Tag: Reading

What I learned about writing – I don’t want to retire – just yet!

Not Done Yet: Why I Won’t Put the Pen Down (Unless You Pry It Loose)

There are moments in life that hit you like a carefully aimed brick. The day you realise you’re paying full price for admission instead of the student rate. The first time a colleague suggests you mentor them because they “remember reading your work when they were in college.”

But nothing compares to the quiet horror of the Mirror Shock.

You wake up, perhaps a little stiffly, wander into the bathroom, and catch a truly unguarded reflection. And there it is: concrete evidence that the passage of time is not just an abstract concept discussed by philosophers—it’s etched onto your face. Suddenly, you realise old age hasn’t approached politely; it has just snuck up on you, giggling maniacally from the periphery.

And with that physical realisation comes the societal whisper, amplified by well-meaning friends and persistent internal voices: The notion of putting the pen away, hanging up the computer, finally taking a step back has come.

It’s time to retire.

And yet, for some of us, that suggestion feels less like liberation and more like an existential threat.

The Conflict: Passion vs. The Sabbatical Police

Retirement, in its classic definition, is a beautiful idea: the well-deserved pause. Years of hard work traded for limitless travel, afternoon naps, and the blissful freedom from deadlines.

For most folks, the idea of having their primary tool—a calculator, a hammer, a briefcase—confiscated sounds glorious.

But for those of us whose professional lives are intrinsically tied to creation, communication, and connectivity—the writers, the consultants, the artists, the lifelong learners—the pen and the keyboard aren’t just tools. They are conduits. They are how we process the world, how we contribute, and often, who we fundamentally are.

When the world suggests you stop doing the thing that makes you you, the reaction isn’t gratitude; it’s cognitive dissonance.

The mirror may be showing a few new wrinkles, but the internal drive—the wellspring of ideas, the need to connect dots, the urge to capture a thought before it vanishes—is still running at high speed. The engine hasn’t sputtered; it’s just settled into a low, rumbling idle.

The Heresy of the Hard Stop

The assumption that everyone must pivot from 100 mph to 0 mph on their 65th birthday is an outdated construct of a mid-20th-century economy. When work involved significant physical strain or rote, repetitive tasks, the need for a hard break was undeniable.

But in the creative, intellectual, and digital spheres, the opposite is often true. Our knowledge, our networks, and our insight are compounding assets that only increase with time.

Why, then, should we stop when we are finally reaching the peak of our observational powers?

If your professional life has been one long, passionate conversation with the world, cutting off the microphone simply because the calendar dictates it feels absurd. It’s like telling a seasoned musician to stop writing songs because their hair is greying.

For those of us who feel this way, the concept of retirement is not an ending; it’s a necessary (and perhaps slightly aggressive) re-negotiation.

My Mantra: Cold, Dead Hands and the Keyboard

If you are facing the societal pressure to step away, and feel an absolute, visceral refusal blooming in your chest, congratulations—you are likely one of the few who understands the true meaning of the rebellious mantra:

The computer/pen has to be confiscated out of my cold, dead hands.

This isn’t stubbornness; it’s the ultimate expression of professional identity. It’s the declaration that my purpose is not dependent on my age, but on my ability to contribute.

If you share this fierce dedication, the answer isn’t to quit. The answer is to adapt the way you work, without surrendering the work itself.

How to Defy Retirement Without Burning Out

If you’ve decided you’re not hanging up your boots, you need a strategy to prove that your value increases with age, proving that the Mirror Shock was an alarm clock, not a finish line.

1. Shift from Production to Curation

You don’t need to write five articles a week, but you can distil a lifetime of experience into one powerful annual essay or a keynote speech. Instead of being the primary producer, become the ultimate curator, mentor, and editor. Your job moves from generating volume to providing invaluable context.

2. Embrace the Scalpel, Ditch the Sledgehammer

Scale back without cutting off. If your schedule was fifty hours, trim it to twenty of the most impactful hours. Eliminate the administrative drudgery and focus solely on the projects that truly engage your intellect and creativity. Preserve your energy for the soul work.

3. Redefine “Success”

Success is no longer measured in promotions or quarterly earnings. It’s measured in impact, legacy, and genuine enjoyment. If a project stops being fun, drop it. Your experience has earned you the right to be highly selective.

4. The Laptop is the Travel Companion

One of the great promises of retirement is travel. Why separate the two? If your work is digital, your office is portable. The pen doesn’t need to be put away; it simply needs a passport. Continue writing, designing, or consulting from places that inspire you.

The Final Word

The sudden realisation of age is a profound moment. It forces you to confront mortality, but more importantly, it forces you to confront the passion that still burns within.

They say you spend your lifetime building a career so you can eventually stop. But for the dedicated writer, creator, or thinker, the career is the life. We don’t want to stop doing it; we just want the freedom to keep doing it better, smarter, and with fewer corporate meetings.

I’ve looked in the mirror, acknowledged the lines, and heard the societal call to step aside. But the pen is still in my hand, the laptop is still charged, and there are far too many thoughts left unwritten.

