure you things are not as bad as you think they are. And it almost instils a sense of confidence in you that would otherwise be dashed if you were dealing with a brute without a filter. While I’m polite I really try and not tell lies.

And even a white lie can get out of hand. Where is the sweet spot, between respectful dialogue and those without the social grace of possessing a filter? How do we find it and implement it? One thing is for sure, the world needs both personality types. I observe human behaviour quite a lot. I’m a people watcher. And for most of my life I’ve been accused of being too sensitive. If I had a buck every time someone told me not to take something personally I’d be a wealthy man. But I don’t know any other way to be. This is me, like it or don’t. Accept it or reject it. Chances are most people are too wrapped up in their own drama and neuroses to notice what anyone else is going through. So just be you and forget the rest.

Do you have a strategy for your content? I bashed the term and premise “content strategist” a little while ago now, and it got me thinking in those very terms. We all have something to offer someone, and to strategise how your content will potentially land can’t be a literary cardinal sin. So I guess I’ve changed my mind. Call me a flip-flopper if you will — it’s no skin off my nose. I’ve always switched opinions like underwear. One day believing this, the next believing that. The only difference is I’m honest about it. Most people aren’t forthcoming, and rather willing to die on a hill.

I’ve been meaning to get my hands on Ryan Holiday’s ‘Growth Hacker Marketing’ and ‘Perennial Seller,’ but my local book stores and Amazon have let me down. The reason is I want to get better at marketing, because as I’ve said before I suck at it. All I want to do is gain wider readership, I don’t care if I don’t make a cent from any of this — and you can’t. The moment you do something for the express purpose of profiting from it, money is the very thing you immediately repel. It’s a universal truth, and if you don’t believe me, just try it. But that isn’t meant to discourage, it’s just an acknowledgement.

I personally never saw myself as a content strategist, but perhaps it was wrong-headed to think that way. Aren’t we all? As much as we say we want one thing we often mean another, because human beings are inherently dishonest creatures. It’s like me saying I don’t care if I make a cent — of course I want to make a couple bucks here and there — it’s what allows us to devote more time to what we’re passionate about. I do have a problem however with someone strategising whether or not something will resonate before they create it. What’s the point in that? To suck the fun out of it?

But in this day and age we’re all angling for views and clicks. It’s simply a fact of life. Social media and those who eschew their involvement in it even sneak a peek here and there. It’s almost inescapable. Everything is an app nowadays, everything has a QR code, everything is instant messaging, and people barely pick up the phone anymore and check in. You’re lucky if you get a text. I remember my departure from instant messaging clearly. It boggled people’s minds. And the bane of my existence is the voice note phenomenon. Incoherent rambling for the sake of it, really.

Here’s the thing. I don’t do a lot of market research. I don’t presume anyone has any interest in what I have to offer. And the numbers back that up. My only goal is to get whatever is on my chest off of it, and you can’t assume that’ll get eyeballs or cultivate an audience. Maybe I’m breaking the fourth wall here when I shouldn’t be. But I’m genuinely interested in how others strategise, plot and plan their next piece. To me it’s a fascinating idea because it’s something I’m unfamiliar with. This is the reason nothing I do has much of a following. I colour outside the lines, and go off the beaten path.

I’ve read enough strategy relating to human nature, why wouldn’t I want to indulge in the broadening of such a concept? Because I don’t want to use anybody. I don’t want to see readers as numbers. They’re people, for God’s sake. And numbers reek of corporate. There’s a plasticity and a insincerity to it all, and I know for a fact what it is I don’t want. The hard part is deciding what I do. Isn’t it interesting, though? This phenomena of people chasing likes, shares and subscribers, stacking them like physical possessions in order to reflect some part of their self-worth? To me it is.

My content strategy is to have somebody happen across my work and have it click. To bring them into my world as I see it and have it stir something inside of them. And maybe that’ll never happen, but a guy can dream. Content strategy sounds methodical, mathematical, and manipulative. (The alliteration just then wasn’t intentional). Who would go as far as to conduct market research as it relates to an online blogging platform? And what motivates these individuals to do such a thing? I guess we can safely assume that the number one driving force is getting compensated financially.

Look, there’s nothing wrong with getting paid for ones work. It’s what keeps the economy going. The bartering of services delivered for cold hard cash. But I just know how soul-destroying it was trying to shoehorn my creative practice into the context of a business. And it’s why I warn people off of it. I couldn’t imagine having an obligation to write. I only do it because I’m not required to. And most of the time no one reads what I write anyway. I’m not feeling sorry for myself either — I’m aware that I’m not for everybody. That’s why I’d never know who my target market or audience is.

People have paid me compliments on my writing throughout my life and that was enough to motivate me to do it more. Often when I read other people’s work though I’m struck by how far it is I still have to go to get better at this whole thing. I guess some people have just mastered the art of making what they do look effortless. If writing was an unpleasant, anxiety-inducing struggle for me and the way I write I’d never do it. I know someone who writes for themselves entirely. They don’t publish, but they keep up the daily habit. I’m not sure if they don’t have the confidence to publish.

All I know is that there is an aspect of this process which is performative, and that appeals to me deeply. Making an absolute fool of myself in public seems to be something I have a burning desire to do. To lay it all out on the table and expose myself warts and all. To start arguments, to ask questions, to, at times, call myself out for being a hypocritical douche bag. I want someone to watch as I go down in flames. I know it’s a highly unusual choice, but it’s mine to make. And there always seems to be a sense of making it up as I go along about anything I do creatively. Sure, I plot mentally.

But that’s not the same as outlining stuff and making sure you hit all the right points before you close a piece. The way I see it, that’s too formulaic for me to derive any enjoyment out of. It’s the same with my cartooning. I write and draw at the same time, improvising as I go. I guess it’s another reason why I’ve never been able to stomach a straight job. If I’ve got a list of tasks to do, and I’m being barked at by some bureaucrat I’m going to fold like a cheap suit. No one tells me what to do. But simultaneously, I’m the most demanding boss I’ve ever had. Self employment isn’t for everyone.

I met up with a friend I haven’t seen in over a decade. He’s working a corporate graphic design job. Although he seems otherwise fine there is a sadness about him. He looks dead-eyed and defeated. And I think he hates his life. Chances are there are many other people out there who’re living the same reality. Life can be brutal and especially unforgiving. I don’t envy his position, but I guess he’s resigned himself to the fact that life can’t change for the better. Not if you’re in corporate. He always has snide remarks to make about my freelance career, but look at him now! I take no joy in this.

I’m convinced the corporate environment kills people slowly. I get that for some reason they have to exist in order for the economy to keep going, but I could never put all my interests on hold for my entire life and only enjoy myself when I retire. That’s no way to live. And I guess the strategists behind content that blows up are a corporatisation of what I otherwise consider a viable art form. That’s where the problem comes in. I don’t want to read something because someone was on a deadline and they’re only doing it because they’re going to get paid. I want raw self-expression.

Turning art into a commodity is downright blasphemous to me. To take something so pure, so rich, so free, and have it narrowly confined to a box to generate a bottom line is tragic. I know there are tons of articles out there preaching the same old song, how to get your content to convert. How to scale. How to finally break the glass ceiling. But I’m not interested in any of that and I could never be. I’m here to give you myself unadulterated. No holes barred. Without filler or a filter. Hopefully when someone’s done reading a piece by me they feel like they visited an old friend. Not a huckster.

I've long since internalised the strategy of making what takes years of painstaking mastery look like a cinch. And honestly, I first came across this idea in Law 30 of ‘The 48 Laws of Power,’ where it suggests we make our accomplishments seem effortless. The subtitle of this chapter goes on to state, “You look immensely competent and powerful when you achieve your goals without breaking a sweat.” However the problem for most of us is that we do break a sweat. We spend hours upon hours a day mastering that one skill or honing our talent. So to make it look easy sounds counterproductive. But it’s only until somebody else tries their hand at it that it becomes impossible.

The definition of the Italian word sprezzatura is as follows: “Studied carelessness, especially as a characteristic quality or style of art or literature.” Now I like the sound of that. Studied carelessness. And that’s because it dovetails perfectly with a piece I wrote about a week ago in which I explore uselessness being liberating. An arguably controversial view I’ve taken recently is that art needs to be impractical in order to be considered brilliant. But that speaks to my personal taste in non-commercial work. The instant I learn something supposedly artistic was done for the express purpose of generating a profit I lose interest. And I refer to art in the broadest sense, in all it’s forms.

Writing prose is an art, stand up comedy is an art, as is painting or drawing. To me they all fall under the same umbrella. So I guess my newfound interest in the term sprezzatura is intrinsically related to my personal opinion of a sense of impracticality being necessary in the arts. Look, people design billboards and paint signs to lure in business all the time. That to me is a practical application of so-called art. But at the same time it’s not art. I remember I was once having a conversation with a client and she said her husband was an artist. As I proceeded further on into the dialogue I learnt he was in advertising. That’s not an artist, sorry. That’s what you call a sell out.

Advertising can’t be an art, as it coerces others into parting with their hard earned money. And there most certainly is a psychological bent to it, but it’s more akin to brainwashing than moving one emotionally. I mean, how can you compare Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ and how it stirs something inside of your soul to that slop? You can’t. And no one will ever convince me that you can. I’ve seen grown men weep to orchestral music, and I’ve done so myself. There’s no question that we’re living in a time now where real music has been replaced with the basest negativity of the human race. Sure, I’ve enjoyed Hip Hop, mainly in the nineties, but it doesn’t move me the way an orchestra can.

I’m well aware that I might come off sounding like a purist here, but it’s no skin off my nose. I’ve marvelled at Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel all my life, and I know for a fact that I could never so much as touch the tip of the iceberg of what he achieved, being a lowly cartoonist. Even if I started applying myself this late in my life I’d never get there, and for that he deserves all the credit in the world. But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Credit. Artists plaster their names or signatures all over their work because they’re so afraid that they’re not going to be credited for it. My approach is a little more open source. I believe artists should freely borrow from each other, and reinterpret past works.

I think taking credit for something fully is foolish, simply because of my theory around where ideas originate. Everyone has access to free association, connections, and the combination of already existing concepts combined with others. Nothing is truly original. Everything has a reference point. And a real artist will admit to that. It all boils down to how we process information, and the filters said information passes through. All my life I’ve mimicked my heroes. Throughout every piece I’ve ever created there are traces of my influences. But there’s a big difference between that and plagiarism. And yes, I know Picasso supposedly said that “Good artists copy, great artists steal.”

However, while looking further into the origin of such an utterance, I can’t find any credible sources of him actually saying that. And historical quotes are frequently misattributed or fabricated entirely. We build so much lore up in our heads that lies become the truth. We want so badly to believe certain figureheads said and did certain things, but our perceptions are often clouded by our own biases. While I’m almost reticent to quote a literary giant with the now widespread false quotes, it was Leo Tolstoy who said “I am always with myself, and it is I who am my tormentor.” Think about that for a minute. This man had a troubled relationship with his wife, mainly due to how he worked.

He’d disappear for days on end, pull her close and push her away. But for a man to achieve what he did, of course he was difficult. I’m one of those creative types that requires a lot of space to be in my own head, and while I am present for my wife I sometimes feel ashamed that I’m not more available. My art has always been my idol, and I have no trouble admitting that. And even though my existence is not miserable, I do escape into my work frequently. This poses a problem when it comes to me running out of steam or being away from the studio against my will. Because I’m always moving forward, no matter what. I can be fickle though, and crumble when I don’t get to draw.

Drawing unlocks some part of my brain that needs to be stimulated. It’s like scratching an itch when I do it, and we all know how satisfying that sensation is. If I’m on any type of time constraint however that’s a sure fire way for me to wind up incapable of producing. And I think that’s because for many years I was on the clock, working as a commercial illustrator, doing things I really didn’t want to do. But the payoff was that I told myself I was fortunate to be doing something I enjoyed. Drawing. That novelty wears off after years of working through holidays, weekends and after hours, making stuff that clients don’t appreciate because they’re using the material to sell products.

I simply stopped wanting to be a part of that. And to be honest with you, the pay wasn’t all that good. I guess I could blame myself for charging too little, but it’s all in the past now, so it doesn’t really matter whose fault it was. I say all this to say we need non-commercial work. Art that is made from the heart and appeals to the heart. I recently read somewhere that it’s a fantastic time to be an illustrator. The rationale? With the rise of artificial intelligence, people are looking to hire creatives that make work with a human touch. I’m not so certain that’s the case, though. Because my phone isn’t ringing, and it hasn’t in a few years. And it’s not because I’m unavailable, I still am, for a fee.

Another law in ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ is to despise the free lunch. Everyone knows there are almost always strings attached, and while artificial intelligence is free, someone is the product. And it’s probably those who use it. This is one of the reasons I prefer to pay for things as opposed to getting them pro bono. The concept of something being free cheapens the feeling. There’s always a hidden catch. Always. One of the things that gets my goat sometimes is when somebody does something that seems altruistic, and later on you come to find out there were selfish motives behind it. It’s often easy to figure out pretty fast, but it’s when this occurs that I become disappointed in others.

I like to give of myself freely to those I love, and do things from a place of sincerity. Anyone who is incapable of doing such a thing immediately goes on my shit list. Life is too short to entertain self-absorbed people. Even though most of us are by default. We’ve got to work hard to rid ourselves of such an ugly trait, and it’s easier said than done. But at the end of the day it’s not hard to show up and offer whatever you can to someone who so desperately needs it. The level of selfishness we observe in the common man today is astounding to say the very least. And I think there are multiple reasons why people are that way. Social media encourages self-absorption and a me first attitude.

That’s one of the reasons I steer clear of it, and devote my time to richer life experiences. Because honestly, looking at life through the narrow lens of what people want you to see is dangerous. It gives others a false impression of what your life is really like. It makes you look like your life is easy and you never have low points. That’s another reason why I think making what is difficult appear effortless might not be the best way forward. Because it’s inherently dishonest. And I don’t like dishonest. I want the truth, plain and straight. Without the frills. I’m not scared to say that being an artist is not all roses. Sometimes you stare at the page for a good while before anything comes. Other times what you produce is unusable. And it all depends whether it survives a ruthless edit.

When it comes to positivity and affirmation, I’m probably one of the least likely candidates to dispense any advice remotely related its benefits. But that won’t stop me from doing it anyway. Although my nihilism gets in the way most times, I do also possess a sense of hope. And maybe that’s difficult to reconcile given the circumstances, however, it remains true. I picked this phrase up from another equally self-destructive individual, and I now realise it was possibly said with some irony. To be of good cheer, though, can in very few instances be counterproductive. Unless of course we wade into the realm of toxic positivity, in which case delusional thinking seeps through.

In the face of challenges, if we approach things from a hopeful perspective, that hope may indeed get dashed. But it’s in our perseverance that we shine. I’m not saying any given obstacle can be met with ecstasy, no, certainly not. Rather, it’s in turning what otherwise could be a drawback into a silver lining. But how does one go about doing so, you may ask? With attitude. Out of all the things we can’t control in life our attitude is the thing we can. We determine how we respond to situations that arise. Not the other way around. A lot of people may feel like there’s no choice, but there really always is. With all the setbacks that have occurred in my life I’ve learnt the power of manifestation.

Because when you’ve got nothing else but how you see the world, the world becomes your oyster. This isn’t some flash in the pan upbeat kick I’m on — despite my living with a mood disorder — instead, it’s a universally relatable truth. I spent way too many years with a voice in my head telling me I was nothing, that everyone hated me and I was going to die to form a defeatist position. I simply had to rise above the noise, and with the help of the right mental health professionals I was able to. The black pill is a dangerous outlook and only leads one way: down. And nobody crafts a downward spiral deliberately unless they’re seriously disturbed. A modern term for this is doomer.

To some people the sky is always falling, and a conspiracy against them lurks around every corner. I know sometimes I lean that direction myself, but it does one a great disservice. I’ve actively had to cut certain people out of my life for espousing such nonsense, like the world is coming to an end soon. And it’s always apparently just around the corner — followed by evasiveness on the timeline. I know at least one person who has stated numerous times that the messiah is coming this month, this week, or tomorrow. And you know what? It never happens. That’s not to say it won’t. I think the end days will come, and we’ll witness the final battle. But I can’t fathom a human putting an ETA on it.

At the end of the day, what do we really know? A human being cannot know the mind of God or how He works, and to try do so is just foolish. Whoever our creator may be He is bigger than us in every conceivable way. All seeing, all knowing. Omniscient. Everywhere at once and nowhere at all. Don’t even bother trying to wrap your head around that one, because it’ll never happen. But getting back to my main point, when has a kind smile ever cost you anything? Good deeds may never go unpunished, but if you do something for someone from an altruistic place, that’s on them. I’ve always been criticised for being too soft. Too sensitive. And people have taken advantage of it.

But I usually find that having such a rare quality opens doors. Relative strangers find me easy to relate to. People can talk to me about the stuff they don’t usually get the chance to speak to anyone else about. I’m understanding, open-minded and tolerant to almost everyone I encounter. And I don’t know, it may be a gift, but how can any of it ever be considered a bad thing? There are enough grumps with bitterness in their hearts on this planet. I say we all need a little bit of acceptance. And it’s not hard to do. It’s actually more difficult to be miserable. You’ve got to go pretty far out of your way to do it. It’s kind of like being offended — it takes work. And then we come to all the excuses.

There are those who feel like being pleasant is something they have to force. That life owes them something. Victims in perpetuity. Everything is a personal affront. A flat tyre is the end of the world. No, it’s just a flat tyre. You can fix it and move on. You don’t have to let it ruin the rest of your waking hours. Things happen. People cut you off in traffic. They treat you like they think a stranger should be treated — with suspicion. It’s a sad state of affairs when we question other’s motives when they offer a kind gesture or pay it forward. We seem to look for the catch. Is it a trap? What does that person want from me? Chances are, nothing. There are still decent people in the world.

They may be hard to find. It may feel as if they’re a thing of the past. But it’s in acknowledging the little moments that we discover most people are genuinely burdened with more than meets the eye. There are silent battles going on around us all the time, and they certainly affect our collective demeanour. But I get it, some people are just miserable, and telling them to be of good cheer is like attempting to convince a predator in the animal kingdom not to pursue its prey. In some cases, removing yourself entirely from their lives is sound. You have to do it for yourself, to protect your sanity. Let me shift our focus now into what we can do about our lot in life, if it is indeed dreary.

You don’t have to put on a brave face and act like everything is right all the time. No one is telling you to be Polyanna. But you can look life dead in the eye and laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of a bad situation. Shrug at the things that are not in your power to change. You can only do what you can do. Sometimes we shoulder responsibilities that are not ours. And it’s in these instances that we need to learn to be more hands-off. Fortunately other people’s struggles aren’t your cross to carry. I know a particular person who has certainly never had it easy, yet he continues to spread love and let go of the things he can’t change. And while he might not have his health, he has his dignity.

It’s a gift we give to ourselves, setting free the unnecessary burdens and baggage we carry. And the truth is most of our pain is self-inflicted when we really think about it. But you may battle to overcome even the smallest of snags. You might have a tendency to catastrophise. That can all change, however, with the right attitude and approach. Some things just aren’t worth getting upset about. You decide what’s worth your time, nobody else dictates that. The old saying that we all have the same twenty-four hours in a day applies here. What are you doing with yours? And how can it be better spent? Certainly not on rumination and endless pity parties. Chances are you have it better than most.

