I wish I were a poet. I think poetry is the most powerful of the written art forms. I’m so reverential about it I haven’t written any since I was at school.

I know I am not good at it but now I’m at the age where I realise I don’t have forever so I am going to write the odd poem out of various silly impulses because I also lack silliness in my life. If you’re waiting to do something for a similar reason, why wait? Might as well give it a go. Have heart, it’s OK to be bad at things (and I can’t for the life of me figure out how to turn off the extra line gaps in this editor) – viz

Poem #1

I don’t know this

And I don’t know that

I don’t know a cat or

Why is a dog or

How does a frog or

Where is that log?

Is a bog

Good or bad?

Is it coincidence sons is not


Could there be an elephant made out of buns?

I can’t catch time as it runs.

As it runs






I have a very scattered mind. My memory is loose. I don’t recall the stories I read two weeks ago, the films I’ve seen, the things I heard, the article details, the actual dates, that kind of thing. Even before phones I had to have notebooks but I forgot to update them.  My mind wanders, leaping about, making strange connections. It’s been fun but it’s also quite a handicap in a world rich with records and literature.

On the other hand I can re-live the experience of walking around with my house keys yesterday in sufficient clarity that I can go to the place I put them down first time. Even if it was somewhere really stupid, like on the bathroom window ledge.  I can do that for nearly any object if I was the last person to have it. Even if I last had it in my hand months ago.

I have periods of being very organised, life goes well. But then I slip up and go back to scattered. I used to feel bad, that one day I’d have it fixed and be organised all the time. But I really like my scattered days. They feel the best. So it will always be a bit of one, then a bit of the other.


A couple of people wrote me a note after reading Success to check if I was depressed. I was so happy that they checked up on me! I also assured them that I wasn’t, and I apologise if that post felt like it was particularly ‘down’. I was exploring my feelings on worldly success and it turns out that I don’t rate it much, although I often forget that and feel bad about it until I remember that you can’t win against something when you’re standing on its home turf – that is, if you don’t want to be in the Worldly Success grinder you don’t argue with it you step away from it.

When I wrote it in that free-form style it felt like I was engaged in quite a lively, ‘real’ (as in authentic) creative activity. That always makes me happy on one level, regardless of the subject. I also knew that I was treading old rope, as I think of it – walking over ground already covered, and recycling the ‘old rope’ that millions have thrown out before when contemplating the negativity that they perceive coming their way. I was interested and as I thought about what I was writing I felt that I understood clearly what was going on.

In short: it’s not you, it’s me.  Isn’t it always? It’s not what happens, it’s what you make of it.

But my friends were right in one thing. I was looking at things in a negative light. The exact same things can be the material for a big surge of happy too – so let me now cast them in the opposite light:

How wonderful to find so many people doing their best to promote positive attitudes, no matter what the format they are using! That stuff is everywhere, you don’t have to look hard to find all kinds of people from every walk of life on the internet making notes and comparing stories in which they talk about how their experiences have enriched them and helped them to become better people. The exhortations popping up in threads and in comments are there in such numbers purely so that one of them will catch your eye and remind you that while you’re alive you’ve still got things you can do to help the world.

The best of these are the ones which recognise that all it takes for the world to be ‘saved’ is for you to save yourself and see things in the joyful light – not because you don’t know what suffering is and not because you don’t have compassion for everything alive which is in a terrible predicament of some kind – but because by being joyful you are one more conduit of positive power in the world. When you are in a state of joy everything you touch turns to Fab. This is why I don’t mind even when I look and judge my successes and note my rejections – nobody can take away my joy, I can go into it at any time IF I remember to do that because a lifetime of being Eeyore isn’t that easy a habit to bust.

Also, Eeyore wasn’t ever disappointed. Life met his expectations. So he had that. And he was the only person who was as happy with a burst balloon as a whole one.

I’m sorry if my Success post felt like a burst balloon. At the end the post said I was sad for people who were on the Exhortation Trail because they are always rushing forwards and never arriving. I felt they were on the trail to Tired and Crazy whereas I have my life and time in which to exist without stress – people, I have already got everything a being could possibly want. If I’m doing miserable that’s just the tourist version. I have been miserable. I do go there sometimes to check it out. But deep down underneath all the various layers of self I was one of the lucky few in this existence and I am not happy, I am joyful.

Note though that I am not the world’s greatest motivational writer and I do get stuck in my head’s various eddies.

Mystic Moment: with this in mind I went over to Inspirobot and cranked the handle of fortune. Machines love me. I always know when they’re going to come up with something good.  It created the following saying for me, “When you have nothing left to say, inspire someone.”