Tell the Sabbatical Police they’ll need to bring heavy equipment. Because until the very end, this keyboard is mine.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 170

Day 170 – Cliches and being descriptive

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Beyond the Overused: How to Breathe New Life into Your Descriptive Writing

We’ve all been there. You’re deep into a draft, the prose is flowing, and suddenly, your brain hits a wall. You need a phrase to describe something permanent, a moment of hesitation, or a sense of spotless purity.

Your fingers type out: carved in stone, test the water, pure as the driven snow.

Stop. Take your hands off the keyboard.

Clichés are the comfort food of writing—easy to digest, familiar, and everywhere. But they are also the fastest way to turn your reader’s brain to static. When we use a cliché, we aren’t describing a specific vision; we’re using a shorthand that has lost all its impact through sheer repetition.

If you want your writing to stand out, you have to do the hard work of observation. Here is how to swap those tired metaphors for something that actually sticks.

1. Ditch “Carved in Stone” (Focus on the Stakes)

Instead of telling us a decision is permanent, show us the weight of it.

  • The Problem: “Our agreement was carved in stone.”
  • The Fix: Focus on the consequence. “The contract sat on the desk, a heavy, irreversible anchor that would drag us into the next decade.” or “We had burnt the bridge; there was no walking back to the shore we’d left.”

2. Swap “Test the Water” (Focus on the Sensation)

“Testing the water” is a passive, vague way to describe hesitation. Get specific about the anxiety or the risk involved.

  • The Problem: “Before committing, he wanted to test the water.”
  • The Fix: Focus on the physical feeling of uncertainty. “He circled the perimeter of the room, gauging the temperature of the conversation before offering his own.” or “He stood at the edge of the decision, toeing the line, waiting for the first sign of cracking ice.”

3. Retire “Pure as the Driven Snow” (Focus on the Texture)

Clichés about purity are often lazy because they rely on abstraction. Instead, describe the quality of the image using sensory details.

  • The Problem: “She was as pure as the driven snow.”
  • The Fix: Think about how the object is clean. Is it sterile? Bright? Unblemished? “Her conscience was a blank, uninked page.” or “The kitchen was so immaculate it felt surgical; even the dust seemed afraid to settle there.”

The “Senses & Specificity” Strategy

If you find yourself reaching for a cliché, ask yourself these three questions:

  1. What does it look like? Don’t just say a room is “as quiet as a mouse.” Describe the sound of the quiet—is it a heavy silence, a buzzing, vibrating silence, or a thin, sharp silence?
  2. What is the stakes-based emotion? If someone is “cool as a cucumber,” why are they cool? Is it because they are practised, dismissive, or genuinely detached? Use a verb that describes that specific emotion.
  3. Can I use a “wrong” metaphor? Sometimes, the best way to avoid a cliché is to pair two things that don’t usually go together. Instead of “hard as a rock,” maybe it’s “as stubborn as a rusted bolt” or “as impenetrable as a vault of secrets.”

The Golden Rule: The First Choice is Almost Always the Worst Choice

When your brain offers you a cliché, acknowledge it, throw it in the trash, and force yourself to write three alternatives. They don’t even have to be good ones—just different ones. In that process of straining for a new image, you’ll eventually stumble upon something that feels fresh, sharp, and uniquely yours.

Your readers don’t want the same old metaphors they’ve heard a thousand times. Give them something they can see, hear, and feel for the very first time.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 170

Day 170 – Cliches and being descriptive

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Beyond the Overused: How to Breathe New Life into Your Descriptive Writing

We’ve all been there. You’re deep into a draft, the prose is flowing, and suddenly, your brain hits a wall. You need a phrase to describe something permanent, a moment of hesitation, or a sense of spotless purity.

Your fingers type out: carved in stone, test the water, pure as the driven snow.

Stop. Take your hands off the keyboard.

Clichés are the comfort food of writing—easy to digest, familiar, and everywhere. But they are also the fastest way to turn your reader’s brain to static. When we use a cliché, we aren’t describing a specific vision; we’re using a shorthand that has lost all its impact through sheer repetition.

If you want your writing to stand out, you have to do the hard work of observation. Here is how to swap those tired metaphors for something that actually sticks.

1. Ditch “Carved in Stone” (Focus on the Stakes)

Instead of telling us a decision is permanent, show us the weight of it.

  • The Problem: “Our agreement was carved in stone.”
  • The Fix: Focus on the consequence. “The contract sat on the desk, a heavy, irreversible anchor that would drag us into the next decade.” or “We had burnt the bridge; there was no walking back to the shore we’d left.”

2. Swap “Test the Water” (Focus on the Sensation)

“Testing the water” is a passive, vague way to describe hesitation. Get specific about the anxiety or the risk involved.

  • The Problem: “Before committing, he wanted to test the water.”
  • The Fix: Focus on the physical feeling of uncertainty. “He circled the perimeter of the room, gauging the temperature of the conversation before offering his own.” or “He stood at the edge of the decision, toeing the line, waiting for the first sign of cracking ice.”