There are people living in abject poverty, to whom a slice of bread is equivalent to a bar of gold. But you don’t have that problem. In fact, you throw out half a loaf at a time because it goes mouldy. When I was just a kid my mother taped a photo of a starving African child with flies on his face onto the refrigerator. Now that might have also had something to do with my father’s eating disorder, but the point remains, it got me thinking twice about whether or not I was really hungry. Sure it was disturbing to see that kind of thing up close, but it taught me a valuable lesson. Appreciate what you have. You were born into privilege. You can snack if you want, but do you really need to?

Some might disagree with the route my mother took and call it some kind of trauma inducing incident. I’d say it helped put things in perspective. When I grew up, things were different. Getting a beating with the belt when you misbehaved was commonplace. Having your mouth slapped when you said something out of line to one of your parents was normal. And I’m not so sure the modern way people are raising their children is. In order to learn we need to face consequences for our bad behaviour. When discipline goes out the window so do a whole other set of virtues. But it’s up to others how they wish to rear their offspring. Since I’m not a parent it really isn’t much of a concern.

I do think it’s having a negative affect on society, though. You may not agree with corporal punishment, and that’s fine. But guardrails exist for a reason, despite most people treating them like a snore. I choose to be happy. I make a conscious effort to spread joy wherever I go. I never want to be the person who enters the room and people put their guard up, immediately. My aura is open — to the bad actor and the good Samaritan alike. Out of all my ramblings this is one I never thought I’d explore. Me. The eternal pessimist, with nihilism perspiring from his pores. It just goes to show you people can change, and for the better. I lived in the dark too long. And I’m ready to step into the light.

While I’ve got a lot on my mind, it’s sometimes a struggle to get it out of my head and onto the page. To manifest the literary vision I have. As I’ve stated before, I have these concepts that dance before my eyes, enticing me to realise them. This has occurred to me throughout my life, and I think it has a little something to do with working in the visual arts. As an illustrator, one must be able to draw from their head, often without reference — and that encourages us to engage our amygdala.

The place in the brain that is responsible for experiencing emotions. And what is more steeped in emotion than memory? The truth is, everyone has access to these sources, but some of us refuse to believe it. When I hit a wall or I’m going through a creative lull, I try not allow those things to deter me. Instead I see it as just another piece of the puzzle, something to be used to my benefit. There’s nothing more anxiety-inducing to a writer than the blank page. Few things mock or deride us more.

But every clean slate is an invitation to plumb the depths of our psyche, and discover what it is we really know. So much of who we are as people is hidden in our subconscious, and the outward image we project often has little to do with our true nature. I know it may be hard to believe, but I’ve noticed that the most seemingly hands-off types are secretly control freaks, and vice versa. Those who appear happy are sad, and the consciously composed are angry as all get out inside.

This is why we can never fully trust what people tell us. Now, I’m not encouraging severe distrust in any and all circumstances, I’m just saying that lying and deception is a uniquely human trait. Your dog or cat is incapable of lying to you — they show you an innocence and naïveté unmatched by the human animal (for want of a better phrase). And I think it’s why our pets creep into our hearts and we form such strong bonds with them. Because they can’t hurt us emotionally. They’re always happy to see us.

One of the things that drains me more than anything else is the front people put up in social settings. They’ll tell you everything is fine, when inside they’re falling apart, and battling to hold it together. They’ll agree to do something they don’t want to do instead of being honest about it. Then they’ll behave passive-aggressively, and do whatever they committed to with a bad grace. And for all those times when we encounter a brutally honest individual, we often categorise them as rude.

But nothing could be further from the truth. Wouldn’t you rather have someone be forthcoming about their intentions rather than conceal them behind cryptic, antisocial tells? I certainly would. Not everyone is like me though, and that’s a cold hard realisation I’ve come to over time. It’s a peculiar phenomenon, this hiding behind false social graces for invisible brownie points. And this is not to say I haven’t encountered outright rude people, because I have. However that’s very different.

Being rude is a blatant disregard for others sensibilities. Deliberately making remarks one should rather avoid, at risk of becoming hurtful. We need less tone deaf, pompous, socially inept types who exhibit a superiority complex despite feeling deeply inferior. But the problem doesn’t go away on its own. Someone has to speak up and confront these bad-mannered ticking time bombs. When I encounter somebody who has this undesirable trait I tend to want to break the news as delicately as possible.

And I do that out of compassion for them possibly not knowing how offensive they’re being. Perhaps they were raised in an environment where they weren’t taught how to treat others respectfully, and when you inevitably spill the beans on their behaviour and it’s reflected back on them they’re frequently shocked and surprised. That’s my experience anyway. But some people can’t help it. They believe their own hype and buy in to this idea that everything they do is remarkable.

Simply put, none of us really are. We may have good ideas but it’s in the execution of them where we often fail — out of laziness, apathy, or pure ignorance. The biggest breakthroughs in history have largely been flukes, and it’s only after they occur that the person responsible for them mythologises their path. They’ll tell you they always knew it’d work. They’ll invent fictions that stretch far and wide, and call it autobiography. And it all comes back to our inherent dishonesty.

Everyone likes the story of the underdog finally getting to the top. The rags to riches narrative. It makes them believe that if they just try hard enough they’ll be able to achieve excellence too. But I know too many people who simply outwork everyone else and still don’t move the needle. Luck unfortunately plays a tremendous part in any of us getting out big break. And truthfully? If you’re waiting for your big break don’t hold your breath. People will tell you your time will come, but no one knows that for sure.

I like to pretend that I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success, and I often imagine everything I have is something I’m fortunate to experience possessing. Whether it be my God given talents or my ability to extend compassion to others in spite of their hateful, mean-spiritedness. Love can never be wrong. It’s always a good reaction to any set of circumstances we face. And I’m not talking about toxic positivity and manifestation magic, no, instead what I refer to is a flat out choice to spread peace.

As a pacifist, while I’m diametrically opposed to war on foreign grounds, I recognise that there are instances in life which come to feel like a battlefield. Those instead are the instances in which I feel callousness is deserved and retribution is right and just. You can only turn the other cheek for so long until you become a pushover. And I don’t think Jesus even advocated for that in the accounts written of Him. Revenge is, at times, a perfectly rational response to someone trying to ruin you.

I understand there are those who’ll disagree with me. But think about this for a moment. Say you’re in a position where your life is being made hell by an aggressor. They could be a bully, a professional colleague, a competitor, or even your boss. Sometimes making an example of them teaches others what they can expect from you if you’re crossed. Vengeance is something that is discouraged in common parlance, but only you can determine if it feels right and fits well or doesn’t.

The truth is, if we lived in a world where nobody baited anyone else into conflict would we even appreciate the times when we encounter the placid and peace-loving? It’s like bad days — you can’t have good days if you don’t have bad days sometimes. Everything appears to be a duality in this life. I’m not entirely sure why that is, but it’s the nature of our existence. Good versus evil, the brightness of day and the darkness of night. Obviously whoever is responsible for creation is sending us a message.

I might not know what that message is entirely, but with enough intuitive exploration of my own motives I might some day learn. The thing is, none of this can be forced or memorised as we do facts for a test. We have to live our lives and gain experience as we do so. That is how we find meaning and discover our purpose. Unfortunately we never seem to learn lessons through conduits, which is why sages and philosophers are not the best way to gain insight into the nature of life.

“Some day I’ll be able to let go of my resentments and bottled up frustrations and be free,” we tell ourselves. “But not today. Today I’ll continue on as I always have, and hope for a different result.” That result never comes. It’s only by actively changing our behaviour that we yield other outcomes. The grass always seems greener on the other side. Someone else will always seem to have it better than us. If only we knew that there’s someone out there longing for our life would we comprehend how good we really have it.

Clarity of mind is when you see your goal in the distance and make a beeline for it. Fear of the unknown is when you dissolved like an OTC effervescent, drowning in the tears of your uncertainty. Stability is standing in front of a gulf, unmoved by its vastness, and walking back to the vehicle you came in, to leave. Depression is a whirlpool of seemingly endless drain circling, while gasping for air, and instead swallowing unequal amounts of water. These words are from my diary.

I wrote them a very long time ago, and I’m not sure what my circumstances were at the time. Thinking back on certain periods of my life I either wince or smirk. Of course there is a lot of alternative reactions in between, but they’re too numerous to list. Nor do I feel they’re all that compelling to read. I’ve kept journals, made diary entries and utilised sketchbooks my entire life. And I’m saddened to think how many I was either forced to throw them in the trash or give them away.

People responded to the darkness in these books in various ways, but the most common one was that of fascination. I don’t like to bog anyone down with my complaints, but sometimes they slip through the cracks, unnoticed by even me. As I sit behind my word processor this morning I have this innate urge to share my deepest, darkest secrets, but some part of me holds back. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to have to slap a disclaimer on the preamble of my piece. Perhaps it’s just cowardice.

But if no one asked for it it’s not necessary to plumb those depths. I control what gets released to the public, not the other way around. Still I can’t help but bring a sense of authenticity to the table by discussing that which is usually avoided by most. No one ever put a gun to my head and instructed me to document my thoughts, it was always done of my own volition. I think back to Baltasar Gracián, the Jesuit priest and Baroque prose writer, and I’m struck by his inclination to pithy aphorisms.

I realise I could never so much as scratch the surface of what he achieved with ‘The Art of Worldly Wisdom,’ now translated into English by various scholars. But I have to realise that there will never be another me either, and in some cases I might inspire a reader or two. It’s not hubris talking, or arrogance, rather, there has to be someone out there my universal truths resonate with. And if there isn’t, I’m quite happy to be a fool who at least tried. I think the fool is at times wiser than the sage.

Because he’s not obsessed with whether or not he’ll look stupid. His job is to be silly, carefree and make others laugh. And there’s a great deal of truth in humour. Perhaps more so than stone faced philosophy, or the new age. I was always a joker until life humbled me. At some point it happens to all of us — and there’s very little by way of escape. I sometimes think an escape hatch would encourage us all to abandon our challenges and take the easy road. Change is associated with growth.

Without it we’d all be stuck in a bigger rut than we ever have before, and although it’s foisted upon us without warning most times, it ushers in shiny new experiences we’d otherwise never have. I try and learn from the curveballs life throws at me, but making lemonade out of the lemons you’re given can often times sour you prematurely. As with most things they’re easier said than done. So that leaves us all at a myriad of loose ends. And it’s what we do with them that matters. We must never neglect our duties.

Untangling the many webs others weave is an arduous task, yes, but it can also be a welcome challenge in the context of the strategist. We’re all strategists, every single one of us, conniving, plotting and scheming our way through this stark existence we’re faced with. I don’t make a habit of admitting defeat, but sometimes it’s just absolutely unavoidable. And those are the times when I take comfort in not knowing everything there is to know. We must know one thing, that we know nothing.

I guess what I’m getting at in a long winded way is something even I’m unsure of. But uncertainty became one of my closest confidants a while ago now. So I live within it, I embody it, and I integrate it into my daily life. I’m prepared to be unprepared. I must take what comes, and not induce anxiety by my own doing. Depression on the other hand is utterly demonstrative, but luckily I haven’t had a brush with it for many moons. And I owe that to sound advice and invaluable guidance.

Not everyone has been as fortunate as I to have an aid at their beck and call. Some suffer in silence, and others pull innocent bystanders into their sufferance, because misery loves company. But I don’t think it’s right to subject the world to ones pain. There are channels through which we can transmogrify or galvanise our excruciation, transforming it into something less ugly. We have words, we have pictures. We have an endless supply of mediums to use, exhibiting our unique colour palette.

Some of us live in monochrome, others in a kaleidoscope or rainbow. It all depends on what we internalise or incorporate into our collective psyche. The zeitgeist might not be of great comfort, but it instead serves as a yardstick for our progress. No one wants to be measured or graded on anything other than a curve — because that’s when things get skewed. I’ve made it my business to show compassion in the face of hostility, because it’s hardwired into me to react in such a way.

I don’t care how much we’re encouraged to pursue the most banal avenues, for all they seem to produce is mediocrity. And mediocrity is the sworn enemy of otherwise brilliant men. The dunces that surround us at every turn will always steer us into what seems practical and pragmatic, but often such rigid guardrails cripple our very ability to achieve excellence. But maybe we weren’t put here to do so. Maybe we’re meant to enjoy the ride, in which case, most hedonists are ahead of the curve.

Isms in my opinion create an inner conflict that is not easily remedied by traditional methods. And such inner conflict breeds resentment and bitterness, so foul it is palpable to even strangers passing by. You can always determine who is most suppressed by the way in which they suppress others. They feel as if they’re going to be held back they should extend the same energy toward others, despite how desperately they’d rather resolve their own deep seated problems.

When you do encounter a control freak, realise they’ve been subjected to control by authority figures in their own lives at some time in the past, distant or near. And they’re only continuing the cycle of abuse because it’s all they’ve ever known. This is why compassion is key. Show most people a bit of it and watch their defences lower in real time. Others may not recognise your kindness for what it is but that isn’t the point. The only way we’ll ever create a better world is if we start from a place of love.

People will poo poo your efforts till the cows come home. They’ll place every obstacle they can in the way of your progress and those of your associates. But what they can’t do is steal your personal dignity — that must be freely acquiesced. You have choices and options that extend far beyond the bounds of traditional thought. A lot of what you were taught by mainstream institutions was psychological conditioning designed by evil men. They want you to feel like your path is narrow.

Instead, with enough perseverance, it will widen automatically. To flounce the laws of engagement that are so heavily established is to unlock the cage you’ve been relegated to since time immemorial. No one needs to understand why you bring love to the hateful. Nothing teaches others the way of virtue better than actions instead of words. And while words are a great comfort to many, they’re not always a good stand in for the show and tell associated with rising above. You should never be a doormat, but you can be a guiding light.

The wind is blowing so hard outside that the trees are creaking, and I’m comfortably tucked away inside in my cosy little temperature controlled bubble. It’s times like these when I breathe a sigh of relief and appreciate everything I have. In a world where basic human rights are overlooked in service to capital we need to be grateful. Because you can have all your creature comforts today and tomorrow the shoe could be on the other foot. Unfortunately, these are the things most of us don’t give a second thought to. You turn the tap and water comes out. You flip a switch and the light comes on.

It seems as if once our immediate needs are met we tend to look the other way, when people face hardship. Our hearts harden because we think it simply can’t happen to us. In my life I’ve lived through some trying times, and in some instances had brushes with homelessness. And it didn’t necessarily create trauma that I know of, it only showed me how lucky I really was to have access to all the modern conveniences I now do. But a lot of people don’t see it that way. They’re concerned only with what they can get out of life, not what they can do for others. And it’s a common problem.

I was browsing the magazine stand in the grocery store the other day and I spotted one of my favourite ones, ‘The Economist.’ It was only till I gave the price a cursory glance that I did a double take. The were selling it for two-hundred bucks. Just a few weeks prior I’d bought an issue without checking how much it cost, and I wondered why the checkout was so high. Now I know. I’m sorry, but I must not be their target audience, because that’s a bit steep to say the very least. I guess to corporate movers and shakers that’s a drop in the bucket. But to me, an artist, it’s just unacceptable.

This got me thinking about the state of the world right now. If a pamphlet crammed with ads goes for such a high price we must be living a new low. Everybody can tell how few items we walk away with and how much those necessities cost us. But to the one percent it obviously doesn’t move their needle. After all, if you’ve got more money that God you certainly aren’t counting coppers. We live in such a backward and bizarre age, and despite what Trump says, are we living in a soft depression? I say soft because it doesn’t seem full blown — at least just yet. So who is really hurting?

The middle class, maybe. Those with lower income, surely. Now, I don’t often discuss money, but I can’t help noticing how the little guy is getting shafted. And to be clear, I’m one of the little guys. Those of us who pursue art in any form go without most luxuries because of how hard a pay cheque is to come by doing something you enjoy. Some of us have slept on hardwood floors in the winter, gone without meals, and even risked looking foolish when a bill arrives in any shape or form. But this is the sacrifice we make when we set out to do what we want to instead of what we really should do.

All art is impractical. None of it seems necessary to the average man. But to those of us who’ve been bitten by the bug, it’s impossible to abandon the idea that we might live another day in the creative space. The true artist doesn’t do what they do for the accolades or the praise, they do it because they can’t bear to live any other way. If you ask any artist why they do what they do you might be surprised by the fact that they battle to articulate it. It’s a compulsion. They yearn to express those innermost thoughts, and they don’t seem too bothered about what they have to do to get there.

I always ask myself what I want to see in the world, then I go ahead and make it. Often I fail to execute my grand ideas in a coherent fashion, but I keep showing up and trying every day. And for those elitist types who get paid handsomely for their work, they almost seem to become disconnected from their origin story. The minute an artist is established and respected by mainstream institutions I become suspicious. Not because they don’t deserve to be where they are — it just gets me thinking, how much did you acquiesce along the way? And then I follow the money.

Do the people who make it big get there by breaking boundaries and exploring taboos? No, of course they don’t. Instead, they make safe art. They compromise. Their vision is less important to them than material wealth. And this is when they become hollow caricatures of themselves. It’s hard to believe even they can take themselves seriously in the context of who funds their lifestyle. It might sound like I’m bitter, and I’ve been existing in the vacuum of the underground too long, but to me both the audience and financial compensation comes last. Art doesn’t fit where you shoe horn it in.

It takes up space. It starts arguments. It ruins relationships. I’m not talking about controversy for its own sake, no, instead, my personal tastes dictate that art must have something to say about the world. And it’s in saying that how much critical acclaim one gets or doesn’t. There’s no coincidence that mainstream artists are celebrated by idiots. That’s precisely who that slop is for. The second something becomes popular, to me, it loses its edge. I’m an avid collector of rare books and hard to find art. If I cashed in said collection I’d be a wealthy man — but the art itself means more to me than that.

I just find it low rent how everybody seems to be swept up in hustle culture now. If somebody enjoys doing something for its own sake some idiot is bound to come along and encourage that individual to capitalise on it. And that’s when things lose their heart. The reason you enjoy it is because there’s no obligation attached to it, and the minute customers flock around your efforts you owe them something. And there goes the fun. Poof! Out the window. Just like that. Your bubble is popped and it’s time you pack it in. I mean, who wants another job anyway? Isn’t one enough? I guess not in this economy.

Look, I’m aware that not everyone sees things the way I do, and that’s fine. But I can only speak on what I know and how I feel. That’s the only context in which I can be authoritative. To know what I’m saying, to say what I believe. If you’re struggling to have your side hustle take off why not make peace with the fact that it might never do so? If everything hinges on how much you’re compensated for what you do you’ll start doing what you do for the wrong reasons. And only you know what those are. But in the broader scheme of things, there’s a lot of truth behind my theory if you think about it.

We need more spaces in which people can be themselves and show themselves. To share those parts of our lives that might make a difference. Not everything has to have a payoff beyond that. I went through many years of running a business and the commodity I was selling was my art. I walked away from it all because it turned it into a grind. I’m only trying to caution those who are willing to heed my advice that it’s not worth it. We all have dreams. We want them realised. But social media magnifies peoples high notes and never shows us a reel of their lows. Understand that you’re being conditioned.