See – the universe DOES hit you over the head with a bat and everything is in tune.


Goals goals goals.

Achieve achieve achieve.

Win win win.

Do more stuff. Go further. Out of your comfort zone. Make a lot of money. Dare. Drive this car. Eat that food. Do this exercise. Be seen here. Wear this. Look like that. Read this. Watch that. Talk about this. Know that. Go here. Don’t go there. Study at this place. Study harder, more. Listen to these. Don’t listen to those. Think this way. Dial up your effort. Bootstraps. Skyhooks. The Secret. The other Secret. Go go go. Faster.

I have felt chivvied by these things all my life. Earningaliving. The moral grasp of social conformity. The hope of becoming special, standout, why are you not yet J K Rowling? Surely only that would justify the way you have




writing these books about silly things, not even adult things and if they are adult things then they are too raunchy nobody wants that in their




which is anyway an extension of foolish childhood desires and hopes and dreams

you can’t live responsibly on that. And now, as your publication star fades bit by bit thanks to various factors you don’t really see or understand but it’s on EPOS and the accountant says No and you have not and you can’t and you won’t and no thank you

and I close my eyes and think back to the very first time I ever wanted to write and what for and all of the things I could have done with my life and how I could have done even what I have done differently

to fit with that Go The Secret More Win model and make everyone happy that the story they have sold me has finally worked out for someone, see someone has done it all checked every box yes to this and that and do and more and they have won by their hard work and it was luck yes but it was mostly skill and time and dedication you see this model works it does it will if only you

and I feel sad

for them



Habits are automatic you. They’re actions that you’ve done so often, know so well, that your brain has relegated them to the same place that it keeps the walking, talking, breathing, bicycle-riding and driving. They’re not the same as compulsions, they’re just things that have taken on a life of their own because you’ve stopped paying attention.

It’s great that we can create habits to keep us doing things that are essential. It’s not so great when non-essentials form into habits. They take on a stone-like, flinty quality which can spark anxiety if they are not executed when cued so that fulfilling the habit in itself becomes an action that must be performed to stop unpleasant feelings.

Wherever you have a habit you’ve become unconscious. It’s not only actions, but assumptions, thoughts, entire suites of theories, that become habitual. At some point in your life this was useful to have them automated. But if you never disassemble them you’ll never grow and move on and you won’t even notice.

It takes about nine conscious efforts to even become aware that you are entering an automated routine and about nine times nine sincere, focused attempts to overwrite the sequence. This can feel nerve wracking to some. If you feel that way remember that you will never really forget your habit and if you want to you can go back to it at some later date, no problem. It’s not like somebody’s going to run off with it.

Like Dave Lee Roth said, “We’ve all got our self-destructive bad habits. The trick is to find four or five you personally like the best and just do those all the time.”

Writing – is one of my habits. I’ve slowed right down lately. Maybe I need to bump it back up the list.


A mind is a structure for processing memory and sensory information.

All the sensory information it processes has been preprocessed by the body and put into the categories: Irrelevant, Um-Hmm, Maybe, Noted and This! Everything except This is kept out of your conscious attention along with all the other things you’re ignoring. If those things are important or ongoing they’re stored with a pattern of physical tension because nothing says Avoidance like squicky bowels.

Mind uses memory and combines it in new and interesting ways; the imagination. This is called thinking, if you are consciously doing it on purpose. If you are not doing it on purpose it’s called crazy. The mind uses memory and imagination to generate the psychological structure of a person, their personality and a lot of reasons why coffee and the internet are a great way of passing the time before mortality takes its inevitable toll.

If the mind is busy your awareness is limited to whatever it’s doing. You won’t notice nearly anything else unless someone sets off a firecracker. In this way if you are always busy everything in existence will calmly pass you by.

If you let your imagination run out of control in the endless interplay of possibilities between past and future – that is, if you have any inner experience that you don’t like of any kind at all which isn’t obviously caused by hangover related issues and other effluvia of the physical realm – it’s time to rein that sucker in.

How to Rein That Sucker In: practice. Like a toddler on sugar the thoughts never stop, but you can ignore them and wander off and put your focus on something else. After you get good at this you can turn your mind to your own uses and then ignore it. On its own it will just generate garbage in a constant narrative with varying connection strength to any actual reality.

It doesn’t matter what the mind does as long as you don’t mistake the stories it’s making for actual things. Sadly, anything you consider seriously has a way of quickly leaping into Actual Thingness so be on the lookout for that feature. By all means have fun with imaginary things but don’t get them confused with Actual Things. I think this is the basis of the contempt some people have for fantastic fiction but those people have usually failed to notice that their consensus reality including all social and cultural identities is entirely fictional. It’s just much less fantastically fun than the things I like.