3. Retire “Pure as the Driven Snow” (Focus on the Texture)

Clichés about purity are often lazy because they rely on abstraction. Instead, describe the quality of the image using sensory details.

  • The Problem: “She was as pure as the driven snow.”
  • The Fix: Think about how the object is clean. Is it sterile? Bright? Unblemished? “Her conscience was a blank, uninked page.” or “The kitchen was so immaculate it felt surgical; even the dust seemed afraid to settle there.”

The “Senses & Specificity” Strategy

If you find yourself reaching for a cliché, ask yourself these three questions:

  1. What does it look like? Don’t just say a room is “as quiet as a mouse.” Describe the sound of the quiet—is it a heavy silence, a buzzing, vibrating silence, or a thin, sharp silence?
  2. What is the stakes-based emotion? If someone is “cool as a cucumber,” why are they cool? Is it because they are practised, dismissive, or genuinely detached? Use a verb that describes that specific emotion.
  3. Can I use a “wrong” metaphor? Sometimes, the best way to avoid a cliché is to pair two things that don’t usually go together. Instead of “hard as a rock,” maybe it’s “as stubborn as a rusted bolt” or “as impenetrable as a vault of secrets.”

The Golden Rule: The First Choice is Almost Always the Worst Choice

When your brain offers you a cliché, acknowledge it, throw it in the trash, and force yourself to write three alternatives. They don’t even have to be good ones—just different ones. In that process of straining for a new image, you’ll eventually stumble upon something that feels fresh, sharp, and uniquely yours.

Your readers don’t want the same old metaphors they’ve heard a thousand times. Give them something they can see, hear, and feel for the very first time.

…

What I learned about writing – The call of the weird…

The Call of the Weird: When an Oddball Writing Offer Knocks

As professional writers, we tend to operate within established lanes. Maybe you dominate B2B white papers, or you’re the wizard of lifestyle blogs, or perhaps your niche is technical documentation for the aerospace industry.

Then, one day, it happens.

The email arrives that makes your eyebrow twitch. It’s an offer to write something completely outside your experience—a script for a puppet show about quantum physics, a historical fiction piece told entirely from the perspective of moss, or maybe the manifesto for a highly niche, possibly fictitious, startup focused on sustainable moon mining.

This is the Oddball Offer. It’s wildly different, maybe a little intimidating, and possibly way “out there.”

The critical question immediately surfaces: What do you do? Do you politely decline and stick to what you know, or do you take the leap into the creative unknown?

Before you hit ‘archive’ or ‘accept,’ here is your professional roadmap for assessing and navigating those delightfully bizarre writing briefs.

1. Defining “Oddball”: The Initial Assessment

The first step is to categorize the offer. Not all unusual requests are equal.

A. The Niche Stretch

This type of offer is bizarre in subject matter but standard in format. (Example: Writing case studies about specialized farming equipment.) This is usually a safe bet. You apply your existing writing skill set to new content.

B. The Format Fluke

This is an offer that requires a totally new skill or output. (Example: You’re a blogger, and they want you to write a 12-act stage play.) This requires significant new learning and a pricing adjustment.

C. The Truly Out There (The “What Is This?”)

This is the offer that carries a real whiff of the bizarre, potentially involving questionable ethics, unknown legal territory, or simply a concept that seems too fringe to be real.

When you receive the email, strip away the novelty and ask yourself three key questions:

  1. Is the client legitimate? (Look up their company. Does it exist? Do they have a clear mission, even if that mission is strange?)
  2. Is the request morally or legally sound? (If the material is hateful, deceitful, or involves breaking laws, the answer is an immediate, firm “no.”)
  3. Does it require a time commitment I can afford to risk? (If it’s a massive project, the risk is higher.)

2. Addressing the Elephant: Is the Client Just Fishing for Ideas?

This is the most common fear when dealing with vague or highly creative briefs: the client wants free brainstorming, hoping you’ll deliver the “Aha!” concept they can then execute in-house or give to a cheaper writer.

If the client is vague, overly enthusiastic about “vision,” and hesitant to talk budget or milestones, this risk is high.

Strategy 1: Institute a Paid Discovery Phase

Never, under any circumstance, provide detailed concepts, outlines, or proprietary strategies for free. If the project requires heavy ideation, frame the initial engagement as a Paid Discovery Phase.

This might look like a single, fixed-rate consultation that includes:

  • A 60-minute strategy call.
  • One brief, non-transferable conceptual outline (200 words max).
  • A formal pricing structure for the full project.

If they won’t pay for the idea stage, they were almost certainly just fishing. If they balk, you’ve saved yourself hours of unpaid labour.

Strategy 2: Get an NDA Signed Immediately

If the project involves genuinely novel or proprietary concepts, protect yourself. Request a simple, standard Non-Disclosure Agreement (NDA) before you start sharing specific ideas on execution.

A serious client with a serious idea will not hesitate to sign an NDA. A client wary of intellectual property protection is likely trying to gather free resources.

3. The Professional Reckoning: Weighing the Risk vs. Reward

Assuming the offer is legitimate and you have protective measures in place, the decision comes down to the upside.