I’d love to live in a world where things were different, but they’re not. And the quicker we come to terms with that fact the better off we’ll be. Maybe you already agree with me, and you do what you do for yourself. Perhaps I’m preaching to the converted. I just know I wasted years of my life trying to manifest something that would never work out, no matter how hard I tried. And it wasn’t because I failed at it, it’s because that’s just not how art works. Commerce is the antithesis of the arts, and it always has been. People do things they hate doing for money. And they’re not proud of it. Let’s not confuse the two.

The silver lining is that with a little luck and enough perseverance one can defy the odds, not compromise even a little bit and still become a giant in their field. It’s about the love of the craft. As long as that comes first I believe you’re on the right track. You might disagree with me, and maybe you haven’t come to the realisations yet that I have. That’s alright. But I can’t tell you it’ll all work out in the end — because in life it rarely does. Charles Bukowski said to “Find what you love and let it kill you.” And the arts will break your heart if you misunderstand them. Do what you do from an authentic place, and forget the rest.

I recently read a piece by a highly prolific writer I follow, and he said he might stop writing altogether at some point. Honestly, my heart sank a little. But I get it — just because one is massively obsessed with writing and writing frequently doesn’t mean the well will never dry up. Are ideas finite? This is the current question on my mind. We all go through phases in life, and seasonal affective disorder (ironically enough, its acronym being SAD) can strike on the turn of a dime. But I’m fortunate enough to not have harsh winters where I live. Instead the summers here are brutal.

Unlike animals, we as human beings have this itch to find meaning and purpose in our lives. And to be quite honest I think it’s the very thing that creates depression. When we begin feeling a lack of significance around the events of everyday existence we struggle to pinpoint what’s causing it. Often times the solution is to reconnect with those aspects of our personality that yearn to be expressed creatively. But how much can one person say until they’re just spinning their wheels? Conjuring topics of interest from within is no small feat. We’re drawing from some mystical source.

While this might make me sound rather kooky, I think ideas originate outside of ourselves, and it’s up to us to pluck them from the ether at the right moment. As is normal, sometimes that reception is weaker than others, and that’s where we run in to what are commonly referred to as creative blocks. So why am I so shocked that someone who subjects themselves to a rigorous creative practice might at some point step away from the drawing board? Because I feel so strongly that — for me — it’d be unacceptable. I won’t give myself permission to give up. And I guess that’s what I really see it as.

Giving up is a part of being human. And giving in can sometimes be helpful. Whether it’s an overindulgence in that Haagen Dazs or playing truant from another day of meaningless grind. I think we owe it to ourselves to have a treat once in a while — as long as it’s not a long term thing. Alexander Woollcott once said, “Everything I love is either illegal, immoral or fattening.” Sound familiar? As much as we try hide it, we all need a self-care day here and there. Let those dishes pile up! Skip the housework this week! It’ll all be there when you come back. It really isn’t bad advice.

After all, we’re not machines. We’re living, breathing biological entities with needs — and one of the most crucial is play. Some may not view it as important, but when you really think about it, it’s what makes life worth living. What are memories made of? Those times we sat in our cubicle and met a deadline, no matter how arduous, or those times we goofed off? The answer is simple. I’m asking you to give yourself permission to do something for you. Something unproductive and impractical — which is the backbone of the arts. We often don’t pursue what we really want out of fear.

Fear of failure. Fear of looking like we don’t know what we’re doing. But the fool is the happiest man of all. You know why? Because he rejoices in his folly. He doesn’t second guess the idiocy he engages in. And we need to be more like that fool. Not all the time, just when it counts. One of the ugliest traits I’ve ever witnessed in others is their condescension toward those who are willing to have things not work out. If you’re one hundred percent certain about anything in your life, chances are you’re living in a rigid fashion, one guided by the possible perceptions of others. We all do it.

“What will they think of me if I do this instead of that?” Our fear of embarrassing ourselves or our family is the thing that holds us back most. What if, instead, you threw caution to the wind and put your own desires first? Is that such a crazy notion? I guess I’m encouraging a sense of selfishness, which is required to master any craft. It’s not when we do what we do for a salary that counts, it’s what we do to express ourselves that matters. I’ve always had a hard time holding a straight job. Until one day I gave up entirely. And ever since I’ve followed my heart I’ve never been happier.

There is of course no shame in providing for yourself or your family — please don’t get me wrong — but there has to be more to this life than the bare minimum. When I learn that others spend their downtime mindlessly consuming Netflix or playing video games I recoil in horror. And that’s only because I utilise mine to actively create. I think there is a sense of listlessness that sets in in those who hold corporate positions. They’re too exhausted at the end of the day, from all their responsibilities, to bother with something like art. And that’s their right. I just live in a different world.

If I’m not able to spend my time on creative projects I wind up suicidal. I know that sounds extreme (and it is) but it’s also true. There is some innate quality that exists within me that yearns to come out in some way. Whether it is of use to anybody else or moves them in some way is not my concern. I do it for me. But one huge benefit is being able to share that work with an audience. It’s something I’m grateful for, and it means far more to me than money: connecting with my intellectual peers. If we’ve crossed paths in the hallways and complimented each others work, you know who you are.

Right now it’s midday and my only task comprises of penning this piece. There are absolutely zero other obligations on my plate. However, I will be drawing today at some point. I’ve just got to figure out what. Most people long for the kind of lifestyle I lead, and it’s something I’m hyper aware of. My aim is not to rub my privilege in others faces — no, to the contrary — I want you to know that with enough chutzpah you can do it too. I’ve written about a lot of these ideas in a particular book I published, and it’s geared toward the manifestation of a creative career without compromise.

And compromise is a common misconception, because if you’re bold enough to go your own way and believe strongly enough in your own ideas they can actually open doors that would otherwise be shut. Ever since I was a little boy I’d encourage my friends to draw with me. Often, in the beginning, they’d say they had no creative ability. But with enough convincing, they eventually came around, and produced work that was undeniably theirs. I didn’t do anything magical, I just instilled in them this idea that they could do what they thought they couldn’t. Soon it was infectious.

That’s another reason why I think ideas are like signals we pick up from elsewhere. It’s fine tuning the station in your brain to a particular frequency that allows them to flow into you effortlessly. I often hear people say they can barely draw a stick figure. But we all drew when we were kids — the only difference is that some of us stopped. Writing is of course a different muscle to more visually based art, but a similar concept could apply. Why it took me so long to actually sit down behind a word processor and bang something out had a lot to do with uncertainty on my part. I thought I couldn’t.

And it’s in that doubt which a large majority of us live. What saddens me more than anything is all the people that die never having lived their dreams. We’re at a place in society where the system suppresses creativity by way of financial obligation, and it’s only when that system collapses that many will be freed. I’m not anti capital or anything like that, but there has to be another way to do this. Why does art feel like a luxury or a silly pastime? Why is it not granted the level of importance it serves? A lot of it has to do with the schools we all went to. Parrot back what you learn and shut up.

That’s been the attitude. And that’s where I think it all went wrong. You can’t brow beat information into newly developing brains and expect them to come out on the other side thinking laterally. We’ve been taught to memorise banal facts and figures, all because some day it’ll help us. But I never once learnt anything in school that did me any favours when I reached the summit of the real world. I pity my teachers now. What they had to deal with in me as a student must’ve been discouraging. I even once had a teacher tell me I’ll be the reason he quits. But maybe he was miserable anyway, and just looking for someone else to blame.

If you really think about it, nothing that occurs to us has any meaning outside of how we contextualise it. And everything we go through can be reduced to random happenstance. It is us as human beings who assign significance to these events. The reason I say this is because I’ve thought long and hard about my purpose in this life, and whether or not I leave anything behind even matters. Of course it doesn’t, in the grand scheme of things. Although the concept is freeing in one way, this philosophy can also be considered nihilistic, and I’ll never dispute that. I’d be a fool to.

But it’s the one of the reasons I wake up in the morning and pursue anything at all. Because it just doesn’t matter. If you’re confused by my seemingly illogical rationale, allow me to explain further. As creatives, there is no doubt we want to move others with our work. However deciding how we go about that depends on a variety of factors. Are you doing what you do for yourself or for a prize? Recognition, credit, influence, wealth. They all fall under a similar — if not the same — umbrella. And if you’re attempting to make work that interests you, does that make your endeavour more honourable?

The only reason my pen name is plastered all over my work is because I’ve connected the two. What I’m doing still possesses a sort of anonymity, however. I sometimes think I should abandon the mythos surrounding this nom de plume altogether, and publish somewhere more obscure or arcane, in order to walk the walk. But there is a part of me that wants some kind of attention, clearly, or I wouldn’t put my business out on front street. For those who might happen across my work and think it too personal I have this to say: nothing is too personal. Except my actual name.

I’m not Gérard de Nerval, who claimed that he pursued an image and nothing more. Nor can what I’m after be bought. Emily Dickinson once wrote in a letter that she was out with lanterns, looking for herself. That seems more like it. As much as we don’t want to attach others to our legacy, at the end of the day, we only know who we are in relation to others. It’s what makes life real, and hyperreality so vivid and garish. As much as I toil over every utterance through my pen on the page, I’m aware it’ll wind up in the landfills of time. That gives me licence to a clean slate, every time.

The empty space on the page mocks most and entices few. Only those of us who are crazy enough to try have the audacity to do so, with the added risk of potential failure every time. I’m not clocking in, nor am I phoning it in. If I had absolutely nothing more to say I’d up and disappear. The problem is I have too much to say, and one piece is never enough. I see people struggling. I know they try to hide it. They hope no one realises that their heart isn’t in their craft anymore. But it’s a translucent excuse dancing on a brightly lit stage, perspiring under the hot flood lights. It’s a knowing I have.

I once let slip the fact that I’m clairvoyant, and what followed were others who tried to verify my claim — but it doesn’t work that way. Try and force any medium to perform on the spot and chances are their abilities won’t shine through. The little breadcrumb I threw out wasn’t exactly a decoy as much as it was a diversion. A test, to see how far their collective curiosities were piqued. Just because I can see events unfold before they do doesn’t mean I’m special. If you really want to know, anyone can do it. Straining such a psychosocial muscle however only results in abject failure.

That which is done effortlessly is that which yields the most fruitful result. Think about anything you’re naturally gifted at. When you bore down into the reasons why or how or when you begin to relinquish control of your capabilities. It is that which we’re talented at alone that makes us who we really are. It’s an intrinsic part of us, impossible to separate from our identity. No matter how hard we try. As for the origin or cause of such factors you’d have to sit down with a geneticist. All I know is that I know nothing, as Plato borrowed from Socrates. It is most wise to own ones ignorance.

The minute you become an authority in your own head, delusion starts to crown. Obviously there are highly trained specialists in their respective fields, and they know their way around the native jargon. But to be open to being wrong is a mark of deep wisdom. When I receive my visions they often appear as apparitions. If I’m setting out to craft a particular scene from scratch I see it before it is executed fully, and it’s up to me to copy that vision as accurately as I possibly can. Then there are moments when you can’t produce an exact replica of the mental facsimile that floats in the ether.

Those who cannot relate to the murky visage of a practitioner of the arts mimicking his own mental workings will throw their hands up and abandon the premise altogether. And that’s fine. Not everyone has to understand. It’s okay. We all have different gifts, some more deeply buried than others. I’ve always had an idea of where I want to go, more or less, and then improvised the rest on the fly. That might not work for you. And maybe I don’t understand the ways you get to where you are. As I’m stating for the third time now, it’ll all work out in the end. I don’t want to be him or her — I’m already me.

Living in the shadows of the greats that came before us must be a miserable existence to say the very least. To stand on the shoulders of giants only makes one feel like a midget. The crux of the issue is that we forge ahead, follow our own star, and not get too caught up in what the person in the next lane over is doing. But I’ve met so many people who want to be other people. They’ll go so far as to borrow their image from their idols, and put the undeserving on pedestals that are easily knocked over. What you’re in fact seeing are the best of plagiarised works. Hard to believe, but true.

So where are you willing to draw the line? And how much respect are you willing to dole out to yourself, in order to save your skin? Let it never occur on your watch that someone starts copying your imitations. This is the reality of the world we’re living in now, as Jean Baudrillard said. We’re inundated with symbols at every turn, archetypes that float through our subconscious, and thoughts that would otherwise be alien. The world is made up of a kind of shorthand that makes it difficult to determine what is actually in front of us or isn’t. And soon we’ll be so overwhelmed we’ll dissipate entirely.

Do we as human beings realise the cost of this much information being at our fingertips? In a world where psychosis is steadily rising, do we not see the probable cause? The images we reach for through the screen simply can’t be possessed. They’re figments of our imagination, and the cloud is ready to burst. I shudder to think what will happen when a worldwide power grid collapse occurs. The dopamine hits having run so dry that riots break out on every street corner known to man? We’re headed one way and it doesn’t appear positive. But that could be my negative bias speaking.

Don’t mind me, I’m just keeping it business as usual in the apocalypse. And business is never personal. At least they say it’s not. The bitter heir apparent of this god forsaken planet rules all in the underworld, and we’re surrounded on all sides by his imps. Only, they’re wearing disguises. They appear as normal as you or I. The only difference between us and our reflections is that they’re unemotional mirages. They aren’t sentient. Does it not make you question all the things that seem one way but are another? Because that’s what it does to me. Maybe I’m just too conscious of the process.

But if no one documents the events that unfold behind the curtain, backstage, how will we ever reach the illumination we so desperately desire? You have to know what goes on in the dressing room to realise how the play even functions. Taking apart reality never felt so urgent. We’re speeding through space at a pace so unimaginably fast that it’s relatively incomprehensible. Nothing is static. And the fourth dimension contains forms of life we could never fathom in our wildest dreams. They’re all around us, right now, but no matter how hard you try you’ll never see them.

I keep running in the molasses of everyday life, sinking slowly into the sands of time. Whenever I eventually do thaw out I’ll be so disoriented that I’ll probably only encounter the trauma subconsciously. That’s the thing though, no one prepares you for this stuff. They’ll say I’m a loon, lock me away for a while, then release me with a paper trail that’ll follow me till the end of days. I’ll never stop ringing the alarm however — because it’s too important to them to keep you in the dark. They don’t like me, and they never have. I can see things most people shouldn’t, and that poses an existential threat.

To me, there is great power in creating with no end goal in mind. And that’s because the minute something feels like it has a specific purpose, or there is any inkling of obligation attached to it, it loses its potency. And while I know this is a highly personal preference, it speaks to my taste in art. There is a quote attributed to William Kentridge which goes, “I am only an artist, my job is to make drawings not to make sense.” I find this idea incredibly freeing, even liberating — because if everything has to fit in a box, that leaves no room for experimentation or innovation. No one wants to be a carbon copy of what came before, but that’s what they’ll become if nothing is transgressive.

In my view, the only road to truly original thought is to disregard everything that precedes us, and to plough ahead with nothing but our subconscious as a reference point. If you think about the work that draws you in, does it not have a primitive or childlike quality to it? The more we grow up, the more guidelines we’re subjected to. We attend schools and universities that put guardrails in place, and these elements beat the creativity out of us — almost without us even realising it. And of course I’m aware that being trained in ones specific field of expertise can be valuable in the long run, but I don’t think we’re ever taught how to tap in to our native creativity as human beings. It just isn’t done.

When I sit down to make a drawing or write a piece, I don’t rack my brain in an attempt to do anything groundbreaking. I instead make space in my schedule to do nothing at all, and from there my mind begins to wander. From there it starts making connections when faced with the boredom and lack of stimulation I’m experiencing, and soon I’m engaging in a sort of play time, like all of us used to do as children. I won’t say this method is foolproof, for sometimes you come away with something utterly useless and terrible. But for me that’s the point. If it isn’t useless I haven’t succeeded. And if it’s terrible and can’t be used anywhere — for anything — is that so bad?

Today we’re inundated with the pressure to share content with the world. Almost every app or form of social media is optimised for sharing things about ourselves. And while there are certainly those who avoid using such avenues, the large majority of people engage with this idea in some way. Some have come to think that these sites are designed to build a dossier on us — and I mean, they might not be far off — these platforms call the information they store of us profiles. In simple English, that’s profiling. But maybe I’m getting into the weeds. Half the people who use this stuff don’t care that their information is being stored. It takes a literal schizophrenic (like me) to point it out.

And so my concerns are of course disregarded. Being mentally ill isn’t even a double edged sword, it’s like one long blade with no handle. One thing I do think has led me to original ideas is the whole premise of how I see the world. Very few people are as idiosyncratic as someone with skewed perceptions — but of course, a sense of thinking one is being tracked or monitored is an inherently negative thought — and so, one who suffers under the weight of those symptoms gets in their own way. This results in a lot of those perceptions going unexpressed, and rather being felt and experienced as real. This hellish reality is, upon further reflection, a curse rather than a blessing.

In any case, there is a book by James Webb Young entitled, ‘A Technique for Producing Ideas,’ in which what is proposed is taking two older concepts nobody thought to put together, and developing a third. And this got me thinking about some of my own methods of generating creative works. I’m pretty sure I’ve employed that idea myself, as have others. But there is enormous untapped potential in the human mind, all it really takes is dipping into it deeply enough. Free association is another technique artists use — which can also be said to be a plucking of other already established ideas from the collective unconscious and remixing them. But not in all cases.

Every so often there comes a time when a visionary appears, pulling off something no one has ever encountered before, and it spurs on a generation of imitators. And I don’t think everyone even so much as realises they’re doing it. As human beings we’re so focused on what already exists that it’s only natural we’d engage in this practice. But copycats only get away with stealing for so long. I know there’s a book by Austin Kleon called ‘Steal Like an Artist,’ but in most cases that’s frowned upon. There’s even a quote by Picasso to back up this claim, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” And my first inclination is to think he was being ironic when he said that, because plagiarism is straight up wrong.

Out of all my many years of devoting my life and time to the creative act I too have been guilty of stealing. In fact, I remember when I first got into university, and I took graphic design. I was under the impression that in order to be a designer one had to be able to draw. But I came to find out that more than half of the people in my class couldn’t. Then we were taught to use reference imagery, and I honestly feel like that damaged my practice. Before then I’d draw out of my head entirely. But established thought from an institution that churns out strait-laced bores robbed me of the beauty of my craft, up until that point. From then on, I started leaning heavily on reference, and things changed.

Not for the better, either. So many of the techniques I’d developed on my own became brow beaten out of me. But it was only until my second year in to the whole series of classes that I utterly failed. I couldn’t design, because I wasn’t meant to be a designer. I was instead an illustrator — something I’d always been — but now I’d been infected by mainstream, corporate edicts. So I left the graphic design department, and went to another university that allowed me to actually dabble in the things I was stronger at. In multimedia, although I didn’t understand it at the time, I learnt all kinds of nifty tricks. And because I’d always had a broader range of interests than graphic designers alone, it worked.

People who draw out of their heads as opposed to those who utilise reference are a very different breed. Ones life experiences shape what you’re able to put down on paper. Your ideas have to come from within. Unfortunately, the industry is oversaturated now, thanks to the internet, and a lot of the best stuff is hidden beneath a pile of rubbish. So I’ve made it my personal mission to seek out those things that appeal to me most, and curate my follow lists with a painstaking and ruthless approach. Then you get some artists who refuse to follow what anyone else is doing for fear that they might adopt someone else’s style, or interpolate their ideas. And that makes a lot of sense, to me, at least.