On the downside of this sanity: the more sane (able to dip in and out of Mind at will) I got the less I was able to experience the thrilling possibilities of all kinds of weird shit that I thought at one point might be real and although that was great because I was no longer terrified/worried/constantly churning pointless things it was also a bit sad, like something had died.


I used to read all kinds of writing about plot. When I started I just wrote whatever was interesting and carried on from where I left off the day before. I ended up with huge amounts of text only loosely connected to each other. There was no organisation. I thought it was because there was no plot, but it wasn’t. I knew how things tied together. It’s just that I hadn’t organised it so someone else could see that.

Thinking in terms of plot meant looking at the writing in a different, more conscious way, as a collage of events. The events of the plot could put laid end to end on a timeline, but how they related was more interesting than that and required that they move around a bit. This process turns plot points into interesting narratives.

If you aren’t able to think up a story by yourself for some reason, these days you can use a plot generator to come up with a sequence of events that follow the basic shape of a story. This is an algorithm which combines suggested words (you do have to put something into it) and situations according to basic rules. These generators are fairly rough and feeble copies of the engine every reading and TV-watching human already has in their minds. Years of observation has ingrained it into your brain.

If you are a well-educated human in the Western tradition then you will have already absorbed the fundamental story structures of this culture and can, at a second’s notice, punt out story fragments until you collapse from exhaustion. They might not be terrific or cohesive in the raw, but the system is there. Great! Or not. Probably, as soon as you get stuck into making your own work the first thing you will want to do with this is break it. When you come back from the fun mines and want to be published however, you’ll have to put it back together again somewhat.

Plot and story structure can be analysed in great detail but they are essentially fractal. A fractal is a shape or figure, every part of which shares the same characteristics as the whole. The story fractal is Beginning Middle End. Or Condition Upset Resolution. Or Open Explore Conclude. It’s a temporal structure, no matter how much you mess with the narrative timeline in the way the tale gets told. Something-Expansion-Contraction.

I think that it also contains a Golden Ratio feature. (From Wikipedia, “The Golden ratio is a special number found by dividing a line into two parts so that the longer part divided by the smaller part is also equal to the whole length divided by the longer part.”) Critical events of any story fractal need to reach their maximum crisis somewhere near the Golden Ratio for maximum satisfaction. I have no proof of this, it’s just my observation from reading and writing. I feel an inner sense of timing in operation as I write in the same way that I feel I want to naturally put the objects of interest near or along the Golden Section in a picture or photograph.

The plot is raw events on a cause and effect timescale. The narrative is where you put it together into something fancy. Where you put things in a story has a huge impact on how they are received – not just the big things, but everything that contributes to the whole picture. We all have endless plot and a machine to structure it as standard. Getting better with handling plot and making it into great narrative requires a lot of playing around practicing. You don’t have to be Nerd Analyst to do that, I just happen to enjoy thinking this way about it.





Time’s arrow – our perception of time on a daily basis – goes only one way. It flies at the same speed for everyone. If you are having a great time, it seems to be fast. If you are having a terrible time it goes very slowly.

What you will do with your time is up to you. When it is gone it is gone. This moment is already passed by the time you read to the end of the line. The whole of existence is change, with you the change-rider, briefly atop the wave.

Soon you will turn under again, roll over again. You will never come back as you are. So, what are you going to do before the arrow strikes the mark and your body is recalled to the manufacturer? What matters enough to spend your time on it?


When I was little I asked my mother what happened to all the stinky fumes from cars. She said they just spread out into the air and that there is so much air that the fumes soon are so spread out that they don’t matter. She is a scientist, and she also said that the bin was tipped into an incinerator or a landfill and that was the end of our chat. Because she thought it was OK I reluctantly said no more but I never felt it was OK. If we did that, then everywhere there were people they would do it, so eventually the world would be full of buried rubbish and the air full of smoke because air went around the planet but there was no filter, it just went around.

In my mind I didn’t grasp how big the planet was at the time. Nor did she, I think, grasp how small it is. Its smallness matters so much more now there are so many of us. Which brings me to the air again.

A decade or two ago I went up a big mountain, so high that the air was really thin, so high I couldn’t go any higher because I started to turn crazy paranoid with lack of oxygen and a deep, biological terror my body kept throwing at me that I was soon going to die up there. I reached a height of around 4.8 thousand metres (with acclimation days if you are interested in how so high) above sea level. We passed over a place where the last life of anything above a microbe lingered. Because the world is round it can seem huge and that it goes on forever, but if you change direction and go straight up you’ve got 5 thousand metres tops before you’re finished. One good walk. And that’s it. We live in a thin film of air. I think anyone who feels confident about the industrial destruction of the planet’s climate should go up there for a little sit on top of a mountain.