The Arguments FOR Taking the Oddball Offer

1. Portfolio Differentiation

This is perhaps the biggest win. A truly unique project provides “secret sauce” for your portfolio. If you’re trying to pivot or stand out from a crowded market, having a sample that no one else has—like a successful, funded Kickstarter campaign narrative for a wearable tech startup that monitors pigeon health—will get attention.

2. Higher Rates

Weird work often commands premium rates. Clients who need highly specialised or conceptual work know they can’t get it from a generalist. Their need is high, and your unusual ability to step up is valuable. Price the novelty, the complexity, and the risk appropriately.

3. Creative Expansion

Getting outside your comfort zone is good for your professional brain. It breaks up routine and prevents burnout. If you feel stale writing the same three types of articles, tackling the manifesto for a collective of subterranean mycologists might be the recharge you need.

The Arguments AGAINST Taking the Oddball Offer

1. Scope Creep and Ambiguity

Oddball projects, by their nature, lack standard precedents. The client may not know what they want, leading to endless revisions and a constantly shifting goalpost (Scope Creep). Before accepting, demand an ironclad Scope of Work (SOW) that clearly defines the deliverables, rounds of revision, and what “success” looks like.

2. Reputation Risk

If the project is deeply unconventional or touches on controversial elements (even if legitimate), consider if it could negatively impact your appeal to your core client base. If you primarily write for reputable financial institutions, perhaps writing the text for a speculative cryptocurrency art project might need careful consideration.

3. The Time Sink

Unique projects often require disproportionate research time. You may need to learn a new lexicon, a new industry, or a new format from scratch. Factor this extra research time into your pricing model.

4. Securing the Deal: Practical Steps for Proceeding

If you decide the reward outweighs the risk, proceed professionally and firmly:

  1. Define the SOW (Again, and in Detail): List exactly what you are writing (e.g., “5 blog posts, 800 words each, 2 rounds of revisions”). State what you are not doing (e.g., “Not responsible for graphic design or legal compliance review”).
  2. Demand a Deposit: For unique or speculative projects, a 50% upfront deposit is standard and non-negotiable. This protects you against the client disappearing after the first conceptual submission.
  3. Set Clear Boundaries: Communicate your communication style and availability clearly. Because the project is already unusual, managing expectations on process is vital.
  4. Embrace the Learning: Treat the research and concept generation as professional development. Even if the project fails, the knowledge you gain (e.g., how to format a technical comic book script) is now part of your toolkit.

Conclusion: Strategic Risk-Taking is the Writer’s Edge

The oddball offer is often not a distraction; it’s a test. It asks if you are adaptable, creatively courageous, and professional enough to manage complexity.

Don’t dismiss the weird simply because it’s unfamiliar. Instead, screen rigorously, protect your intellectual property fiercely, and if the client and concept pass the professional sniff test, take the leap.

Stepping way ‘out there’ is sometimes the only way to find your next, most lucrative, and most fascinating niche. Happy writing!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 169

Day 169 – Every character should want something

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The Simple Secret to Compelling Fiction: Give Your Characters a Glass of Water

In the world of creative writing, there is a tendency to mistake “complexity” for “grandeur.” We feel that to write a compelling story, our protagonists must be saving the galaxy, solving a decade-old murder, or undergoing a sprawling, life-altering metamorphosis.

But the late, great Kurt Vonnegut offered a piece of advice that serves as a necessary reality check for every writer, from the novice to the novelist:

“Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.”

It’s a deceptively simple rule, but it cuts to the very heart of human motivation and narrative drive. Here is why this principle is the backbone of any story worth reading.

Desire is the Engine of Story

Think about your own life. You are never truly “at rest.” Even when you are sitting on the couch, you are likely wanting something—a snack, to check your phone, to be done with work, to feel relaxed, or to be somewhere else.

If a character has no desire, they have no movement. If they have no movement, they have no agency. Without agency, the story becomes a series of things that happen to a person, rather than a sequence of choices made by a person.

Desire is the engine. Whether the goal is to conquer a kingdom or simply to reach the kitchen for a glass of water, the desire creates a trajectory.

Scale Doesn’t Equal Stakes

Vonnegut’s specific mention of “a glass of water” is brilliant because it reminds us that the scale of the goal matters less than the intensity of the need.

If a character is trapped in a desert, that glass of water is a matter of life and death. If a character is in a tense, uncomfortable social situation and needs a glass of water just to escape the conversation and compose themselves, it is a matter of psychological survival.

The reader doesn’t need the world to be ending to care about the outcome. They need to believe that the character needs what they are chasing. If the character wants it, we start to want it for them.

Defining Your Characters Through Want

What a character wants tells us everything we need to know about who they are.

  • A character who wants a promotion tells us they are ambitious.
  • A character who wants to be left alone tells us they are guarded.
  • A character who wants a glass of water in the middle of a heated argument tells us they are looking for a way to regain control or avoid confrontation.

By defining these wants, you move away from static, cardboard descriptions and toward dynamic characterisation. You show the reader their soul through their actions.

The “Glass of Water” Test

The next time you are stuck in a scene and feel the momentum stalling, ask yourself: What does my character want right now?