I’ve often thought about doing that myself, but I can’t bring myself to do it. After all, I’m a patron of the arts as much as I am an artist myself — and there’s too much great work out there to turn a blind eye to it. If that means that some of my influences will be obvious to others, so be it, I’ve made peace with that. I don’t believe anyone can truly exist in a vacuum. Lest it become an echo chamber. There are numerous individuals however who’ll freely offer poorly thought out advice. They seem to think that posturing as an authority on any given subject grants them licence to guide the poor saps who fall for their ploy. And not all of us can help being sucked in to a well run scam like that.

I think the main thing we need to do as creatives is trust our inner voice more. To not look to others for the answers, thinking that they have the magic ticket. Success can be defined in many ways, and it is up to each one of us to determine what it means to us. If you’re trying hard and failing miserably I’d advise giving in to the idea that you aren’t defined by whatever labels have been slapped on you. Because labels are dangerous, and they’ve only ever gotten in the way of my progress. The thing I like to remind myself is that I’m not actually an artist or a writer — or anything, really — I’m just a person who happens to draw and write. That way all pressure is alleviated, and I can create without expectations.

Living with schizoaffective disorder is confusing at times, because all the people that supposedly care about you become enemies in some vast conspiracy you perceive in your mind. In simpler terms, a very common symptom of the condition is paranoia. Thinking people are out to get you. And it’s the smallest, most seemingly inconsequential things others say that spur on thoughts which lead you down a hellish labyrinth, maze or rabbit hole. I used to think being hypersensitive meant there was something wrong with me — well, there is — but there’s a reason for it and this illness is it.

People don’t listen when I talk. They usually drift off, tune me out or cut me off. So it’s only natural that I’d turn to writing to express myself. I like this form of communication — no one can interrupt me or upset my train of thought, and I’m free to go on as long as I want. And I’ve read a whole lot of books about how to be an effective communicator. Nothing seems to help. Either self-absorption has reached an all time high in the zeitgeist or I’m just boring. And if I am, I refuse to admit that to myself. I think social media has destroyed the average attention span. And it doesn’t help that I get way to deep way too fast.

The conclusion I’ve drawn is no one wants deep. No one wants to face the hard questions. And although my intelligence quotient is above average, I can’t seem to connect with others in a meaningful way. That’s why most of my hobbies and pastimes remain relatively solitary pursuits. I’ll admit I don’t like going out in public, because I zone out and get weird. And if I’m around other people too long even visiting them my anxiety spikes. But the thing is, all this makes me sound like an extreme introvert, crippled by shyness, and socially inept. And that really isn’t the case, at all.

I recently had a visit with my psychiatrist, and I explained to her the problems I was having. So she gave me extra antipsychotics to take as needed. Yesterday, when I had to attend a party, I popped one, and although it made me quiet, I wasn’t a nervous wreck. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks: I need a pill to socialise. How sad is that? For other people, it just seems like a public gathering is what it is, and they don’t need medication to help them through it. Then I got to thinking, anxiety is a widespread problem in this day and age, but not everyone suffers from it. So why do I have to?

No matter how much cognitive behavioural therapy I do I can’t seem to shake these symptoms. I’m not managing them better, in fact I’m getting worse. And that might be because my therapist just isn’t good at what she does. On the other hand, I could have a treatment resistant condition. I really don’t want to blame my doctor, though. I’d like to take responsibility for my part in things. And admittedly, I barely ever follow the advice I’m given by her — simply because it’s hard. I know good advice when I hear it, but not all the advice I get appears sound. So maybe it’s time to move on.

For most people, social engagement is exciting, and doesn’t fill them with dread. And it’s not that it does every time for me, it’s mainly when I have this suspicion that I’m going to encounter unpredictability that I start to recoil into myself. You see, some people don’t think before they talk. They just say whatever it is they want to say off the cuff without worrying how it’ll affect anyone else — and then there’s the people that do it deliberately. They want to get a rise, or they think that they can talk to specific individuals however they choose, because they underestimate their intelligence.

And usually I keep to myself and let people like that get away with it. I know. It’d probably be better if I put them in their place — but I’m just not like that. I’m a happy go lucky, peace loving person who is conscious of other people’s feelings. And I can’t understand why other people aren’t. It truly boggles my mind how certain people conduct themselves. I take it as a personal affront because that’s sure how it feels. And often times I’m told not to take stuff personally. But that’s almost impossible when you’re a hypersensitive person plagued with paranoid thoughts. See my dilemma?

The only person understanding enough to help me through any of this is my wife. She validates my feelings and talks to me with a sense of compassion I encounter nowhere else. And of course that’s the role one’s spouse takes. Honestly, she’s the only person who doesn’t make me feel like I’m going crazy, because my own family is so toxic they make me sick. And it’s not that they mean it. They do mean well. They just never knew how to deal with mental illness and had this attitude that one just soldiers on in life despite whatever setbacks they face. But some are too hard. Some take assistance.

I can safely say that when my family took me in — before I ever met my wife and we started building a life together — they worsened my condition tremendously. I wanted to do myself in several times, because I felt like there was no escaping my own intrusive thoughts. I had a rope, and I was ready to go. But I decided that the woman who’d eventually become my wife meant enough to me to stick things out. When I moved out of my parents home, my mental health I gradually improved. I was finally around someone who understood me — and I understood her. That’s priceless.

But I’ve never gotten used to taking a pill to cope. I still beat myself up about it tremendously. And that’s because I was raised to think psychiatry was nonsense. We were a religious family growing up, and the Catholic church was supposed to make all our problems go away. It’s another reason I don’t attend a place of worship of any kind to this day — because, to me, it never helped. My Mom and Dad still went through a divorce. And when my Mom left, her and us kids felt even more alienated from the church. And that didn’t seem to shake her faith, but it certainly shook mine. Yup.

When dealing with difficult people I often like to give them the illusion of control. To sit back and watch how far they think they can push me. And if they push me far enough they get a pretty nasty surprise. Because I can stand up for myself. I can push back. I just don’t do it all the time, or on the first occasion it’s appropriate. That’s because I practice grace. I forgive people for their infractions, even if they don’t know it, and are engaged in a power play. Compassion overrides everything else, I’ve found. It’s not that I’m a pushover. I just don’t see the point of arguing. Most of the time it’s pointless.

I say that because the more one tries to convince another of something, the more some of them dig their heels in. And if I let what others do slide around me, they’ll quickly learn they can’t do the same thing to most other people. Jesus told us to turn the other cheek. I was raised a Christian, and although I wouldn’t consider myself a full blown one, I still practice that principle. At the end of the day, if someone really wants to fight, and you don’t give them one, they’re left looking utterly foolish. And it’s not that that’s my express intention, it’s just, when one embarrasses themselves they feel the full force of their actions.

In a way this principle is also derived from Sun Tzu’s pocket sized ‘Art of War.’ It’s winning the war without even fighting. Let your opponents run themselves ragged trying to defeat you, and in the end, they’ll exhaust themselves to such an extent that you won’t even need to lift a finger. I think another part of people who say knee-jerk, vitriolic things is immaturity. And I’m simply above that. I’m not about to jump in the mud and wrestle with a pig — so why would I bother doing so with you? Look, my rational mind knows not everyone is an opponent or an enemy in the literal sense.

But when you live with schizoaffective disorder, daily life feels like an unbearable push and pull. You’re constantly on alert for new threats. It feels like people are targeting and monitoring you. And for others who live with this condition they’ll immediately know what I mean. For those that don’t, I wouldn’t expect pity. Being around someone with a severe mental illness is not easy. I have to think about it from the opposite end of things too. But I think the one thing we can all do I try to be a little more kind to each other. It costs us nothing, and it’s easy to do. I’m not holding my breath, hoping anything will change soon though.

I'm always afraid that if I stray too far from a regular writing routine I’m going to forget how to do it, but I don’t think that’s how it works. I mean, I haven’t ridden a bicycle in quite a few years, but I’m pretty sure that if I got on one now I’d pick it right back up. But there’s all these hidden rules around the act of writing — most of which seem fabricated. We all have our rituals, but when does a ritual become a hollow act? Probably when you’re implementing instructions given by fools who don’t know what they’re talking about but pretend they do. And there’s plenty of them to go around.

The only thing that’s going to make you a better writer is writing. Not courses, not workshops, and not writing circles. You either have it or you don’t. I think a great comparison is luck. You win some, you lose some. And sometimes you write a killer piece, other times you just miss the mark entirely. We’ve all been there, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But pushing through the bad work and coming out on the other side with something polished in indescribably satisfying. One minute no amount of words you type seem to fit together, then all of a sudden, they do. It’s a eureka moment.

I’ve been through enough creative blocks in my life to realise they’re a normal part of the act itself. And there was a long time that I wouldn’t admit that to myself, for fear that I’d lose control. So I convinced myself if I just worked harder, eventually something would materialise. And it resulted in weak work. There are authors who describe the process of writing as pleasurable, and others who say it’s incredibly taxing. But both are true. I think it also depends on your demeanour. Are you willing to slog through hours of work and wind up with nothing? Or will you just throw in the towel?

Even I throw in the towel sometimes. I use the quiet moments where nothing is coming to reflect on my life, and that gives me new material to cover in my work. Without those lulls, I wouldn’t have that respite. But maybe all this is gobbledegook to you. Perhaps you’re a rare case in which nothing winds up on the cutting room floor. Instead, your first draft is your last, and you couldn’t be bothered to edit because you know your work is strong enough to stand on its own without too much deliberating, going back over it, and polishing. In which case I’d say you’re a diamond in the rough.

Although Ernest Hemingway said “The first draft of anything is shit,” that might not be the case for everyone. After all, a brilliant man can see something one way and others believe entirely different. Especially since that was indeed him expressing his opinion. And opinions are not right or wrong — they’re perceptions. If you have a way of approaching your writing that works for you, that’s all that really matters. I wouldn’t pay too much mind to the guardrails put in place by influential figures, because at the end of the day, they still put their pants on one leg at a time. I hope that settles you.

Often I wonder how much great heat of the moment stuff gets done away with in a thorough edit. It scares me to think about what might slip through the cracks. All those forgotten manuscripts thrown in the bin, because someone instilled this idea in us that first drafts are rubbish. Why don’t you test it, then? Perhaps you have a good, solid first draft sitting around. And you’re struggling to edit it into something you think will be stronger. Why not publish it and see where it takes you? Your readers might completely ignore it, and move on to something else, or you might be pleasantly surprised.

This is me testing Hemingway’s theory. I’m not trying to prove a literary giant wrong, it’s just that things were different back when he was around. We’re in a whole new century, and what resonates with people might be different. Now more than ever before people are looking for raw work that screams it was made with human hands. And so imperfections are encouraged. Hemingway didn’t have to deal with artificial intelligence. Back then people wrote what people wrote. They couldn’t prompt a chat bot to do it for them and then pass it off as their own. But what about ghost writers?

I’m always sceptical of the premise of ghost writing. I don’t even buy books that are written by more than one author. The minute I see two names on one book — a big name, and a smaller one — I assume the real author got shafted. The thing is, when I read I like it to feel like a one on one experience. Not me overhearing a dialogue. That’s eavesdropping, and a convoluted voice. I guess you could say I’m picky, but as one of my readers said we can’t afford not to be picky in this current era. There are so many different things coming at us at once, turning down the volume is necessary.

Most of the things I’m discussing here are amateurish observations at best. Ever since I was a child I wrote books and drew pictures. Does that give me any authority to speak on the arts? I guess not. After all, I’m just an outsider artist. But I’m comfortable being there. I don’t want to be a part of anything that smacks of the mainstream, thanks. The nature of what I do is too subversive for that to occur. In fact, I was bitten by the bug of the underground at an early age. I was exposed to art I shouldn’t have been, and I’m grateful for it. You see, it shaped me in a way that mainstream tastes couldn’t.

When I make mention of the underground, I met some of the most obscure artists in my country. And back then we weren’t plagued by this politically correct mind virus. People were freer to express themselves. Sure, fascism was in its gestation period, but I didn’t know about any of that in my mid teens. I just thought you could do anything you wanted with your art and still make a living doing so. But I found out the hard way that rarely happens. The more milquetoast, safe and boring any given career is, the better ones earnings. It’s an incredibly infrequent occurrence for real art to pay the bills.

That never stopped me from diving headfirst into a career that had little prospects, however. Because once I get it in my head that I’ll achieve something, nine times out of ten I do. But oh, I juggled a bunch of different art-related jobs till I burned myself out. Often at three o’ clock in the morning I was still churning out comics. And I’d sit down in the morning at nine o’ clock despite how little sleep I got the night before. This all resulted in a major psychotic break down the line, but it was something that had to happen, in order for me to realise I needed to pump the brakes on stuff.

These days I’m more forgiving with myself, and failure is just another part of life. It’s not that I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll lose in all instances, rather, I’m not deterred by minor setbacks. That perspective only comes with age, I’m afraid. You can tell a young person till you’re blue in the face all the mistakes you made and it’ll go in one ear and out the other. We all have to hit our own version of rock bottom to realise who we are, and then rise triumphant like a phoenix from the ashes. I of course have friends and associates in the arts. And lot of them struggle financially. It’s a thing.

Whenever I lose my patience, and think to myself, “Am I wasting my life?” I’m reminded of something. I think back to when I was a little boy with my pencil crayons and felt tipped pens, sitting at that table, drawing. And all of a sudden I soften up. Because that kid still lives inside me. And you can’t really be mad at a kid. When I asked my Dad what my job description would be one day he said the word cartoonist. And that’s what I consider myself at the end of the day when all is said and done. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the main source of my income. The only thing that matters is that I still do it.

Recently I’ve been experiencing the same joy that carried me through difficult periods of my life with drawing. I wake up excited to create new artwork. And even if it’s something I have to slot in around my other responsibilities, I do it. No questions asked, no lies told. It’s what cocoons me in a safe little bubble that at any moment some mean spirited individual could otherwise pop. I’ve let go of all expectations in relation to my art. I just want to draw, so that’s what I do. It doesn’t have to serve a purpose outside of that. It just is. And no one can ever take that joy away from me. I suggest you find your thing too, and do it.

So many people treat writing like a business, when it’s actually a luxury to share your work with others. Back in the day getting published meant jumping through a series of flaming hoops, while today the amount of platforms available to maverick writers is astounding. Now I get that writing is a career a lot of people are serious about — and without professional writers there’d be no books — but I can’t help but feel we’re incredibly fortunate to have the ability to befriend our intellectual peers. We’re lucky to connect with each other, cheer one another on, or even to challenge each other.

And when have the numbers ever really mattered, anyway? Racking up subscribers alone shouldn’t be priority one, in my opinion. Readers who count what we do as meaningful should matter more. I’m blessed enough to have other ways of making money, so I don’t have to worry myself with book sales — and I can tell you quite categorically, I’d never sell a course. The reason this is on my mind is because there are hucksters among us, and in plain sight. Is it possible that a writer can be good at marketing? Certainly. But the best ones I’ve ever encountered are focused on the creative process.

Something just makes me suspicious of a money grubbing individual. If someone works at their craft, puts their work out there, and provides a way for you to tip them for their efforts, that’s great. But if I as a reader detect even so much as an inkling that someone is trying to persuade me to part with my hard earned money — when they themselves probably don’t even know what they’re doing — I clam up. The thing is we’d all love to make a liveable wage from something we enjoy and devote our precious time to, but things often just don’t work that way out there in the real world.

Work of any kind is usually a grind, it’s not fun, and the more miserable it makes you, chances are the more money you’re paid to do it. I was recently corresponding with a fellow cartoonist about the state of the industry — or lack thereof — and how soul crushing pouring ones heart into their art is when you see no return on investment off it. I felt it incumbent upon me to encourage him to pursue his craft for the joy of it instead of trying to turn a profit. He agreed. And really, it makes me sad that such talent goes to waste when we doubt ourselves and our life mission. It’s something to avoid.

I’m in no way shape or form saying that people shouldn’t make money off the sweat of their toil, no. Instead I’m attempting to frame what we as creatives do in a way that makes sense. Writing and self-publishing, to me, at this point, is an expensive hobby. And why? Because it costs me my most precious resource of all: time. The way I see it, removing the financial expectations from ones art — and I refer to art in the broader sense — is a necessary evil. A good friend of mine told me a long time ago that one will never make money in comics, and although I didn’t want to believe it at the time, he was right.

But I’m enjoying myself more than I ever have since that reality dawned on me. I was like, “Oh. None of this means anything, there’s no rules or obligation to do it for any reason?” and that instantly made it fun. And I think that’s what we need. People having fun on the page. Saying screw it and doing exactly what it is you want to do, and not letting anything stop you. The truth is, ninety-nine percent of us writers will never make it big. Publishers are looking for something very specific, and they’re a business. They just don’t seem to take chances on any old material. They want to sell, sell, sell.

Although it makes sense, because that’s what businesses do, art isn’t business. Art is self-expression. It comes from within. It yearns to get out, like an itch we have to scratch. So I want to propose something. Perhaps you’re disappointed that your work isn’t being read. Maybe your business plan is failing, as far as being a professional writer is concerned. What if you removed all that baggage you’re carrying and just did what you wanted to do? If you happen to strike it lucky, and someone gravitates toward what you’re offering them, brilliant. But chances are they won’t. So do it for the love.

I know it’s not a pleasant conclusion to draw. I suspect you may feel like all you need is a little more time — a couple of months — and you’ll start seeing progress. But what if that progress never comes? What I’m most interested in as a reader is whether or not I can tell that the author is having a blast or not. People complicate this process all the time, and everyone has bills to pay, but there are much easier ways to make money than by being a writer. When I got to the root of the issue, realising that I haven’t failed, I’m just looking at stuff from the incorrect perspective, I was freed.

Freed from the expectations I placed on myself and others. Freed from the shackles of self-created pressure. Freed from this idea that nothing I do is ever good enough. Because none of that nonsense is true. People get published all the time, others don’t. And it’s okay. It might just be a personality flaw, that if I have this idea that I’m required to do something I’ll just never do it. But if I know I should be doing something else, all of a sudden my work becomes much more appealing. Non-commercial work is just as important — if not more important — than commercial work is.

Take a look at some of the biggest achievers in the arts and you’ll find that the door was slammed in their faces too many times to count. No one believed in them. And then one day, out of the blue, someone bit, and they became a hot commodity. Then the problem becomes saying yes to the right person, and no where appropriate. Suddenly you’re calling the shots, and you can pick and choose from a myriad of options. That happens to people who aren’t pushing so hard for it. I’ve noticed, one way to repel anything you desire is to desire it too strongly. Whereas doing your own thing is key.

I’m not a success story, so I’m in no position to give advice. Have I been published? Yes. Did it change much? No. You usually find that behind all the smoke and mirrors of perceived success it really is all empty. It’s like people who want to be filthy rich, but live in utter poverty. They get a taste of the good life and come into some money eventually and they find themselves in greater debt because of it. Money can’t make you happy. It can make your life easier, sure, but that hollowness you feel in your heart? That void? It can’t be filled with material possessions. It takes more than that.