The rain does clear the air. It brings the particles down out of it and puts them on the ground where they are much more easily stirred up and inhaled. But nothing, no system, when constantly buffeted with pollution, takes things away. Recycling plastic, at least in my area, has turned out lately to be code for ‘we shipped it to a faraway shore’. (I clean out plastic and carefully adjust cans so that, if somewhere some poor person or animal picks over my rubbish on a mountain of broken promises they won’t be hurt.) But there is no  faraway shore, or ‘away’ on this spherical world. The wind, the water, the soil, brings it all around again. If not to me personally, then to someone, some being, some creature, some earth.

When I write and compose stories I feel very conscious that so much of the time I am merely a collection of idea-pollutants and a weather system for bringing it all around again, unless I concentrate very hard and question every choice. Unconsciously I will replicate. Only consciously can I adapt and move on. No doubt I’ve circulated my share of toxicity, without meaning to, but nonetheless I continue to pick over my huge spoil heap. If I have a goal in fiction it is to try to clear the air. I’ve failed to do much about the actual air; I let myself be persuaded into thinking it was someone else’s business and that it could be put aside. I will do what I can to correct things.

I don’t know if many people read my fiction, but if they do it would be nice if it felt like a breath of fresh air. That’s what I try for.



The extent of human storytelling was something I didn’t fully grasp until quite recently.

In the beginning, when I was a child, stories were something that came in books or something that was told. It had an obvious boundary. It usually had an obvious structure – the classic beginning, middle and end. It always had a point, if not a moral. It could feature anything, real or imaginary and the imaginary ones were the best, the more whimsical the better.

As I grew up and went to school the kinds of stories I read from the library and in class began to change. They became more complex. They more often than not did not have a moral or a purpose so much as a range, like a country to explore. There were so many that their diversity began to divide them up into different kinds of countries, with different expeditionary companions: fantastic, futuristic, historical, action-drama and romance. Then there were those which were dealt with under the label of Literature for their efforts to accurately render some part of the human experience without the use of Story Special Effects. These were valued for their verisimilitude.

The most marked divide was that between fantastic tales and ‘real life’ fiction. It was at this point that I first glimpsed the fact that the divide, apparently so clear, was an illusion. I only pushed at this notion a bit because I felt resentful that the stories I loved were being pushed steadily into the background because they were considered childish. At almost exactly this moment in my grumpy expansion I had a teacher who liked Science Fiction. She had us read Brave New World (Huxley) and Animal Farm (Orwell) just before we got into our exam text of 1984 (Orwell).

These books, although fantastical, were considered Literary. Other books I read at the same time, like Dragonflight (McCaffrey) were not. We spent a long time considering the world and story of 1984. The only difference that I could perceive between them was that 1984 (and BNW and AF) was using its fantasti-fu powers to grind a very grim and ugly axe with which to crack the reader’s head repeatedly (You Will See How Horrible And Or Alarming This Is, Damn You), while Dragonflight and the others of its kind did not have such an axe and wandered loosely about making vague statements almost accidentally. I formed the conclusion that Literary SF had to be grisly, brutal and alarmist to be taken seriously. Fantasy fiction had to be Lord Of The Rings, which was only let in the club because it had mythological, literary roots and was a tragedy in parts. Or it had to be written by C S Lewis.

At the same time I had begun to study Classics, purely for the stories. It was comforting to read stories of gripping drama and grisly adventure which had been enjoyed for thousands of years. Here the history of story in all its forms was clear and unburdened by the modern novel and its conceits about the purpose of fiction. Here too were writings about writing, which said, quite clearly, that all of life was a drama. But even then I didn’t appreciate how deep the story went. I could see that people enjoyed creating a big stink about various things in their lives and how they generated the events of tragedy and comedy as a result. At this point it was all still on the outside. People thought things and then they created some story and went about acting it out. Their thoughts weren’t something I saw as fiction. I thought that they came from some real, original source, within the individual. This was the stopping point, where story started and ended, and where reality began.

It was only when I really got into yoga for the second time in my life, aged 48, and began to look inward for long periods of time that I saw how far down the story turtle went. To paraphrase the late, lovely Mr Pratchett. It’s stories all the way down.

So, where is reality? I decided there was no way I was going to die without finding out the truth.

To see it all you have to do is lift off every story you have. When every story is gone what you are left with is the real. Here you are –