If your character is just standing around, waiting for the plot to happen, you need to give them a “glass of water.” Maybe they need to find their lost keys. Maybe they need to keep a secret from being revealed. Maybe they just need to say something they’ve been holding inside for years.

Once your character has a goal—no matter how small—they have a reason to move. And once they move, the reader will inevitably follow.

The Takeaway: Great fiction doesn’t always require epic quests or world-shattering stakes. It requires a human being who is striving for something. Give your characters a goal, give them an obstacle, and watch as your story begins to breathe on its own.

What is your character reaching for today? Even if it’s just a glass of water, make sure they’re thirsty.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 169

Day 169 – Every character should want something

…

The Simple Secret to Compelling Fiction: Give Your Characters a Glass of Water

In the world of creative writing, there is a tendency to mistake “complexity” for “grandeur.” We feel that to write a compelling story, our protagonists must be saving the galaxy, solving a decade-old murder, or undergoing a sprawling, life-altering metamorphosis.

But the late, great Kurt Vonnegut offered a piece of advice that serves as a necessary reality check for every writer, from the novice to the novelist:

“Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.”

It’s a deceptively simple rule, but it cuts to the very heart of human motivation and narrative drive. Here is why this principle is the backbone of any story worth reading.

Desire is the Engine of Story

Think about your own life. You are never truly “at rest.” Even when you are sitting on the couch, you are likely wanting something—a snack, to check your phone, to be done with work, to feel relaxed, or to be somewhere else.

If a character has no desire, they have no movement. If they have no movement, they have no agency. Without agency, the story becomes a series of things that happen to a person, rather than a sequence of choices made by a person.

Desire is the engine. Whether the goal is to conquer a kingdom or simply to reach the kitchen for a glass of water, the desire creates a trajectory.

Scale Doesn’t Equal Stakes

Vonnegut’s specific mention of “a glass of water” is brilliant because it reminds us that the scale of the goal matters less than the intensity of the need.

If a character is trapped in a desert, that glass of water is a matter of life and death. If a character is in a tense, uncomfortable social situation and needs a glass of water just to escape the conversation and compose themselves, it is a matter of psychological survival.

The reader doesn’t need the world to be ending to care about the outcome. They need to believe that the character needs what they are chasing. If the character wants it, we start to want it for them.

Defining Your Characters Through Want

What a character wants tells us everything we need to know about who they are.

  • A character who wants a promotion tells us they are ambitious.
  • A character who wants to be left alone tells us they are guarded.
  • A character who wants a glass of water in the middle of a heated argument tells us they are looking for a way to regain control or avoid confrontation.

By defining these wants, you move away from static, cardboard descriptions and toward dynamic characterisation. You show the reader their soul through their actions.

The “Glass of Water” Test

The next time you are stuck in a scene and feel the momentum stalling, ask yourself: What does my character want right now?

If your character is just standing around, waiting for the plot to happen, you need to give them a “glass of water.” Maybe they need to find their lost keys. Maybe they need to keep a secret from being revealed. Maybe they just need to say something they’ve been holding inside for years.

Once your character has a goal—no matter how small—they have a reason to move. And once they move, the reader will inevitably follow.

The Takeaway: Great fiction doesn’t always require epic quests or world-shattering stakes. It requires a human being who is striving for something. Give your characters a goal, give them an obstacle, and watch as your story begins to breathe on its own.

What is your character reaching for today? Even if it’s just a glass of water, make sure they’re thirsty.

…

What I learned about writing – Writing a novel is not a sprint but a marathon

Navigating the Darkness: Sprinting Through Your Marathon Novel

E.L. Doctorow, a titan of American literature, once famously described the writing process as akin to “driving a car at night – you can only see as far as the headlight go.” This beautifully encapsulates the inherent uncertainty, the step-by-step progression, and the reliance on instinct that comes with crafting a narrative.

Then there’s the other, equally valid, piece of advice: writing a book isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. This speaks to the endurance, the discipline, and the long-haul commitment required to bring a sprawling story from conception to completion.

On the surface, these two nuggets of wisdom feel contradictory. How can you sprint through a marathon? How can you navigate the darkness with pinpoint precision if you’re also settling in for a long, gruelling race?

The truth is, they aren’t contradictions at all. They are two essential facets of successful authorship, and the key to achieving the best of both worlds lies in understanding how they can and should work together.

Embrace the Headlight: The Power of the Present

Doctorow’s metaphor is a powerful reminder to ground ourselves in the immediate. When you’re staring at a blank page or a daunting plot point, the sheer magnitude of the “marathon” can be paralysing. This is where the headlight comes in.

  • Focus on the Next Scene: Don’t worry about how you’re going to end the book. Just focus on writing the next scene, the next chapter, the next conversation. What needs to happen right now to move the story forward?
  • Trust Your Intuition: The headlight illuminates the path immediately ahead. This is where your creative impulse, your gut feeling about character motivation, or your instinct for dialogue takes over. Allow yourself to explore without needing to see the entire roadmap.
  • Embrace the Unknown: Sometimes, the best stories emerge from the unexpected detours revealed by the headlight. Don’t be afraid to go where the light takes you, even if it wasn’t part of your original plan. This is how discovery happens.