All I’m doing is proposing a new way of looking at things. And that’s because I want to see more people writing what they want to write, as opposed to writing what they think people want to read. I know in my visual art career ever since I started making work that interests me that’s what resonated with my audience. I stopped pandering even a little bit, and haven’t looked back since. Being a visual artist as well as a writer gives one respite from engaging in the same creative process all the time. When writing isn’t appealing to me, drawing does, and vice versa. I like to pass the hot potato.

It’s not so much a juggling act as it is a multidisciplinary practice. I can dip in to striking visual imagery when I’m feeling as if words might fail to express what it is I’m trying to do. And other times, when I don’t feel like getting my hands dirty with ink and paint, I can tidy up the studio and sit behind my word processor. Something that’s been happening to me recently is that I’ve had a lot of unavoidable interruptions, and seeing as though I couldn’t do anything about them, I let things ride for a time. I did my best to sit back and not create, because I couldn’t. And it’s rejuvenated me.

Sometimes events happen a specific way in our lives that force us to take a break. We then end up looking in the mirror, and questioning our purpose. While breaks have always been healthy and I know it, it’s not an area I’m particularly fond of. If I’m not doing something productive I feel like I’m wasting my life. But that’s when life inserts definite full stops. To caution you to slow down and take a breath. I’m not saying everything happens for a reason — I don’t know that to be true — all I’m saying is that we sublimate our experiences by how we interpret them. And once I altered my perceptions, everything else changed too.

It was a blissful afternoon away from the studio, but I’d brought my laptop with me in case I had the urge to write. And I wanted to, I really did. But in complete solitude — aside from me looking after two of the most adorable dachshunds — I instead chose to let the time pass, putter around and have a nap. This got me thinking whether I need to be in my studio to do what I do. It slowly dawned on me that I’m not one of those writers who can go to a busy café, order a cup of coffee and tune out — or better yet relish — the noise.

And I don’t think I do it because I probably can’t. I guess you could say I desperately need my peace and quiet. In times of utter turmoil and strife I freeze. I don’t feed off of discomfort. If the temperature is wrong or I’m in a bad mood I fold entirely. Perhaps I’m just fickle. Maybe everything needs to be in its place for me to function creatively. All I know is I haven’t always been like this. In university I used to draw anywhere I could find a table, or even a hard surface. I’d sketch from real life, observing my surroundings, and capturing them in my little black books. But that time is over.

As I sit here in my slippers after what I consider to be a taxing day, everything feels right in the world. I finally have enough clarity to create. But the problem is, to a normal person, my day could never have been categorised as taxing. So I had to leave the house. Big deal. This is why I know there’s something gravely wrong with me. I could’ve enjoyed my time with those dogs, and getting some shut eye, but instead I longed for it all to come to a close — so I could be safe in my pleasurable cocoon of ideas. Something stopped me from doing anything productive today. What?

Demons of course tempt us with the seductive art of sloth. Evil spirits lurk around every corner, waiting to sabotage our efforts. You could say, well, Azzerae, it’s not like you’re on a deadline or anything, so what’s the big deal? I want to add as much to my body of work as I can while I’m still able, because one day I’ll be old and frail, riddled with arthritis or some other horrid malady and I’ll know I wasted the opportunities that presented themselves. I guess you could say that I’m kind of beating myself up here for not writing. Something most writers can probably relate to all too well.

But I wonder in that moment if I had anything worthwhile to say? How would this piece be different if it was written in the light of day, kept company by a pair of sweet little furry creatures? Instead, I now tap away on my keyboard under the moonlight — which I cannot see, the curtains are of course drawn — and sleep is the last thing on my mind. I slept this afternoon! I have no need to sleep right now. But still, the clock is ticking, and every minute I spend avoiding my life’s work is a minute closer to death. Call it morbid if you must but you can’t argue with the truth, now can you?

I often say I’m the luckiest man in the world, because my wife gives me space to pursue the things I most enjoy. I do the same for her, but she doesn’t seem to require much time to brood and contemplate matters such as I. There’s something very cognitive going on with me, and perhaps that has a bit to do with this illness I’ve had the misfortune of being diagnosed with: schizoaffective disorder. On bad days, my paranoia ramps up. I misinterpret the slightest subtle cues for others targeting me explicitly. I think people are conspiring against me behind my back. That they hate me.

And it doesn’t help that some of my former friends actually did do that. Have you ever been friends with someone for so long and then all of a sudden one day some bad egg starts appearing everywhere they go? I don’t mean to get territorial, but I watched someone steal my friend from me before my very eyes. Truth be told I actually think that this person has the hots for him, and funnily enough, they might be an item on the down low. I won’t get into the weeds here but the individual in question seems severely confused about their identity. That’s putting it mildly. After all I’m not mean.

I might sometimes get brave behind my keyboard, but for the most part I’m somewhat even keeled. I almost believed that as I wrote it. No I’m not. I’m a person who suffers bouts of psychosis and hallucination, doing my best to live with it all. And it’s pretty isolating because no one can relate to that kind of thing. I sometimes think people feel sorry for me, and humour me out of pity. I can’t seem to understand why anybody would care about anything I have to say. As you can tell, that doesn’t deter me from expressing myself anyway. I often throw caution to the wind and see where things take me.

But very few people deserve to be ostracised because they’re different. We all have our quirks and they make up parts of our personality. As much as I hope others are understanding regarding my idiosyncrasies I still behave judgementally from time to time. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s there. In fact, I think some people are not discerning enough, and wind up surrounded by creeps because of it. Sometimes you have to say no. Sometimes you do need to dismiss arrogance to its face. Because if you don’t, who will? As usual I have a particular individual in mind when I say that.

What I’ve realised however is you can’t force friendships. You can’t force somebody to return back to the person you once knew. Because people change, and in turn, people grow apart. If the season for particular associations has ended those are just the facts. Deal with them accordingly or forget it altogether. No one can look at me and say I’m a worse person than when I was younger. I’ve made incredible progress, progress that is only crippled by the mental illness that was foisted upon me. And that can never make me a bad person. I seem bothered by this business of friend stealing though.

Which is silly because people are not property. I’ve come to realise however that not everyone listens to or observes others in the same way. Some people are simply too self-absorbed to pay much attention to what anyone else has to say. If they’re not talking over someone they’re blatantly ignoring what they said. And I never want to be one of those people. And fortunately enough, I don’t think I am. Another thing I tire of is professional victims. It could be said that I’m a victim of my psychiatric condition, but I see it a different way. I want to learn about it and move on with my life.

The professional victims I speak of are those who take a tragedy and exploit it for sympathy from others. Yes, we know you had something awful happen to you — but to build a whole new identity around that? I find it sick. Everyone has tragedies happen to them. Some worse than others. As Barack Obama’s Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel famously said, “Never let a good crisis go to waste.” How pathetic. Professional victims want to compare notes, and tell you how much worse they have it than you do. They suckle every last drop of opportunity out of the teat of personal tragedy, and I dislike them intensely for it.

There are many things you or I could use as a crutch, and we don’t, because we’re adults and we understand that life doesn’t work that way. When I encounter a person I can’t get through to, I give them three chances in which I overlook their ignorance. Strike three is where I draw the line. They’ve got to go, and I have too much respect for myself to stick around. That’s when I sever all contact and ghost them altogether. All of a sudden my phone rings off the hook and anywhere they can possibly contact me they do. But then you get the types that don’t even realise what they’ve done.

In the case of the latter, nothing can be fixed. In my younger years, I know that I overextended myself and gave everyone unlimited chances to screw me. I was told by some I’m too soft. That’s what you get for being in tune with your feelings, though. Something a lot of men aren’t. It’s unusual to me how many people walk around disconnected from their emotions. Nowadays we’re called hypersensitive people, and I’ll proudly wear that badge. With enough work one can transform their challenges into powerful works of art and literature. I only hope the same can be said for me.

The more time one has to think, to deliberate, the more ones mind attacks itself. While this may not be the case for everyone, it’s not like the majority of people have the time to let their mind wander where it wants. They’re busy earning that pay cheque. But for the modern day thinker, who consciously lowers the noise caused by social media and let’s lapse their real obligations, the mind is a terrible thing to taste. You might wonder what there is to be so miserable about. Well, I’m sure you don’t have a couple hours for me to go down the list, so I’ll just make it concise and succinct.

No, I’m not going to tell you what there is to be miserable about — because I’m sure you have enough of your own reasons. What I’m really saying is, if there is no other stimulation afoot, your brain will create its own. You’ll remember embarrassing moments in your life and come up with all the greatest retorts on the spot. You’ll wonder if you’re wasting your life doing whatever it is you do, and the good news is everyone feels that way sometimes. They question the meaning of life, why things happen the way they do, and what can be done about it. This is why writing is dangerous.

You sit down and overanalyse scenarios in your head. You pick them apart. And all the while you think what you’re doing is cathartic. It certainly may be for some, but for others it’s a nightmare. The torture we artists put ourselves through for the joy of the craft is something we tell ourselves has to be worth it. But examining anything too thoroughly makes it seem meaningless in the end. I was never one for positive affirmation or self help, up until I discovered the good stuff. And being kind to oneself doesn’t have to be corny. It’s all a matter of perspective, and what you choose to do.

You can look at your life and recount all of your mistakes. You can agonise over the small stuff. Or you can change the course of your life with a series of bold steps. What those steps comprise of is totally up to the flavour of your life. What you’re all about. And it took me a long time to realise that no one is going to do anything for me. I have to actively dig myself out of whatever hole I get into. I more often than not get caught up in the minutiae. I get lost in the weeds. I think myself into a stupor. It’s only very infrequently that I finally break through the chains of self-doubt and do much.

I do think it’s important to take stock of ones inner turmoil, though. To question the very nature of your own beliefs, so as not to become a walking vacuum or echo chamber. But controversy inevitably arises when someone says what they actually think. It may not always be wise to throw ones opinion in the ring — but if not why not? Sometimes the best thing you can do is go against the grain. Invariably others will come out of the woodwork and thank you for it. They’ll marvel at how you’re able to say what others wouldn’t dare to. The laws of engagement are strange indeed.

And they’re always changing. Even the most seasoned strategist eventually slips up. They miss the mark. Because life doesn’t always work the way you want it to. No, instead, it usually works against you. The small obstacles we face in daily life can be made mountains out of, when they’re actually molehills. And the less room you give yourself to screw up the more you will. Philosophically, I need a lot of room to breathe. My mind is rarely ever restful. Thoughts gnaw at the insides of my head like rats at cheese. If I’m not doing something productive I’m beating myself up over why.

This is a side effect of the era we exist in. One of capitalism and consumerism. You either provide a product or you’re the target audience of someone else’s. The baton gets passed from person to person. And sometimes you’re that person. The way I escape allowing this shallow world from swallowing me whole is to produce more than I consume. But some days I fall short of that. Still, I refuse to fill my head with what we could term slop. The kids today call it content. But it’s not a word I use frequently. Maybe in some other life I might, but I’m not counting on that by any stretch.

I’m just pleased that I’m under no obligation to produce, nor am I under anyone’s thumb. And if you truly love doing something that’ll shine through. I’m often left in awe when I encounter someone who isn’t the master of their own destiny. You mean life knocked you down and you let it? Stand back up. Fight tooth and nail for your freedoms. Don’t just lie down and take it. That’s the problem with the majority of people, they fall for this veil of faux security. They think clocking in and clocking out makes them good little citizens, when all they’re doing is serving their enemies.

The enemy is the state. The enemy is taxes. And they’ll only pry my last red cent from my dead fingers, when I can no longer fight against fascism. As far as I’m concerned all politicians are parasites — yes, both sides of the aisle. They say one thing then do another. We’ve been sold lie upon lie until we’re punch drunk and too weak to fight back. We’re backed into corners, told to offer up our private coffers for public use — all under the guise that they’re public servants. Well they’re not. They’re vampiric at best. Anarchy is never allowed to exist for long, because it’s real freedom.

We seem to want to see empty suits reading from teleprompters. We can’t get away from thinking the next guy in office will be the answer to our problems. And like Lucy pulling the football out from under Charlie Brown, every time a coconut, we’re fooled. The way I see it we only have ourselves to blame. We could put an end to all this stuff. If the masses rose up and demanded change from within we’d be free. Slavery still exists. And it’s intricately linked to your wages. I call it being on a short leash. As long as so-and-so gets their little bonus once a year that’s seems to be enough.

But it’s not enough for me. I’d rather have nothing that was acquired through ill gotten gain. Everything I own, I know I got honestly. Without sacrificing my soul or my time. You may wonder where this secret source of income originates. What’s the secret? I never stop trying. I manifest whatever I want through sheer will and effort. And you can too. We’ve been sold a bill of goods. You no longer need a traditional job. There’s plenty ways to make money with an internet connection. That’s why it boggles my mind that people still seem to choose the alternative: being a bootlicker.

I’ll never march in lockstep. I’ll forever remain a pariah. Outside of society is where I want to be. And so I removed myself from its clutches long ago. It always astounds me when otherwise intelligent people accept a life of mediocrity. A life of submission. A life of wilful acquiescence. That can’t be me, and it never has been. I’m not saying I escaped the rat race unscathed. I’m saying I came within milliseconds of it going the other way. Right now, if things had gone differently, I’d be writing this from a cubicle in my lunch hour. But instead I’m in my house shoes comfortably at home.

But most people don’t want to face up to the reality of their lives. They tell themselves that some day things will change. They put their dreams off in service to other things. I know there are no half measures. I know how difficult freeing oneself from the herd really is. Because there was a time when I almost got caught up in it. The last time a company offered me a corporate job I lasted a day. Then I quit. It was because I couldn’t imagine my life continuing on that trajectory. I wanted to drive my car off the side of a cliff, into the ocean. And so I never went back. I left them in the lurch.

Amusingly enough, the guy who hired me lost his cool on the phone, after I told him I wasn’t coming back. I didn’t have to give him that courtesy. He told me I’d never be anything in this world, in a rage. He seemed to think I was willing to be paid peanuts and start from the bottom like a good little boy. But he had no idea who he was dealing with, clearly. I went on to pursue work in avenues I enjoyed. I still haven’t had a regular job in my entire life. And honestly, I don’t think I could do it. It takes a certain type of person to tow the company line, and that’s just not me. I’m too independent.

If I had stuck around there my life would’ve been very different now. I’d probably have had my mind poisoned, and would’ve eventually accepted that’s the way things were. One thing I know is the world needs people like that. They’re just not going to get it out of me. And the reason I say they’re needed is because they keep the economy going. I’m not stupid enough to believe that pure unbridled anarchy is the answer. I may feel like it is at times. But I’ll instead let everyone else dash off to their little jobs and do their menial little tasks. I’ll be right here, bringing my dreams to life.

I don’t get off on being pejorative. I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings with my work. But at the same time, I promised myself long ago I’ll always say what’s on my mind. Often times, inadvertently, you offend people’s sensibilities if you’re brutally honest on a particular issue. But that’s the one thing artificial intelligence can’t do, is take a hard-line opinion on anything whatsoever. In fact, it’s responses have a sense of ennui if there ever was one. Ambivalence and nuance get lost. It may not be honourable to say the stuff no one will out loud, but it’s a hill I’m willing to die on.

Wincing after sticking your neck out and get called on it is spineless. Any writer worth their salt should welcome respectful debate with open arms. After all, we do all this to connect with our readers, don’t we? And what’s the worst that could happen? Someone unsubscribes and refuses to ever return. Is that so bad? In an age where people approach subjects with a sense of neutrality, taking a side is rare and therefore valuable. But what good are our opinions alone, anyway? I mean, everyone has them. You’d have to be pretty arrogant to think taking a specific stance means much.

But I’ve been fighting with my inclinations long before I ever picked up a pen or sat behind a word processor. I examine things from so many different angles it becomes exhausting. There are also times when I haven’t quite thought through something enough and put it out there anyway. One day I might hold an opinion that I myself disagree with the next. And I don’t find that too peculiar. But then you get those who will never back down on their stance whatsoever, and hold it till the end of time. I can’t relate to such people. I never have. Opinions only seem to matter if you’re a public figure.

And that’s because the average man on the street doesn’t capture thousands of people’s attention. He just goes about his business and does what he has to do. But there’s this phenomenon that occurs in which celebrities and others in the public eye grandstand. They say things to evoke a reaction of some kind and to make others think they’re something they’re not. This is why I pay very little attention to what actors or actresses say. They have too much to lose by speaking the truth. And after all, they pretend for a living, so there’s nothing authentic about that. How can you trust it?

You can’t. They say stuff they think sounds good. They want to appear tolerant and accepting of all people. And it pays to look that way, which is the only reason they do it. The reason I just express whatever it is I want to is because I know very few people are watching. And if someone confronts me on something it obviously must be important enough for them to do so. That is why I remain receptive in the face of criticism. I don’t only expect that others will nod along and agree with me. And that’s what real tolerance looks like. Being present when people come to you with concern.

We can either choose to listen to their side of the story or tune it out altogether, but that’s something only a coward would do. I’m not saying that every stranger under the sun deserves to be interacted with right off the bat, all I’m saying is sometimes there’s value in a reader engaging you with something you’d otherwise not want to hear. Because that’s how we get better. That’s how we come to articulate ourselves more skilfully. When you have to explain what you meant after you wrote what you wrote you’ve probably failed as a writer. We can’t try clean up our missteps later.

Well, we could, but that’s just backpedalling, and it’s a bad look. I’m not spouting off the rules of engagement however, I’m just giving you my take on how I perceive things. My observations may be totally wrong, and I’m open to that. Something you may be hard pressed to find elsewhere — someone willing to look stupid in pursuit of the truth. Because if we’re not honest with ourselves, who are we performing for, really? What benefit does one derive in being a manipulative windbag? I guess you could couch it as fiction, and get off scot-free. But I’ll choose honesty every single time.

I’ve seen all the virtue signallers pull the wool over other’s eyes. I recognise the snakes in the grass every time. Often liars think they’re so good that they’ll never get caught. Well I know they eventually will. And when that day comes my integrity will still be in tact. Because I didn’t feign being someone I wasn’t. I didn’t say the popular thing to win the approval of strangers. I went my own way and made my own path and no one can take that from me. There’s an unusual thing that occurs when you’re in the presence of a liar. They get so used to making it up as they go along that eventually they slip up.

That’s when they forget their web of deceit is crumbling. And they’ll do anything they can to salvage whatever confidence you had in them. They become desperate, and might admit to one fib in the heat of the moment. What they forget is it’s like a domino effect. Once you knock over one misdeed the rest follow, almost immediately. I can’t hang with liars, and I never could. Once I catch on to someone being a scumbag in one area I start to question a whole lot more. I was raised in a household where lying was the worst thing you could do. So I guess you could say it’s instilled in me to react this way.

For years I blamed bad people’s actions on basic human nature. I overlooked what they did and told myself that they’re merely taking the easy way out. And that’s how I got bitten and lost a couple friendships. When the issue compounded I could no longer look the other way, and so I cut ties. This of course came as a rude surprise to some of my former friends. They thought they’d get away with their shenanigans in perpetuity. And when they didn’t, I looked like the bad guy. You could say not addressing them about it directly was a mistake. But once I figure people out there’s no going back.

