The internet has created a space where we can be ourselves and yet I’m overwhelmed by how many of us don’t yet seem able to do this. There are so many of us whose posts seem to question (sometimes sub-contextually) whether we have the right to exist. So many of us want permission and advice but in choosing an online space to gain it instead of giving ourselves permission, it throws open the gates for those who want to tear down authenticity and who want to mislabel vulnerability and honesty as weakness. I’m mostly grateful that the algorithm sends me
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I began using ChatGPT about two weeks ago. One of my first questions for AI was about AI. I have mostly favoured directness and I wanted to see for myself how transparent the technology actually is… that said, it’s not like I have very much basis for comparison or reference. After my initial query, along the lines of ‘tell me more about AI’, it enquired about my stance. I’ll include images at the bottom of this post for transparency, but here’s my take on AI: Thoughts on AI I accept that it is in motion. I have fears about
An essay on perception, pressure, and personality Updated March 2026 “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” Anaïs Nin Part I ‘It’s like I don’t even know you,’ someone said. ‘You’re behaving like someone else,’ said someone else. These are also things I’ve said. It’s odd how, over time, it seemed like something threatening to become a universal truth: that we should remain unchanged, and change poses trouble. It conflicted with my held beliefs. What I’ve found to be truer is that it’s only one small facet within a spectrum
In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world, there is no love for you like mine. Maya Angelou I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights No
Despite the warning not to ‘judge a book by its cover’, I’d bet we’ve all been guilty of it more than a few times. A cover is a window of sorts into the book. It’s a test as to whether or not the book is worth our precious bookworm hours. Having passed that test though, there’s another favourite way to measure a potential new book: the opening lines. You know you’ve discovered a gem of a book when you open it and find yourself hooked in a single sentence. You want to continue reading. Immediately… but… mostly, it joins the
I found myself at The Edge again. It’s that place you find yourself after battling with something larger than life to the point of giving in, lying back, and thinking: Do your worst, fucker. The Edge has almost become an actual place for me. A low, seedy little dive bar in my mind (like my personal shack to Sherlock Holmes’ mind palace) that no-one, were it an Actual Place, would ever like to admit they’ve been to, whereas I’m a regular; I’m the one in the corner, replaying the same pitiful song on a battered, old jukebox, between knocking back
There are certainly more strong female characters in fiction now than ever before, but even with these changes, there is just as certainly, room for a wider and fairer portrayal of the world of women in media, and always cause for celebration of those which have stood out. The Damsel in Distress has thankfully, mostly, screamed her last plea for help, and we hear a lot about Kick-Ass Females in both book and movie culture but it seems to me that we often have a slightly different idea of what makes a woman ‘strong’. I love a fictional heroine who
Write. Be specific, stay real, let it be as raw as it is; that’s the point. That’s the point of writing about it. Where I cannot write about it, I ask why? If I cannot express it in art, what am I hiding from myself? Is there anything I’m hiding? Or is it only a constraint on time and headspace holding me back? The latter, for sure… And these days, when I say headspace, I mean that there are those who are insistent that writing about most things will self-incriminate. I disagree. It is liberating, not just for the self.
Excerpt from my current draft of Book Two in the Immisceo series (Includes spoilers.) They stole through the forest like shadows, breaking through the thicket as dawn broke in the sky. As they left the forest, Ardeo moved fast beneath them and Luciana allowed herself a fleeting moment of peace as a fierce breeze whipped against her face, enough to make her eyes water. Nate clutched her waist. The solid warmth of him at her back should have been comforting. Instead, it was a tightening noose around her neck. He was right. This mission was dangerous. As dangerous as
I was not digging around in the past. It was enough to know where something was buried, that there was something buried to begin with. The tangibility of it gave my pain acknowledgement and in having that, I was able to admit and address my issues without as much fear. I had to trust that between the time that thing was buried and the unearthing of it, I have grown enough so that the buried thing might quake in my shadow, might wither, and fade, so that I can finally have the light, so that it cannot choke the