Pace Yourself for the Long Haul: The Marathon Mindset

While the headlight keeps you moving forward, the marathon mindset provides the structure and resilience to keep going. Without it, you’ll burn out before you even hit the halfway point.

  • Establish a Routine: Whether it’s a daily word count, a dedicated writing time, or a weekly goal, consistency is your marathon fuel. It’s about showing up, even when the inspiration feels dim.
  • Break Down the Giant Task: The marathon is made up of many miles. Similarly, your book is made up of chapters, plot arcs, and character development. Break down the larger goal into smaller, manageable chunks. This makes the journey less daunting.
  • Cultivate Patience and Persistence: There will be days, weeks, even months where the writing feels like wading through molasses. This is normal. Understanding that this is part of the marathon allows you to persevere through the tough patches without losing sight of the finish line.
  • The Long Game of Revision: The marathon isn’t over when you type “The End.” The real work of refining, shaping, and polishing is a crucial part of the longer journey. Trust that the initial draft, guided by the headlight, will be the raw material for a more polished creation.

Achieving the Best of Both Worlds: The Dynamic Duo

The magic happens when you stop seeing these as opposing forces and start integrating them.

  1. Start with the Headlight, Build with the Marathon: Begin by focusing on the immediate scene, letting your creativity flow. As you complete sections, start to see the broader strokes, the emerging patterns that define your marathon.
  2. Use the Marathon Structure to Guide the Headlight: Have a general outline or a compelling premise? This “marathon vision” can act as your distant parklights, giving direction to your immediate headlight-led explorations.
  3. Allow for Detours, But Keep Moving: The headlight might reveal an exciting side road, but the marathon’s awareness of the destination ensures you don’t get lost indefinitely. You can explore, but always with a sense of returning to the main path.
  4. Celebrate Small Victories (Headlight Moments) on the Long Journey (Marathon): Finishing a chapter is a milestone in the marathon. A particularly brilliant piece of dialogue is a shining moment in the headlight’s beam. Acknowledge and appreciate both.

In essence, writing a book is about learning to be both a navigator of the immediate journey and a seasoned long-distance runner. You need the courage to step into the darkness, guided by the light you have, and the wisdom to understand that this is a race that requires stamina, strategy, and unwavering dedication. By embracing the power of the present while respecting the demands of the long haul, you can indeed achieve the best of both worlds, and bring your story magnificently to life.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 168

Day 168 – Facing that rejection slip

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The Art of Being Told “No”: Lessons from Rudyard Kipling

In the world of professional writing, rejection isn’t just a possibility—it’s a rite of passage.

Every writer knows the sting of the form letter. But occasionally, a rejection arrives that is so spectacularly wrong, so jarringly dismissive, that it drifts into the realm of legend.

Perhaps the most famous example involves Rudyard Kipling. Before he became the Nobel Prize-winning author of The Jungle Book, Kipling was a young journalist struggling to break into the literary scene. He submitted his work to the San Francisco Examiner, only to receive a rejection letter that read:

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kipling, but you just don’t know how to use the English language.”

If you’ve ever had your pitch ignored, your manuscript shredded by an editor, or your creative spark doused by a cold professional “no,” take a moment to sit with that quote. One of the greatest masters of the English language was told, in black and white, that he lacked the fundamental skills to use it.

So, how do you handle rejection when it feels like a total erasure of your talent? How do you keep going when the gatekeepers tell you that you don’t belong?

1. Separate “The Work” from “The Worth”

The editor at the San Francisco Examiner wasn’t critiquing Kipling’s soul; they were critiquing a piece of paper, filtered through their own subjective taste, bias, and likely a bad mood.

When you get a rejection, the immediate psychological reflex is to internalise it as a verdict on your identity. Don’t. A rejection is data, not a definition. It tells you that this specific piece of work did not fit this specific person’s expectations at this specific time. It is a localised event, not a reflection of your inherent value as a creator.

2. Recognise the “Gatekeeper’s Blind Spot”

History is littered with the corpses of “expert” opinions. J.K. Rowling was rejected by a dozen publishers who thought Harry Potter wouldn’t sell. Stephen King’s Carrie was rejected 30 times.

Sometimes, what looks like a lack of skill is actually just a voice that hasn’t been categorised yet. Kipling’s style was bold, rhythmic, and unconventional. The editor who rejected him didn’t see “genius”—they saw a deviation from the norm they were comfortable with. Often, you are rejected because you are doing something new, and “new” is hard for people to recognise at first.

3. Use Rejection as a Refinement Tool (but stay selective)

Kipling didn’t stop writing. He didn’t take that editor’s advice to “learn how to use the language.” Instead, he kept writing in his unique, unmistakable voice.

There is a difference between constructive criticism and malicious dismissal. If 20 people tell you your plot is confusing, you might have a clarity issue. If one person tells you you “don’t know how to use the language” while you are actively crafting award-winning prose, you ignore them. Learn to discern between feedback that helps you grow and feedback that simply isn’t for you.