I carefully analyse people and their actions over a period of years. And I let them get way with stuff all the while. I see how far they think they can push me, and then I abruptly stop engaging. It looks like I drift away and hide, but nothing could be further from the truth. It’s simple self-preservation. After enough infractions one would be an idiot not to disengage. I’ve suffered emotional abuse from these types, and they all seemed to think I’d stick around regardless. When I don’t, I’m the problem. I look like the hypersensitive type. Which I kind of am anyway. But it all goes much deeper than that.

Keeping people around that have done you dirty is never a good idea. If you’re in a position where someone is undermining you slyly I caution you to take stock of the situation and consider walking away. They can be small, incremental remarks designed to wear you down. Subtle disrespect of your time. And anything else in between. You deserve the very best. You deserve to be treated with respect and not gaslit in any instance whatsoever. This situation is not something people talk about often, but I feel it’s important to observe and take action over. Friendship is a two way street.

If you find yourself in a position where you’re doing all the heavy lifting then by all means speak up for yourself. But instead of fighting to keep someone toxic in your life and demanding that they stop with their passive aggression, let them go. You’ll find better people out there in the world. Not everyone is a scumbag, it’s just the people that are that ruin it for the rest of us. Because I have a low self esteem I sometimes accept less than I deserve. It’s something I’ve been working on quietly for the past few years. Knowing that I’m actually worth more threatens the people who’ve done me wrong.

Because they don’t like it when you find your voice. When you start sticking up for yourself. When you say, hey, wait a minute, I don’t deserve this. Some people are too far gone, and too set in their ways to change. It is up to you to do what you know is right. And walking away is sometimes very hard, but it’ll be the wake up call that a bully might need. Maybe for a second they might reconsider how they treat others. Maybe you’ll command more respect. But nothing will ever change if you don’t take the necessary steps to eradicate toxicity from your life. Peace is priceless, and not everything has to be a war.

You read someone’s article. It resonates with you. You decide to leave a thoughtful comment…and nothing.

They don’t thank you. They don’t even acknowledge your existence.

You spend the next couple days wondering if you should delete your comment. All while the ingrate keeps posting new work.

What, do they think they’re too good to respond?

I know when I choose to leave a comment on someone’s article some part of it moved me enough to want to reach out.

Let’s face it — this behaviour is just plain rude. Do they owe me anything, though? No. But hey, it’d be nice if they left a clap on the reply I took the time to write.

But no, nothing. And then someone else replies to their piece, and they’re there, Johnny on the spot. I start wondering if it’s something I’ve done. Is there something wrong with me?

Maybe they think I’m fishing for followers or something. But chances are they aren’t thinking about me at all. They’re probably too busy writing their next article. Or dealing with real life.

Not everyone feels everything as deeply as you do, Azzerae.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. It’s a form of rejection. But I guess that’s just the way some people are. They believe their own hype. They’re too busy rubbing their success in everyone’s face.

To those who ignore their readers comments: do you remember when you started your writing journey? When you had one follower, and had no idea if anyone would read your work?

Chances are you’ve forgotten. And your arrogance is showing in a big way.

I never came here to watch my numbers climb. I came here to connect with genuine people and exchange sincere, thoughtful dialogue.

Yes, I write largely for my own amusement. But if someone takes the time to write me a little note of any kind, you best believe I’ll respond and respond kindly.

Everyone has stuff going on in their lives. And I get that ones writing time is limited for a lot of writers. Because most of us have jobs. But for goodness sake, you act like responding in any way whatsoever is such a lowly act.

What’s funny is a lot of these types are incredibly opinionated individuals, often spouting off platitudes about how the little guy gets screwed, and that they’re non-judgemental, open-minded and want to live in a better world.

But they have absolutely no consideration for the novice who’s still making his way in the world.

The reason I’m writing this is because it hurts. It hurts to come across such a brilliant mind, to bare your heart and soul, to be vulnerable, only to be ignored.

And the solution is not to close up and avoid leaving feedback anymore. Because I know that some people still have the decency to take the time to respond. The others, well let’s just say they might have built a following, but particular readers will remember how they made them feel.

If you think this piece is emo and unnecessary I respect your opinion too.

I just don’t want to live in a world where authors ignore their audience. I’m not saying that we need to pander or perform for the sake of longevity, all I’m saying is a little acknowledgement goes a long way.

I guess you could say I’m offended, because I expected more. Perhaps these egotistical writers just aren’t considering the consequences of their actions, because they believe they’re too big to fail.

I wasn’t even planning on addressing this particular issue in the public square, but a short while ago it occurred to me how much of a mark being ignored leaves.

It’s just incredibly disappointing. Especially when you read everything a particular writer puts out, excitedly anticipate their new work, and consistently keep up with what they have to say.

But the silence is deafening. It stings. It gives a clear message, and that message is: I don’t care about my readers.

I get that most of us are doing our own thing, and primarily writing for ourselves, but the solipsism is rife on this one.

How wrapped up in yourself do you have to be? How self-important, to completely blank those who enjoy your work? I just don’t get it.

I’m grateful when anyone reads my work. I’m excited when I get a notification that someone has left a comment. If I grow an audience will that excitement go away?

I just think it comes down to personal preferences. You can’t make someone care. If they’re a windbag, they’re a windbag, and all full of hot air.

Remember this — you can be a terrific writer, have a fantastic grasp on the English language, but without the necessary social graces you’ll never have meaningful connections with your readers.

And maybe you don’t care. Maybe you’re here to copy-paste your newest piece onto the platform and you’re not interested in the feedback you get.

I just think that’s weird. Rant over.

I hardly write at night anymore, but I must strike while the iron is hot. The crickets are out in full swing, my wife is breathing gently as she sleeps. All the busyness of the day has come to a close. My faculties are sharper in the evening air. I am a night owl, and I always have been. Clouds linger about the moon, stars shine crisp and pointed. This is the time the spirits come out to play, and I sense their collective presence among me. Nobody ever asked for my opinions, yet I freely pass them off to the ether, hoping for nothing and no one to find me playing on the page. For I’m not as impressive as I’d hoped, nor as remarkable as I’d like. I’m myself and that’s enough, at least for me. Who else matters? And do they really exist outside of my head? How am I to know whether anything is real, or if this is all one long, vivid dream? The Great Work awaits as I play hooky with these words. Some people do crossword puzzles, others play chess. I write and might as well hide it, for nobody else is there. I’m so alone in this vast Universe, alone enough to invent companions and conjure diabolic entities, all for company and crosstalk. Who do I think I am, anyway? No one special. Just the only person left in a world filled to the brim with deceivers and those of little faith.

Do we know where we come from, or did we dream it all? It’s just the medication wearing off, Azzerae. Go to sleep and take your sleeping pill. But I finally feel alive, and have all my faculties. I’m no longer a zombified, apathetic husk. I can feel and see and think. Maybe I should go off these goddamned drugs. But I can’t. Although they are my cage, I’ve grown accustomed to them. They’re my training wheels. How would I ever function without them again? It’s times like these I live for, when I finally feel something. I guess I’m built backwards or something. Most people are comatose until their second cup of coffee. Why should I be any different? There’s a drug to pick me up, one to bring me down, and another to keep me even keeled. Which one is doing what? Never mind that. There’s bigger matters to tend to. Like my magnum opus. I’m addicted to pouring my heart out to strangers. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the rush it gives me. Even if no one is listening — actually, that’s even better. Don’t engage with me, you might instil in my physical vessel a lethal fright! Everyone is too absorbed in their own stuff anyway, they don’t have time for this. I mean, what is it, anyway? I’m chiselling away at the Great Work, piece by piece, and when it’s finally revealed, then I can die.

Let’s not pretend any of us know why we do what we do. Assigning meaning to inherently purposeless tasks. When the Great Work calls, you answer. Are you present? Is anyone hearing me? I know I can hear my own words echoing in my head. I finally feel as if the cotton wool has been removed from the inside of my skull. I can think! I can write without white-knuckling my way through every sentence. I pity the fool who never settles on a life goal. In an ever-changing environment, where mobile devices rule the day, humans come last. What was once humanity centric is now every man for himself. Don’t steal a glance at me while I’m engrossed in my doom scroll session. Let me escape into my screen uninterrupted — you know it feels so good. Mid-sentence, I took a shower and swallowed my cocktail of night time psych meds. It is now mid-morning and the kinetic energy of everyday life has returned. I feel like I’m in a vice grip. I have to be out and about today doing errands and nothing makes me more miserable than that. I just want to write, god damn it! So I’m squeezing this in a half hour before I must vacate my living quarters. Something I need to be held up at gunpoint to do. Ever since my psychiatrist lowered the dose of my mood stabiliser I’ve become extremely prolific. Could this be mania? Perhaps I’ll never know.

Let’s not pretend here. I couldn’t see the change that came. I was too wrapped up in my writing to realise it had taken over all my other interests. I’ve been a cartoonist for more than two decades, but I hardly ever draw anymore. Maybe that should’ve been a sign of some kind. I’ve been told by someone I love and respect that this writing thing is turning obsessive. Because when I’m not writing I’m thinking about writing. When I swear to myself I’ll take a break and step away from the page it doesn’t happen. I wrote a full length book and promised myself I’d ease up on the writing once it’d been published. I didn’t. In fact, I became even more engrossed in my thoughts and wanting to get them down. I’ve never had an addictive personality where substances are concerned, but creative expression has always taken priority over everything else in my life. It’s cost me relationships before, because I put it first, over everything else. But the more disconnected I become from others, a danger of less lived experiences crops up. What are you going to draw from, Azzerae, if you have no real life events unfolding? Especially since your work is largely autobiographical? These are the questions I ask myself at three o’ clock in the morning, when I wake up filled with ideas buzzing around in my head. I’ve never kept a note book next to my bed stand, should I start?

Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I’m working toward something gargantuan. If my ideas don’t scare me I know I’m on the wrong track. It’s not so much that I want to achieve something grand for accolades or recognition — rather, it’s in the work I do that I derive such meaning — so keep your book deals and royalty cheques, thanks. I’m not a traditional writer, therefore I don’t have an agent or a publisher. I do everything myself, so perhaps you could call me a control freak. Or fiercely independent. Please, you go ahead and decide which. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever fall out of love with the written word. I mean, I doubt I will, but my creativity has many facets and moving parts. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself without the arts. I’d be truly lost. My interests often stretch beyond the limited world view I hold, out of intellectual altruism. Although I’ve toyed with a pseudonymous presence online, I often credit it with stretching my capabilities to that of fiction. And who’s to say we can’t engage in self-mythology? I’d say it’s relatively harmless to do so. Look, I’m not certain why it is that I can’t just be myself. Perhaps it has something to do with childhood trauma and subsequent mental illness. If we define ourselves by our work, what happens when we can’t execute it well anymore? Everyone runs out of steam at a stage.

What matters is what we do with our work, not how many units we sell while we’re still drawing breath. Do you think some of the greatest artists of the past century knew they’d go on to be celebrated? They inspire us now, but at the time they were derided and lived in obscurity. This is how I suspect I’m on the right track. Eschew any and all naysayers and take the credit you receive with a pinch of salt. Otherwise one risks arrogance, and in a big way. This is why I’m never proud of anything I’ve ever managed to accomplish. I know if I start buying into it it’ll change me. As unpleasant as the hunger is, we must experience it in order to create. A full stomach and a financial cushion is overrated. Where do you think the term “starving artist” originated? It’s an ascetic existence, one in which indulgence and hedonism are the greatest of pitfalls. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where everything was handed to me on a golden platter. It’s not that I’ve accepted my lot in life, rather, I’ve chosen to sublimate it through the Great Work. Everything I do is devoted to this pursuit. And happy accidents are part of the process. So when any wildly successful person tries to tell you that they knew where they were going, and where they’d end up, be wary. Often they revise their humble beginnings and retell their story, peppering in fictions. For there’s no blueprint or secret to it all. We have to find our own way, because our story is unique to us. Just don’t lie to yourself.

I was recently suspected of — and harshly criticised for — supposedly using artificial intelligence to aid me in my writing. The hater in question just can’t seem to believe that a human being who devotes enough time, patience and discipline to their craft could write four books in less than a year. I started getting serious about my writing journey late last year, and ever since, have worked at it.

Now my books might not be that amazing or even earth shattering, but I want to make it abundantly clear that I don’t utilise artificial intelligence in my creative process — aside from the illustrations which accompany it. Those are quite clearly generated with artificial intelligence, so this made me think. When you use artificial intelligence for one thing people assume you use it for everything.

As I’ve stated before, for a large part of my life I worked as an illustrator, and if you go back to my earlier writings you can see that I used to hand render artwork for each piece I wrote. The reason I stopped doing that was twofold. First, it takes a lot of time. And second, artificial intelligence has eradicated the need for work made by human hands in my industry. Allow me to explain further.

Ever since the widespread use of artificial intelligence, less and less clients were reaching out for commissions. So it made what I used to do obsolete. Instead of getting bitter and depressed about that I shifted my attention elsewhere — to my writing career. And although I still do draw, I don’t create artwork myself for each piece. So I guess you could say I’ve embraced artificial intelligence.

Given that I am complicit in this practice, I have no real moral ground to be outraged at those who are under the impression that I’m using it in my writing. I think that’s a mature and realistic conclusion to draw. But when I tell you that I work quickly I’m telling the truth. I was always valued for my efficiency as an illustrator, and it made my business thrive. And so I also write fast.

But this goes a little deeper. The individual who accused me of using artificial intelligence in my work is a well-known troll on social media. He calls himself a creator, and uploads videos on YouTube — very rarely will he live stream. His hatred for artificial intelligence is palpable. And I get it. But I suspect there’s no way I can prove that I write everything myself, so it’s pointless to try.

Most people whose jobs have been eradicated by artificial intelligence would probably never go near it, or in rare cases would adopt an attitude of if you can’t beat them, join them. However I don’t see myself as being either of those cases. Instead, my sole focus is what I write, and while a pretty picture might pique a reader’s interest, ones actual writing is what draws them to a particular piece.

I don’t usually feel the need to prove myself to relative strangers, and I know my decision to use artificial intelligence in the place of hand rendered artwork will create mixed feelings. But I’d like to think people are smart enough to know when artificial intelligence is being used or isn’t. There I go giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I’m being as honest and forthright as I possibly can be.

Maybe it raises red flags, that the book projects I embark on take me quicker to write than most people. But when I tell you I wrestle with every word and give it my all it’s almost an understatement. I think this critique that’s been lobbed at me also helps bring attention to the elephant in the room, which as you can tell, I’m quite happy to address. But I’d like to know something.

What is the difference between asking a chatbot — with your own, original references — to bring your idea to a visual conclusion, and sourcing stock photos online to repurpose for your own ends? The way I see it, feeding information to artificial intelligence to create an entirely new image that’s never been created before involves some creativity. I’m not just picking and choosing some photo.

I understand this piece is going to make me some enemies, and I’ll be accused of justifying the use of artificial intelligence (which I most certainly am not). But whatever happened to coming up with your own ideas? Is the common consensus that choosing existing artwork from an online archive somehow superior to that? Because, like I said, it’s a person repurposing someone else’s work for their own use.

It doesn’t matter that it’s royalty free. It’s simply reusing photos or artwork that have been found elsewhere. At least I’m feeding, directing, guiding and refining the images I create with artificial intelligence. I’m not just showing up without ideas and telling it to generate them for me. No. I do all the heavy lifting. I’d just rather not hand draw artwork for a daily blog post that might not even get read.

The whole idea of picking existing artwork from an archive just doesn’t appeal to me. I want to be involved in the creative process. I want to show up with a strong concept in mind and direct the chatbot to make me exactly what I envisioned — and that’s what I do. Look, I’m not trying to change anybody’s mind about anything, and I certainly see the downsides to artificial intelligence.

It’s making people dumber, lazier, and giving them the impression that they are responsible for the end product. But where the situation gets sticky is ownership and copyrights. I’m aware that I can’t copyright the images I create with artificial intelligence. But I’m okay with that. I’m still a cartoonist at the end of the day, and hand draw all my own work on paper. I just don’t do that for my articles.

I’ve been described as unusually productive by others. Most of my clients were impressed by how fast I worked. I just wanted a clear separation from that part of my life and my writing. Hoping people will understand is foolish. People have preconceived ideas about artificial intelligence and their minds will never be changed. But I refuse to be made to feel like I’m doing something wrong.

I’m using a tool that’s available to me, as anyone else can and does. There are those who’ll fall on either side of the issue — they’ll hate it or they’ll accept it — my only hope is that I’ve instilled enough trust in my readers over the course of the time they’ve been actively reading my work. Artificial intelligence can’t fake the type of anecdotes I recount, and if it can, I’m unaware of that.

I write autobiographical accounts of my life all the time, and I’m honest to a fault. Even so much as broaching the subject I have, it’s bound to lead to drama. I welcome it. I’m not afraid of confrontation, and I’m well aware that I’m not violating the terms of service. My writing remains one hundred percent organic and human centric. I’m not shilling for artificial intelligence as there’s nothing in it for me.

It was high time I brought attention to my thought process on all this, and for it, I thank the die hard hater that exists somewhere out there online. If you’ve ever wondered about my stance on this whole idea now you have it. But I want you to remember something. I embrace other’s opinions, as well as respect them, all the time. I assess things from a big picture perspective. If I’m discarded for being candid, oh well.

You might not want to agree with me. You might vehemently disagree with me. But you can’t say that I avoided the tough discussion. It wasn’t particularly easy to address it with grace and the level of maturity I have, and for that I hope you’ll see the humanity shine through in my message. I understand people’s hatred for artificial intelligence. I’ve heard all the reasons why they hate it.

But on the flip side of that coin there’s something to be said for this quest for truly original work. I might seem tasteless for embracing what is commonly referred to as slop nowadays. It makes others suspicious, I get that. But when I tell you that I was replaced by a machine I’m telling the truth. My only response to that was, well, let’s have this machine start working for me now. Nothing more, nothing less.

There is this line that stays with me, by Pietro Aretino. It goes, “Even when I’m railed at I get my quota of renown.” And what it means to me is that even when I’m in the thick of public criticism, I own the attention in the room, so I win. After all, there is no such thing as bad publicity, right? Because my legal name isn’t public knowledge to most, you probably don’t know all the controversies I’ve weathered. I mean, you could most certainly type my pseudonym into a search engine and find gems, but for the full picture, you’d have to really know who I am, through and through.

Not that I don’t spill my guts under my moniker — if you’ve read me long enough you’ve probably come to learn a few things about me that maybe you wish you hadn’t. Where I’m going with all this is to say everyone is a critic. And by extension, everyone is an artist until the rent is due. When you’ve ruffled enough feathers in your time on this earth you may come to understand how public outcry feels. As an artist I’ve always dabbled in transgressive work. Work that made some people think, others laugh, and of course, people want to cancel me. Before cancelling anyone was a thing.

All this results in me having to take the utmost caution about who gets their hands on my work. You have all kinds of activists that are waiting in the wings to take issue with a piece, call you out, or air you out to dry. But for everything my art form has cost me, I still plug away at it, day in and day out. But that makes it sound like a drag. Actually, it’s the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. But what could you have possibly done that caused so much outrage, you may ask? Pilloried politicians, gutted sacred cows, and even drawn criticism from my own family. But as artists we have a duty.