4. Let Your Success Be the Longest Game

There is a profound, quiet satisfaction in proving the naysayers wrong—not by screaming at them, but by moving forward until your work is so loud they can no longer ignore it.

Kipling didn’t need to write a scathing response to the Examiner. He didn’t need to post a “revenge” tweet. He just wrote Kim. He wrote If—. He wrote The Man Who Would Be King. He built a legacy that made that editor’s rejection letter look like a footnote in a history book.

The Takeaway

If you are currently staring at a rejection letter, take a breath. Know that you are in the best possible company. You are standing alongside Hemingway, Woolf, Dickens, and Kipling.

The rejection isn’t a wall; it’s a hurdle. It’s the universe’s way of asking, “How badly do you want this?”

Don’t let a stranger’s bad taste dictate your creative future. Pick up your pen, refine your craft, and keep going. After all, the best way to deal with the person who says you don’t know the language is to write something they’ll be forced to read for the rest of their lives.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 168

Day 168 – Facing that rejection slip

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The Art of Being Told “No”: Lessons from Rudyard Kipling

In the world of professional writing, rejection isn’t just a possibility—it’s a rite of passage.

Every writer knows the sting of the form letter. But occasionally, a rejection arrives that is so spectacularly wrong, so jarringly dismissive, that it drifts into the realm of legend.

Perhaps the most famous example involves Rudyard Kipling. Before he became the Nobel Prize-winning author of The Jungle Book, Kipling was a young journalist struggling to break into the literary scene. He submitted his work to the San Francisco Examiner, only to receive a rejection letter that read:

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kipling, but you just don’t know how to use the English language.”

If you’ve ever had your pitch ignored, your manuscript shredded by an editor, or your creative spark doused by a cold professional “no,” take a moment to sit with that quote. One of the greatest masters of the English language was told, in black and white, that he lacked the fundamental skills to use it.

So, how do you handle rejection when it feels like a total erasure of your talent? How do you keep going when the gatekeepers tell you that you don’t belong?

1. Separate “The Work” from “The Worth”

The editor at the San Francisco Examiner wasn’t critiquing Kipling’s soul; they were critiquing a piece of paper, filtered through their own subjective taste, bias, and likely a bad mood.

When you get a rejection, the immediate psychological reflex is to internalise it as a verdict on your identity. Don’t. A rejection is data, not a definition. It tells you that this specific piece of work did not fit this specific person’s expectations at this specific time. It is a localised event, not a reflection of your inherent value as a creator.

2. Recognise the “Gatekeeper’s Blind Spot”

History is littered with the corpses of “expert” opinions. J.K. Rowling was rejected by a dozen publishers who thought Harry Potter wouldn’t sell. Stephen King’s Carrie was rejected 30 times.

Sometimes, what looks like a lack of skill is actually just a voice that hasn’t been categorised yet. Kipling’s style was bold, rhythmic, and unconventional. The editor who rejected him didn’t see “genius”—they saw a deviation from the norm they were comfortable with. Often, you are rejected because you are doing something new, and “new” is hard for people to recognise at first.

3. Use Rejection as a Refinement Tool (but stay selective)

Kipling didn’t stop writing. He didn’t take that editor’s advice to “learn how to use the language.” Instead, he kept writing in his unique, unmistakable voice.

There is a difference between constructive criticism and malicious dismissal. If 20 people tell you your plot is confusing, you might have a clarity issue. If one person tells you you “don’t know how to use the language” while you are actively crafting award-winning prose, you ignore them. Learn to discern between feedback that helps you grow and feedback that simply isn’t for you.

4. Let Your Success Be the Longest Game

There is a profound, quiet satisfaction in proving the naysayers wrong—not by screaming at them, but by moving forward until your work is so loud they can no longer ignore it.

Kipling didn’t need to write a scathing response to the Examiner. He didn’t need to post a “revenge” tweet. He just wrote Kim. He wrote If—. He wrote The Man Who Would Be King. He built a legacy that made that editor’s rejection letter look like a footnote in a history book.

The Takeaway

If you are currently staring at a rejection letter, take a breath. Know that you are in the best possible company. You are standing alongside Hemingway, Woolf, Dickens, and Kipling.

The rejection isn’t a wall; it’s a hurdle. It’s the universe’s way of asking, “How badly do you want this?”

Don’t let a stranger’s bad taste dictate your creative future. Pick up your pen, refine your craft, and keep going. After all, the best way to deal with the person who says you don’t know the language is to write something they’ll be forced to read for the rest of their lives.

…

What I learned about writing – Should I use a pseudonym

Beyond the Secret Agent: 7 Strategic Reasons to Use a Pseudonym

For centuries, the pseudonym—or nom de plume—has occupied a curious space between secrecy and strategy. We often associate pen names with historical figures hiding from censure, or writers protecting their reputation while exploring controversial themes.

But the role of the adopted name in the modern creative world is far more complex than simple disguise. Whether you are a writer, an artist, a musician, or a content creator, a pseudonym can be one of the most powerful strategic tools in your professional arsenal.

If you’ve ever considered stepping out from behind your birth name, here are seven compelling reasons why embracing a strategic alter ego might be the right move for your career.

1. Safety, Security, and Professional Separation

This is often the most critical and practical reason. If your creative work involves sensitive topics, controversial political commentary, or highly personal memoirs that might expose others, a pseudonym is an essential shield.

Practical Applications:

  • Protecting Your Day Job: If your employer (especially in fields like education, medicine, or government) might disapprove of your side hustle—say, writing steamy romance or true crime—a pseudonym provides necessary separation.
  • Personal Privacy: Limiting the access strangers have to your private life, family history, and home address is crucial in the digital age, especially when dealing with online criticism or harassment.
  • Sensitive Content: When tackling subjects that invite extreme reactions (politics, social justice, whistleblowing), a pen name allows the message to be heard without putting the messenger at personal risk.

2. Establishing a Clear Genre Brand

Imagine an author named Beatrice Bell. Beatrice writes heartwarming children’s books and, under her birth name, publishes historical non-fiction about the French Revolution. This creates a massive problem for readers and marketers.

Readers of historical non-fiction are unlikely to pick up a book advertised next to a picture of a cuddly bunny, and vice versa.

A pseudonym allows you to compartmentalise your audience. Many prolific authors use multiple names to dominate separate niches:

  • Name A: For literary fiction.
  • Name B: For fast-paced thrillers.
  • Name C: For specialised technical guides.

This ensures your marketing efforts are targeted and your readers know exactly what to expect when they pick up your book.

3. Escaping Bias and Preconception

Historically, women often adopted male pseudonyms (like George Eliot or George Sand) to ensure their work was taken seriously in a male-dominated literary establishment. While the landscape has shifted, bias remains.

A strategically chosen pseudonym can help the work stand on its own merits, regardless of the creator’s background:

  • Gender Neutrality: Using initials (J.K. Rowling, P.D. James) or an androgynous name can allow a writer to appeal to the widest possible audience, particularly in genres where gender bias persists (like military sci-fi or hardboiled crime).
  • Combating Ageism: For creators who are very young or very old, a pseudonym can neutralise preconceptions about their experience level.
  • Neutralising Geographic Bias: If your real name suggests a specific cultural background that might pigeonhole your work in certain markets, a neutral name can broaden your appeal.

4. Addressing a Difficult or Common Name

A good pseudonym is memorable, easy to pronounce, and unique. If your birth name poses a challenge, a pen name can simplify your entire career:

  • Too Hard to Spell/Pronounce: If readers struggle to pronounce your name, they won’t remember or recommend it easily. Creating a simpler, phonetically clean name is smart branding.
  • Too Common: Being “John Smith” in a crowded marketplace can make it impossible for readers or search engines to find your specific work. A unique pseudonym makes you discoverable.
  • Inappropriate Connotations: Sometimes a name simply doesn’t fit the brand. If you write dark, gothic fantasy, a name like “Sunny Meadows” sends the wrong signal.

5. Starting Fresh After a Misstep

The internet doesn’t forget. If you launched a creative endeavour that didn’t go well, received significant critical backlash, or involved content you no longer stand by, moving forward under a new name provides a clean slate.

A fresh identity allows you to:

  • Separate from Past Failures: Shed the baggage of a debut novel that flopped or a previous artistic identity that didn’t resonate.
  • Signal a Major Change: If you are transitioning from one highly specific field to an entirely different one (e.g., from journalism to poetry), a new name signals to the market that this is a distinct, new phase of your career.

6. Managing Prolific Output (The Publishing Powerhouse)

Certain genres, particularly romance, thrillers, and highly niche non-fiction, require writers to publish multiple works per year to maintain engagement.

A single author can only release so many books before they flood the market and confuse retailers. Publishing under multiple pseudonyms allows the author to maintain high productivity without undermining their own sales.

This strategy is often employed by ghostwriters or writers working under specific contractual obligations who need to publish more than their primary contract allows.

7. Creating an Intentional Persona or Mythology

The pseudonym isn’t always about hiding; sometimes, it’s about performing.

Authors like Lemony Snicket (Daniel Handler) or street artists like Banksy don’t just use a name; they use a persona that adds texture and intrigue to their work.

  • Enhanced Mysteriousness: An intentionally obscure or unusual name can generate interest and fuel discussion around the identity of the creator.
  • Building a Character: The pen name acts as a character in itself—a brand ambassador who may have a slightly different voice or temperament than the person behind the keyboard. This allows the creator to take creative risks that they might be too inhibited to take under their own name.

The Power is in the Choice

Choosing a pseudonym is not an exercise in subterfuge; it is a profound act of creative self-determination. It gives you the power to define your brand, manage your privacy, and ensure your creative work is judged precisely how you intend it to be.

Whether you seek protection, separation, or simply a name that sounds better on the bestseller list, the strategic use of a pseudonym can be the key to unlocking the next level of your professional journey.

Do you work under a pseudonym? What was the primary reason you decided to adopt an alter ego? Share your story in the comments below!