Safe art that doesn’t hurt feelings has never been my preference. Among my favourite writers is Salman Rushdie — and that might tell you a little something about the directions I’ve taken in the course of my career, being influenced by the author of ‘The Satanic Verses.’ It’s not that I have a problem with organised religion, rather, I feel like nothing should be above critique. When you do what I’ve done over the years you draw scrutiny upon yourself and your enemies try and dredge up past ills. Ills that may be true or may just be invented out of whole cloth. But you’ve got to roll with the punches.

If you’re confused about the nature of my work, I’m not just a writer. In fact, as introspective and opinionated as I can be, I tend to avoid the use of profanity in my writing. So what else am I? A cartoonist. And it is in that field which I exercise most of my politically incorrect muscles. Because to me there is no other way for an individual of my ilk to be. There can be no half measures. I’ve debated with myself publicly about whether or not I should leave that part of my life behind me, but I’m starting to realise those ideas in that medium will always itch to come out. Despite the poor pay.

I’ve been the target of doxxing multiple times in my life, all because I entertained controversial ideas. And it’s another reason I’m reticent to do away with my pseudonym. Some might call it cowardly, while I call it common sense. There is something freeing about not having your name attached to what you do creatively, and I wish I’d learned this sooner. But getting back to the critics who came down on me harshly, and even dug into my personal life. That’s when I feel they lose their credibility. When they get personal. You can say anything you want about my work, but why pick on that?

I suppose, as an artist, one struggles to separate themselves from their art. But I know of many instances in which audiences could discern between creative expression and real life. I just think it is low hanging fruit to target someone personally. And you might wonder what these skeletons in my closet may be at this point. Amusingly enough, I live a pretty banal existence. I’m reclusive. I keep to myself. I’m exceedingly polite and conscientious. There is really nothing to dredge up on me when it comes to that side of things. So that’s why when a critic pretends to know me I’m stumped.

A lot of people have mixed feelings on the premise of political correctness. They don’t want to be seen as having said or done anything that would lead anyone else to believe that they don’t support progressive causes. They want to be seen as forward thinking, and on the cutting edge of current affairs. They pirouette ever so carefully between any given set of issues. They say all the right things, they outwardly support all the right causes — but inside they believe in a very different way. This intellectual dishonesty to me is frightening. Why have we become so toothless and tame?

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not batting for the other side of the team. My politics may not be what you think they are. Drawing inferences is a dangerous game, so be careful. I feel like both sides of the aisle have their flaws. I do believe in finding a middle ground. But that is not the way things seem to work. People will fight tooth and nail to be seen as on the right side of history. All jokes aside, being heard or seen saying the wrong thing today will get you in a pickle you won’t soon come back from. I say all this to say no one is above criticism. But there is criticism and then there are personal attacks.

Nobody has the right to judge. Judge not lest you be judged. Unless of course you’re dealing with a war criminal or someone who disregards basic human rights. Then I can see them getting hanged in an international capacity. For all the things I’ve expressed in my work over the years the greatest feeling in the world, the reason I even did it, was because there was a rush that came along with it. That feeling of being on the brink of what you probably shouldn’t put out there. That’s when it was all so fun. The blowback you expect. The threats to your person you look dead in the eye and laugh at.

There is something much deeper going on when we express our ideas and they draw controversy. It is the virtue signallers wet dream, an individual such as I. They get to point at you and say you’re the problem. But the problem really lives within them. Imagine sitting around and waiting for the world to offend you. Imagine engaging in public outcry because you’d rather everyone marched in lockstep. That is dangerous right there. Expecting people to all agree on the common good — when that common good is deliberately one sided. I’ve said before that I enjoy work that challenges me.

I like to examine my feelings when I’m met with something that jars me awake. And I get that not everyone is like this. They don’t all want to have their values questioned. But if art is not resistance to the current leadership, then what good is it really? I think we all need to realise we’re a lot more similar than we are different. That not everything is deadly serious. That it is okay for the jester to make a mockery of the king. It’s Jester’s Privilege. The right of a jester to speak and mock freely without fear of punishment, allowing them to critique authority under the guise of humour.

That is what I believe cartoonists are in this day and age. Modern jesters. No one gets mad at the joker in a game of cards. All they see is an opportunity for a flush. So why should real life be any different? I’m not saying there should be no repercussions for legitimate libel or slander. No. What I mean instead is that we should take things in the spirit in which they’re given. Satire might hurt because it touches on the truth. But no one deserves to go the the gallows for it. I read this quote a while ago which wasn’t attributed to anybody specific, and I hope you’ll forgive me for paraphrasing.

The absurdity of the modern left has made satire impossible. Now replace the mention of the left with something else entirely. Because this is not a partisan issue. If I were to revise it, it’d go something like this: The absurdity of the modern day has made satire impossible. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t; but my larger point speaks to how absurd life has become, and how satirising it seems a herculean task. I’ll always give our leaders a good ribbing. I’ll never kowtow to what is supposedly off limits. And if I ever start doing that, please, remove my Jester’s Privilege immediately.

I need to get out of my head. It’s crowded in here. All I hear is vitriol, doubt and lack. And the worst part is none of it seems unfounded. I’m just not the person I’d like to be, but getting off my duff and doing something about it feels so impossible. Instead, dread looms over me, whether I turn left or right. It’s like the centre of my energy is split. However I take comfort in the fact that this might not just be a me problem. I’m sure everyone suffers nagging thoughts in the same vain. They might be better at hiding them, though. I recently had a chat with someone who feels like they’re an imposter.

Which is surprising, because I thought he seemed well-adjusted enough to not have those problems. We can hide our insecurities for a while, yes, but eventually we risk them swallowing us whole. I’ve come to realise that the best way to shut that noise off is to do something. Anything. And I’m not talking about distracting ourselves from the negative bias. I’m talking about relieving it entirely, by forging ahead, not letting anything deter us. After all, we’re in this together. Even the most successful figures of our time have moments of uncertainty and indecision. It’s part of being human.

But we idolise and mythologise those who give us the impression that they’ve got everything figured out. We think there is some hidden secret or magic bullet to overcoming our stressors. No. It’s how we manage them that matters. Just yesterday I was able to function somewhat normally, and this came after a particularly bad patch. A hole I’d dug myself into due to various life factors. See, I’m great when a day passes relatively uneventful. Where I begin to struggle is if I have any obligations outside of my creative pursuits whatsoever. This is why I’ve never worked a straight job.

My mind demands too much from me. Constant stimulation and uninterrupted chunks of deep, meaningful work. And I’m sure everyone feels like they’re wasting their lives at some point, hoping they can some day do what they love. But let me tell you, being faced with that reality is sometimes overwhelming. You see, not everything is enjoyable all the time. Sometimes wrestling with your demons manifests in the middle of an otherwise productive afternoon. Then you’re frozen, and start telling yourself all kinds of untruths. The old I’m not good enough spiel. I’ll never achieve anything remarkable.

Why am I even doing this? I’m not a real artist because I’m doing it all wrong. It’s all rubbish. It’s not true. It’s the devil on your shoulder whispering in your ear that you’re just an awful human being. And while there are those who enact atrocities on humankind, chances are you’re not one of them. I think a lack of perspective can generate deep feelings of inadequacy. Looking at things from the standpoint of the bigger picture is key, but it’s easier said than done. And when you’re making incremental steps each day it often doesn’t feel like it amounts to much. But that’s why I practise.

I air my thoughts out daily because in the long run they add up to something larger than life. My vision feels bigger than me once I stand back and look at what I’ve actually accomplished. Then I get to thinking I’m not so bad at all this, and it gets easier. Whoever you are and whatever you’re doing has to be enough. And this is coming from someone who hates his own work. There is no validity to the claims that evil voice makes in your head. Look at it as filler. Your inner enemy beefing with your authentic self. We’ve all been given gifts, it just takes longer for some to find them.

And your gift might not seem extraordinary. It might seem inconsequential. You might think that what you’re capable of just doesn’t match up to where you want to be. But here’s the thing, most wealthy people got where they are because of good fortune. Because they were at the right place at the right time. Perhaps you haven’t found your right place or right time yet. And that’s okay. We all live on different timelines, and things occur when they’re ready to blossom. If we constantly compare ourselves to others we’ll always feel like we’re behind. Social media is toxic in this way.

Those of us who are on it see the high points in other’s lives. They’re not showing us their failures. It’s all projection. What can I do to rub in people’s faces how great my life is? Check in with any one of them in real life and you’ll hear a different story altogether. Look, some people have charmed lives. I even have a pretty damn good one. But it’s that negative voice in the back of my brain that cripples me more often than not. It’s a liar. It’s telling me all the things I should be ashamed of. But it’s up to me whether I listen to it or not. You’d be surprised how many of us are walking around undiagnosed.

So for all the events people highlight in public, that make them look like they’re having the time of their lives, there also lives doubt in their low moments. No one can be happy all the time. That’s just a front, an unrealistic expectation. It’s when you have every reason to be happy and you can’t that results in the kind of situation I’m going through. So what is my problem, anyway? Why can’t I celebrate my small wins, and see that I’m flourishing more than flailing? There are deep seated issues at play. Traumas from the past that come back to bite us. Traumas caused by those closest to us.

And it’s not so much that the pain was deliberately inflicted. Rather, things happen inadvertently. While our parents might have thought they were doing what was best for us in our youth, they still occasionally missed the mark. Once I moved out of my parents house a lot of my traumas dissipated. I mean, they still left an indelible mark, but I was able to start assessing and undoing some of the damage they caused. And it hurts to even think that they could’ve inflicted such trauma. Because I’ll always love them for being as supportive and encouraging as they were growing up.

I think this is a big problem younger people are having today. Being that the economy is in the state that it is, a lot of people can’t move out of their childhood homes. And therefore they wind up with little privacy, unable to start their lives properly. It’s a huge blow to ones ego, this failure to launch. The advice I always give to those who are still living under their parent’s roof is to get out of there as soon as they possibly can. Yes, it’ll be hard. But it’ll be even harder if you never go your own way. Living independently teaches you the value of money. It forces you to grow up and work for the things you want in life.

It’s also embarrassing for people to share residence with their family at a certain age. And it creates a very unhealthy dynamic. My grandfather always used to say you pay dearly for your independence, and oh how right he was. Nothing comes easy in this life. And I suppose that’s why us writers like to get lost in fictional worlds. Even writing non-fiction can be cathartic, if done right. I haven’t focused on fiction in a long time because I find it puts too opaque a mask on otherwise autobiographical anecdotes. I respect those who can write fiction well, it’s just not my favourite genre.

You’d be surprised at some of the things that can create trauma. It’s not always the things you’d think that do it. It can be an unhealthy attachment to ones family that results in your being held back. It can be corporal punishment. It can be unemployment, and depending on others for your basic necessities. I have this fear that washes over me from time to time. It’s me being scared that I might go back to bankruptcy. Being broke. Not having enough money to afford my living expenses. It’s a trauma that was created in my childhood, one of poverty. That’s why I never judge anyone in that way.

The shoe has been on the other foot. I once couldn’t afford the luxury of time. And despite being encouraged to write by my peers, life got in the way. When I’m sitting behind this word processor and sharing my story with the world, time stops. I’m freed from the overthinking and drudgery of regular life. I finally get to discover what it is I think about certain things. Because if I didn’t write any of it down, I wouldn’t have an understanding of where I stood on particular issues. As Dodie Smith once said, “Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.” Spot on.

I'm done allowing cowardice to rule me. Courage is determined not by how many times you fall, but whether or not you get back up. Before these lofty ideas flashed across my psyche I crashed late this afternoon, only to emerge from slumber in the early evening. With the stars now shining shyly through the crisp, moonlit air, my mental acuity returns. I always look so forward to the mild winters, but this one has been particularly harsh. And I never thought I’d wish for the sun to once again return, but here I am doing so. Summer has swallowed me whole some years, but I anticipate that this upcoming season I’ll welcome it with open arms. But back to my initial thoughts above.

Going as far as to call oneself anything but brave could only come from my pen. From the tortured artist suffering another bout of neurosis, I now back away from the claim. I know I’m not any of those things. But the reality of the matter is I feel like I am in particular moments. And we all do. The only difference is I’m the first to say it out loud. Being tangled in a web of doubt is something I’ve become accustomed to. And I know it’s up to me to free myself from such an oubliette. The fact that I’m as self-aware as I appear to be is no coincidence. Most people are afraid to confront those aspects of themselves, and especially wouldn’t do so in public. And so that is what makes me brave.

Season changes do however affect many of us in tangible ways. There is no way around it. There is no doubt about it. We are tethered to the moon and stars much more than we might believe. These natural cycles are things we’re attuned to, and when you look at it that way your moods are not just random occurrences. Most people will scoff at astrology or the tarot, but they’re helpful tools in regard to fortune telling and forecasting possible events. That’s why me beating myself up over a little bit of fear here or there is absurd. After all, I’m just a regular human being, I’m not one of Nietzsche’s Overmen — far from it. Then again, that is the ideal. But ideals are theoretical at best.

Do I transcend conventional morality, create my own values, and fully affirm life? Perhaps. I can’t seem to help but live in the abstract. Intellectual violence aside, who is ringing the alarm? When you’re called to do so will you have the cojones, or will you let the town burn? I have many friends and acquaintances who I’d be ashamed to tell my secrets to. But here I am, under my pseudonym spilling my heart out to my dear readers, who could be considered strangers, for the most part. I want to bring them in to my story, however, and there is no other way to do that than by being honest. No one asked for this, but I’m giving it to the world anyway. There is no paywall pricy enough.

We as writers give of ourselves so freely, with the burning desire to tell a story. We let leak all of those things we’d be reticent to share in a glib conversation. We’re after something more and looking everywhere we can to discover it. I can’t tell if it was the late nap that snapped me into gear and evoked this train of thought, or if I’m just … off. Who really knows? Will I ever really know? And how much are we willing to let others feed into the salacious claims made about us in our absence? I spend ninety-nine percent of my time giving freely to the universe, asking little in return. Surely that’d make the average person yearn for deeper engagement. But to me, it’s a terrifying thought.

I wince at those moments when I know I’ve overexposed my heart. Yet I continue to engage in said behaviour, no holes barred. What a peculiar series of choices led me to such a place. And how do I make sense of it? Am I worsening my lot in life by sharing these ideas? Surely not. There has to be value in them, at the very least. I struggle now to separate my nom de plume from my legal identity. And it’s not because I’ve unduly exposed myself. It’s that the separation is becoming too thin. The world as I know it has become skewed. Once subject to natural laws, it is now like the Ouroboros, eating its tail. Maybe I should just pack it in and disappear unceremoniously, as I’ve done before.

But something keeps bringing me back, calling me like a Siren upon the treacherous waters. “Free yourself from this personal hell, Azzerae!” it beckons. A blind man could see my bind. The deaf can hear my plight. Just a few days ago, I penned a letter of encouragement to an associate. I suspected they might be struggling with a crisis of faith, having given up on their dream. I expect no response, and none came. It’s still early days, however, and these things have a way of working themselves out. I can’t bear to watch someone suffer as I do. I must do something. Anything. And so I did. I’m not certain if what I engaged in come off like a pep talk, but I’d hope it didn’t. Who can really say?

I’d hope if I were in a similar position someone would help me up. Remind me to not be discouraged by this cruel, unforgiving world. But there are those who feel like doing such a thing might be going to far or getting too familiar. That’s a risk I’m willing to take right now. Because after all is said and done I know I did the right thing. I saw someone in pain and lent a hand. Maybe I didn’t save anyone from drowning, as they determine whether they really want to or not. And it’s hard for some people to admit defeat. To face failure and see it for what it is. I don’t consider anyone who tried such a thing, however. There is the right place at the right time, and the inopportune.

It used to bother me when I wouldn’t hear back from someone I struck up correspondence with. It’d drive me absolutely mad, getting blanked. But I’ve come to accept that it is commonplace in the world today. One of the things I can’t abide is the hollowness of heart some people possess. Everyone now seems to be a strategist of some sort — admitting it however is the problem. We all plot and scheme. We all have an angle. But to define oneself as such has got to be one of the most tone deaf things I’ve ever witnessed. People call themselves content creators now. Not artists. Not writers. Content creators. To me that just seems to cheapen the entire creative endeavour altogether.

Then comes one of my least favourite terms: content strategist. What in God’s name is that, anyway? If I didn’t know any better that’d be letting people see too far behind the curtain. Like I said, we all have an angle — despite our protestations — we want people to buy in to our work and celebrate us for it. But a content strategist sounds like a professional manipulator. To me it says that none of your interactions are genuine, or backed by sound human decency. It tells me you’re in this to hoodwink someone into believing something, or worse. The lack of self-awareness is astounding to me. But perhaps they think they’re being an open book. It just feels like being a professional liar.

I’ve fallen for my fair share of clickbait over the years, and sometimes I do it willingly. I just think these buzzwords are empty of real meaning. People say stuff because it sounds good. It sounds polished. They think it sounds professional. But I’ve got news for you, none of this stuff matters as much as we think it does. We might make a few shekels here or there from our efforts. That doesn’t mean we’re making an honest living. I personally think we need to demonetise each and every individual that’s benefitting from being a huckster. Art is noble, not a transaction. Creativity is beautiful, let’s not make it ugly. These people are living high on the hog by producing sub par slop.

It’s not because I’m bitter. I haven’t monetised my work because I want to keep it accessible. In a world where everything is turning into a subscription service, I’d rather be the idiot who does it for the joy of the craft. This is not so much a moral stance as it is a heightening of the bar. Let’s cull the profiteers in their cushy little citadels. Us mere mortals, us peons, are down here scrounging for scraps. The incentive to create can’t be for material gain, because it turns shallow. I know all too well what it feels like to go to bed hungry. I don’t live a charmed life. There are far too many people coasting by on the backs of others. As far as I’m concerned, their message has been compromised.

They live in another world, one that doesn’t adhere to the same laws mine operates under. And no, they don’t deserve to profit from the fruits of their labour — because it’s hokey. It needs to be on shakier ground. Nothing should be guaranteed. What is the barrier of entry? What about the good of the commons? Open source is more honourable than is the alternative. I’m not saying any of this from a place of resentment, either. So don’t get me wrong. I just want to go back to a time when things made real sense. They don’t anymore. Everyone is in it for themselves now — selfish, self-aggrandising, and living in a land of milk and honey. But once you reach the top, it’s all downhill.

Committing oneself to doing something every day can be taxing in the long run, even if it is something you enjoy. Most mental health professionals will tell you to pace yourself, and avoid running yourself ragged — but none of us ever really listen to such advice. The world goes on, whether you’re ready for it or not. That thing you’ve been putting off? You yearn to complete it and quieten the nagging thoughts. And if we happen to choose inaction, we inevitably feel like failures.

One of the only remedies available to us is to just dive in head first and do what needs to be done, regardless of whether we feel it is the right time or not. For we can sit around, waiting for inspiration to strike, and there are always a thousand excuses as to why we can’t get started. While I adore the creative process and most of what comes with it, there are certainly aspects that cripple me along the way. Most of the time it is this voice in the back of my head calling me an imposter.

But of course I’m no imposter! I work too hard at my craft to even consider such a thing. Here’s the thing though, self-doubt is a natural part of the journey. Because if we were always one hundred percent certain of who we were or what we were doing, we wouldn’t have those moments of small victory. We wouldn’t have to overcome in order to achieve. What makes all of this so hard, and such a careful balancing act, is that there is unpredictability. My greatest fear of all is running out of steam.

I put too much pressure on myself at times, then others, I completely check out and stare at the ceiling for hours. I’ve never been good at pursuing a balance. I’m either in high gear or completely still. But I live within those bounds and I just let them happen the way they do. And maybe in a sense that is a sort of balance. Then again, maybe not. I know people with far more potential than they put to use, and it always saddens me. They’re circling the drain at the hands of substance abuse.

Part of me could just be thankful I don’t have those problems, and move on. But my compassion gets the best of me, and I see through the cool exterior or stoic front. I know people are struggling out there and I want to do something about it. I want to encourage them and lend an ear. But they’re too caught up in their problems to realise that there are any. My often times hands-off approach tends to make me appear as if I don’t care. But I also realise people go through cycles, as do I.

If we’re honest with ourselves we all stand in our own way from time to time. It’s breaking out of that pattern that is most challenging, and really, it’s silly because it’s a self-created problem. Most would lack empathy for those who orchestrate their own demise, but I see something deeper going on. It’s not so much that we want to fail, quite the contrary. It’s that opting out of an attempt to better oneself is just easier. Sure, it creates even more problems down the road, but that’s the can we kick.

I’d be lying if I told you no one has ever seen me struggling and offered a hand. Because they have. It’s a peculiar state of affairs, though, as sometimes those who come to ones aid appear as if they’re being unduly critical. We get defensive. We put up our shields. We don’t want to accept the help others are willing to give. Throughout the course of my life I’ve frequently taken less than I deserved. And I’m exceedingly fearful and cowardly in particular areas. Those who know me wouldn’t say so.

Then comes the question, what am I so afraid of, anyway? I always feel like I’m going to be caught doing something I shouldn’t, by someone in a position more powerful than my own. I take conscientiousness to a whole new level, so much so that it works against me. I appear furtive, and I look as if I’m trying to hide something or cover my tracks of wrongdoing, when nothing could be further from the truth. This is why I avoid being put in a position where I have to deal with others.

Because I know me. I know my limitations. I damn near define myself by them. If I were to try list any of the positive qualities I possess, I tend to focus on the lack thereof. I don’t want to be seen as egotistical — for arrogance is a most unpleasant trait. We all exhibit it from time to time, yes. But I go so far out of my way to preserve a level of humility that it seems feigned. It’s anything but, although others don’t see it that way. I guess I’m just too concerned about what others think of me.

Right now I’m white knuckling my way through this piece, hoping I don’t mention something that might come back to bite me. I’m utterly devastated at the past few days and what I’ve been through. Suffice it to say, things haven’t been easy. I’ve been met with all types of challenges that I never expected. I didn’t see them coming. It’s all centred around fear. Despite knowing bad days pass, in the moment it doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to end. I thought I’d prepared myself for uncertainty.

And how wrong I was. See, you can read all the books you want, and arm yourself with all the knowledge in the world, but at the end of the day what saves you is your attitude. If I weren’t so cowardly, I’d have met my obstacles with grace and poise. But I chose instead to hang my head in shame, to let anxiety overcome me entirely, and to live in fear. And I’ve heard it all before. Sometimes a bad day is just a bad day. A bad day isn’t a bad life. But in the moment it’s suffocating.

Most people would try dissuade me from categorising myself as a coward. But they don’t know the truth. They’ll say we all have low moments, and how we respond to them is what matters. But I responded horribly. I cracked under pressure. I realised how poorly I’m prepared for chaos. It’s one thing to spout off literary platitudes about how much I invite challenges, but it’s a whole other thing to live that way. Perhaps I’m realising my intellectual pursuits are just that — a solipsistic mess.

If I can’t live up to the values I espouse, what good am I to anyone? Those who talk the talk are legion. Those who walk the walk are a rarity. Maybe I’m setting the bar too high for myself though, because none of us are perfect. I tend to immortalise in my mind some of the greatest writers of our time. I almost see them as superhuman, when they’re anything but. I forget that just because they might be great storytellers that doesn’t necessarily make them invincible. What an absurd thought.

I know I’m in no position to give advice, unless of course it’s about something I know through and through. But that’s very little. That’s why my aim is to avoid ever coming off as preachy or instructive. I’m sure that if you go back to some of my earlier writings you can find rather a few absolutes. Back then I seemed to be more sure of myself, not questioning the thoughts that occurred to me. I had a sense of confidence in myself that I don’t have now. It was just pure inexperience.

But there’s something about that bombastic certainty that I wish I still possessed. I might have been wrong about some things but I was able to convince myself they were important. I was learning how to articulate my thoughts in a coherent fashion. In truth, I had no idea what I was doing and I didn’t even care. And as certain as I feel about what I’m experiencing now, maybe it’s just as invalid. As you can tell, the inside of my head is a battleground of ideas, with near constant warring factions.

It’s not so much that I want to escape, however. It’s more like I’m a prisoner in my own mind, despite possessing the keys to the cell. And for the brief moments that my thoughts relent, I finally feel whole again. But it’s getting to that place that is almost impossible. It doesn’t happen if I try force it. It unfurls naturally, and at the most random intervals. No one ever told me my biggest enemy would be my own mind. Nothing could’ve prepared me for that reality. It’s something you live.

As much as I feel alone in my plight, I acknowledge that my message might resonate with others. That they’re very possibly going through this stuff as well. That we all struggle to get out of our own way and be proactive. The question then shifts from when it’ll all end to one of this too shall pass. A phrase I repeated to myself over and over again during the past couple days. And what’s ironic is it did pass. I’m safely on the other side of an otherwise unpleasant experience. So why can’t I let it go?

Are you above a good PR stunt? How far are you willing to go to get someone to click on — and read — your article? Because I couldn’t be bothered. You see, I’ve had my fair share of flame wars, back-and-forth, controversy and the odd outright trashing of public figures to last me a life time. One could say I invite trouble at every turn, but that’s not necessarily true. I can be minding my own business and some altercation or another seems to manifest, ultimately finding me. Now, my detractors might couch it a different way, but that’s merely because they’ve got hatred coursing through their veins.

It’s probably a good thing I’m not on social media, either, because could you imagine the blowback an individual of my persuasion might encounter? You might see the pleasant side of me, but I can quite safely say that I do ruffle feathers with my presence alone, in certain contexts. Perhaps this creates mystery and a sense of intrigue, but for me it’s just another day in the life of a provocateur. Nothing and no one can prepare you for this stuff. You have to learn it on the fly. There are difficult people all around us, constantly trying to exert dominance over things that are out of their control.

We know these as the micromanagers, the people who want everything to fit cohesively into a neat little box. But life doesn’t work that way — it’s messy, traumatic at times, and even downright absurd. More than half of the events that unfold around us are chaotic and unplanned. And as for finding meaning in any of it, good luck. That’s more often than not a dead end. But we as human beings are hardwired to detect patterns in everything. In our arrogance we diarise dates that we expect to be cordoned off for particular meetings and appointments. But who knows if tomorrow will ever come?

As I always say, I’m allergic to clocks and calendars. They’ve done nothing but ramp up my anxieties and bouts of depression over the years. So I avoid them. I work instead with my circadian rhythm, and it determines whatever it is I’m capable of doing on any given day. I’m fortunate enough to not have to push through the unpleasantness of a set structure. I rest when my body tells me to, and pursue the things that are most important to me while the mood strikes. And while this might sound like a terribly privileged position to be in, sometimes it can be even more gruelling than a concrete schedule.

Here’s the thing. I like to be open to changes in my mood or natural inclinations. I believe creativity only happens when you stop pushing so hard and allow nature to take its course. This results in a loose collection of tasks I deem important getting completed when they’re ready to be tackled. The true artist can’t give you a solid ETA on a project — and anyone who can is just a sell out. It means they hold material wealth above all else, even to the detriment of their work. No one can blow through personal problems and get things done unless they’re a sociopath. And that’s what living under capitalist rule encourages in us.

I can’t for the life of me adhere to anyone else’s guardrails or water down my message to appease special interest groups. If someone is going to get offended they should. It takes an awful lot of work to be offended. You’ve got to go pretty far out of your way to actively choose to be shocked by the pejorative nature of a literary work or a piece of art. That’s why I don’t respect the nit-pickers. I prefer being able to have an open dialogue and robust debate any day, over the narrowly focused snowflake mentality. And this has nothing to do with hypersensitivity — I myself am that way.

What it otherwise involves is a desire to oust the transgressive. It’s an othering of the unknown. For how dull life would be if we were never surprised once in a while. I like to engage with work that challenges my core beliefs. I enjoy things being turned on their head, so I can look at them in a different way. But most people aren’t like that. We see it in the politically correct nature of the average man today. They fear turning this way or that, so not as to inadvertently offend. To me that is a life of utter sadness and desperation. I want to me moved. I want to always question my values.

I’ll admit, however, that my type is in the minority. We appear to be in a worldwide lull right now, a time where everyone is required to kowtow to those on top. To kiss the ring of the king, so to speak. And you thought we were done with the monarchy! No, we might have unofficially done away with such practices, but there are puppeteers pulling the strings as we speak. We know them as the elites. They influence wide swaths of the population with their causes and signals of virtue. And none of them are untainted. Every single one has skeletons in their closet, their main mission being to divert attention from them.

I say we air out the dirty laundry though. Take a fine tooth comb to their infractions and throw them back in their face. If they want to stand behind a bully pulpit and preach, let their past reflect cleanly. I’m not talking about social credit scores or socialism whose goal is communism. What I’m inferring is we take a whole different approach. Any man who considers his record unblemished is dishonest. We all falter. We all make mistakes. But we shouldn’t encourage bigotry. Doublespeak and duplicity parade around before our eyes and we’re told to disbelieve what we see. And the biggest problem is people go along with the folie à deux.

Yes, we’re all delusional in a sense. No, reality is not what it seems on its face. But we know what we saw, and to be told to ignore it and move along is too big an ask. None of us enjoy being hoodwinked, so why are we encouraged to do so to ourselves? Why do we put our trust in princes? It is said that we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and I have no problem with that. But our current leaders couldn’t hold a flame to he or Napoleon. And I will reason with intellectuals, because shooting them is just bad advice. What’s most bothersome is how detached some of them become from reality.

That’s why you’ve got to shock them back to life with a dose of realism. Get them out of their tendency toward abstract thought patterns and show them real suffering, up close. We can all sit in our citadels and hole ourselves off from the world. But what is more honourable is to get down alongside the masses and rub elbows with them. To learn the exotic ways of the foreign tribes. To expose ourselves to the things that broaden our perspectives and don’t limit our world view. There are far too many armchair commentators orating on the landscape as they see it. We need to live in the here and now instead.

I question the sexual proclivity of the grown man who reacts to the salacious claims of another person’s life. What they do in the bedroom is of course no concern of mine, but my larger point is that gossip mongers seal their fate with their own lips. To assassinate the character of others seems pedestrian in this day and age, even normalised. We’re living in a time where being reactionary is commonplace, and crafting anything from scratch is a novelty of the past. I’m more interested in those who tell their own stories, rather than borrowing a highlight reel of experiences from others.

But that is just not done anymore. It’s almost like people are afraid to be themselves, show authenticity, or even vulnerability. Of course you also get those who overshare as well, in which case we all know we didn’t need to hear certain aspects or intricacies of their lives. What I’m after can’t be bought. It’s balance, it’s having been raised right. Doing the right thing when no one else is looking — simply because it is just. Nobility might have depended on ones bloodline in the ancient times, but today it depends on something else entirely: our character. But and still, I take moral shortcuts myself, and I’m not ashamed to say it.

There’s a sense of honesty that prevails above all else. When we realise that the truth is universally relatable. And it’s not always easy to stick on the straight and narrow. In fact it’s harder than anything else we might endeavour to do in our lives. And that’s because there are so many side roads on offer now. Convenience oozes from the amorphous blob of capitalism. And everyone in sight wants to suckle of its saccharine nectar. But will you choose the easy way out? Or will you take the road less travelled? The one riddled with thorns and obstacles at every turn? As Ryan Holiday always says, the obstacle is the way.

We live in one of the most politically correct times in all of history, where you can get blackballed for merely saying the things that are on everyone else’s minds — things they’re too afraid to say out loud. And it’s not about manners or decorum, this is about our personal sovereignty that’s at stake. Freedom comes with consequences, yes, but I’ll always prefer dangerous ideas over safe art. I speak from experience too, because I’ve been sabotaged over the nature of my artwork. It gets into the wrong hands and your goose is cooked, you’re persona non grata, or my favourite, labelled problematic. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no martyr. I chose this life, and I’ll suffer for it with a smile.

That doesn’t change the fact that nothing that’s been thrown at me is fair or right. You see, when you ask questions you sometimes make people uncomfortable. When you hold the mirror up to society and its participants reflect back on it it’s nasty. That isn’t my fault though. I’m documenting what I’ve witnessed, and the picture just isn’t pretty. Could I instead live in a mentally constructed fantasy world and ignore the harsh, cruel realities of this human existence? Yes. But do I want to? Of course not. Because I owe it to myself and everyone else to capture the essence of the times. That’s the nature of what I do.

I get that fiction is a great escape, but even when I dabbled in it I found myself wanting to err on the side of realism. With a constant sense of nihilism lurking in the back of my mind I can’t help but feel like life however lacks meaning. And it’s in that meaninglessness that I find a peculiar comfort. It’s easy to say nothing is that deep, and everything is random. But what’s really difficult is assigning some hierarchy of importance to stuff when none of it seems to matter. You become apathetic over time and wonder why you should bother doing anything meaningful at all. We’re all dying, some of us quicker than others. And I know it sounds morbid, because it is. I just won’t lie.

There are those who grin in your face and knife you in the back. But that’s just human nature, right? I’d prefer if someone told me to my face whatever issue they have with me. Let’s have a dialogue, an open discussion, as opposed to getting passive aggressive. Some will say I’m on the wrong side of history, exploring transgressive ideas. And a small minority will commend me for it. But I don’t do it for praise or criticism — I do it to express myself. After all, if we can’t do that what’s the point? Quashing another person’s right to speak, write or draw is inherently fascistic. But so what? A little bit of fascism never harmed anyone, did it? Of course I’m being facetious, how could I not?

It wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t my lived experience, so I choose to take it as a lesson instead of putting myself on the cross. But right there I catch myself. It’s because it happened to me. You could call me neurotic or paranoid, and both would be accurate descriptions of my current state. I honestly think I value freedom more than anything else. We’ve given up our privacy to Silicon Valley and millions more will do so in future. And can you imagine if I was on social media? Cue the shadow ban, Johnny on the spot! What’s amusing is a great deal of this could be in my head. Pursuing invisible enemies. The othering of special interest groups. People out to destroy me.

I can’t get away from it. No matter how much I try run and hide trouble always seems to find me. And it’s probably because I refuse to acquiesce or kowtow to authority figures of any kind. They don’t like people like me. They want to rid the earth of my kind. If you can’t tell by now I’ve had a pretty awful day, and only now do I feel any of it lifting. But that’s because I’m comfortably seated behind my word processor and I can finally be myself. How far we’ve wandered from meaning when the thing that strikes fear in most hearts is a breach of the terms of service. And why can’t I just be like everybody else and follow the rules? What is it about me that is so insubordinate?

I refuse masters and gods all the time. I’ve never had to stomach an overbearing micromanager looming over my every move. So everything became that. Everywhere I looked people were out to get me. And I still struggle with these thoughts. They refuse to leave me in peace, especially at the most inopportune times. That’s how life works though, it has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down. The important thing to remember in this situation is we’re not alone, and it happens to all of us. Even the most well adjusted person lives with crippling doubts. They’re hardwired into us in the human interface. We can repeat all the affirmations in the world to ourselves but it never seems to stop.

Even though it feels like I’m spiralling, and I’m conscious of it, I can’t escape the descent. It’s like water circling the drain, it only goes one way: down. I’ve been through this before, though, where it feels like I’m walking in quicksand, and I know it’ll pass. But that doesn’t make it any less painful. And the only way I know how to soothe myself is to come to the page. But this specific piece is centred around something very disconcerting. To climb out of this nihilistic hole I’ve dug. But why even attempt escape if its engulfed me whole? It’s a part of me. It’s inside of me.

The only way it can leave is if I no longer exist. Unless of course it follows me beyond the grave to wherever it is we go. The afterlife seems less and less possible with the more knowledge I attain. I’ve educated myself with books I probably shouldn’t have read, and now I live with the consequences. Those same consequences I mentioned earlier, just wearing a different suit. There is no way I can fathom the point of existence when my depth of pain expands so widely. We’re being moulded into something more, by our very setbacks. It’s hard to accept the gift when its wrapping gives you every indication that it’s a curse. Why what’s beautiful is concealed in ugliness I’ll never know.

I tend to think the worst in most situations. I immediately assume the other shoe is going to drop when fortune favours me. Then, as time goes on, I notice situations are not all as bad as I thought they’d be. Take for instance this perception of my being blackballed for provocative work — it could be true, or it could be false. But my natural instincts give me no wiggle room to so much as consider that it’s all self-created. After all, maybe my work is not as pejorative as I suspect it is. Perhaps we need a jolt to our collective systems and I’m providing such a release. There must be value in what I’m doing, it just seems as if I disregard any positive feedback whatsoever, over and over and over again.

I home in on the needle in the haystack, determining its placement in milliseconds. Think of it this way: if every shred of hay is favourable feedback, the needle is the uncertainty. And I run with that. I’ve been questioning whether this bout of severe vigilance is merely a symptom of the mental illness I live with, or instead, a personality quirk that results in my not being able to get out of my own way. However, If I’m able to articulate it and possess insight, surely it shouldn’t continue? I get great advice from mental health professionals and fail to implement it. Then I proceed to stew in my problems, knowing full well there is an escape hatch in arms reach. Tortured artist aside, none of this feels intentional.

Then I get to thinking the blackball is deserved. It serves as a wrecking ball to my bouts of overconfidence. Swinging between shame and grandiosity is extreme, and my unpredictable moods tend to guide me in all the wrong directions. Soon I’m overcome with crippling uncertainty, and it begins to compound with every passing minute. Maybe I need to find my tribe. Perhaps there is someone out there who will help me connect the dots. Because surely there must be a way out of this solipsistic hellscape. But if anyone were to offer a hand I’d defiantly drown on my own terms. And you can’t really help someone who won’t help themselves. I should be used to the shadow bans and blackballing by now.

I can’t act complicit in my very own undoing, however. But I refuse to dial it down. We need hard hitting work that threatens the status quo — otherwise, what is the point of art? Hold back once and you begin to compromise more and more. It’s sad to see a person whitewash themselves. To scrub their undoing and hide it from view. To try and appear more virtuous than they are. Forward thinking, all about progress and freedom — all while they avoid the hard questions. But some folks don’t want to be challenged. They want complacency, and a neat little organised life. One where their boat is never rocked. I feel we need to be offended from time to time, as it’s a springboard to intellectual honesty.