It’s good to be back. After taking a month off from editing my novel trilogy, it feels great to return to it with fresh eyes. The last few months of summer were hectic, and I was running on fumes. As much as I wanted to power through, I knew a break was better than burning out.
Over the last few years, I’ve made a ton of progress — getting drafts of all three books down on paper was a huge milestone. But now I’m deep in the editing phase, making sure each story flows not just on its own, but as part of a bigger arc. Think of it like this: each book has its own beginning, middle, and end — but together, books one, two, and three form one larger story with the same structure.
It’s exciting, but it’s also a grind. I’m chipping away at it day by day while balancing the rest of life. By the end of summer, I was training for my triathlon and working full-time, and something had to give. I believe you can do everything — just not all at once. So, for a while, writing took a backseat.
I’ll admit, I was nervous about stepping away. I worried I’d lose momentum or that this would be the moment my project quietly died — that fear every long-term creator knows: put something down for “just a bit,” and never pick it up again.
But working on this project has been part of my life for five years now — it’s built into my routine, like cleaning the house or tending the garden. When I take a break, it’s not like quitting; it’s more like letting the plants grow wild for a bit. Eventually, I’ll come back to prune and tidy things up.
I didn’t even stop at a neat checkpoint — I was mid-edit, right in the middle of Chapter 3 of Book 2. That actually made it easier to return. There wasn’t a buildup or mental block. I just jumped back in where I left off.
So yeah, it might feel like starting over, but it’s not. It’s more like reconnecting with an old friend. You know that feeling when you haven’t seen someone in ages, and you wonder if it’ll be awkward — but then, as soon as you meet, you pick up right where you left off. That’s what returning to my writing felt like.
And as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’m more excited about this project than ever. Is it going to be the greatest thing ever written? Probably not — but that’s not the goal. Nobody visits Italy thinking, “I’m going to be the best person to ever visit Italy.” You go because you love the experience. Writing is like that for me. With each revision, I see the story sharpen and come alive. I’m polishing the stone, adding color to the outline, and watching my vision take shape.
So here’s what’s next: to stay accountable, I’m starting a new monthly series documenting my progress — the writing, the challenges, the little breakthroughs.
It won’t be easy, but I’m committed. I feel refreshed, inspired, and ready to keep going. This years-long journey still fills me with an energy I can’t quite put into words.
My name’s Elliot. I make videos about the endurance of creativity and life in this wild, dystopian world.
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Before we dive into the events of Joan Is Awful, let’s flash back to when this episode first aired: June 15, 2023.
In 2023, the tech industry faced a wave of major layoffs. Meta cut 10,000 employees and closed 5,000 open positions in March. Amazon followed, letting go of 9,000 workers that same month. Microsoft reduced its workforce by 10,000 employees in early 2023, while Google announced its own significant layoffs, contributing to a broader trend of instability in even the largest, most influential tech companies.
Netflix released Depp v. Heard in 2023. This three-part documentary captures the defamation trial between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard. The series explored the viral spectacle that surrounded it online, showing how social media, memes, and influencer commentary amplified every moment.
Meanwhile, incidents of deepfakes surged dramatically. In North America alone, AI-generated videos and audio clips increased tenfold in 2023 compared to the previous year, with a 1,740% spike in malicious use.
In early 2023, a video began circulating on YouTube and across social media that seemed to show Elon Musk in a CNBC interview. The Tesla CEO appeared calm and confident as he promoted a new cryptocurrency opportunity. It looked authentic enough to fool thousands. But the entire thing was fake.
That same year, the legal system began to catch up. An Australian man named Anthony Rotondo was charged with creating and distributing non-consensual deepfake images on a now-defunct website called Mr. Deepfakes. In 2025, he admitted to the offense and was fined $343,500.
Around the world, banks and cybersecurity experts raised alarms as AI manipulation began to breach biometric systems, leading to a new wave of financial fraud. What started as a novelty filter had become a weapon capable of stealing faces, voices, and identities.
All of this brings us to Black Mirror—Season 6, Episode 1: Joan Is Awful.
The episode explores the collision of personal privacy, corporate control, and digital replication. Joan’s life is copied, manipulated, and broadcast for entertainment before she even has a chance to tell her own story. The episode asks: How much of your identity is still yours when technology can exploit and monetize it? And is it even possible to reclaim control once the algorithm has taken over?
In this video, we’ll unpack the episode’s themes, explore real-world parallels, and ask whether these events have already happened—and if not, whether they are still plausible in our tech-driven, AI-permeated world.
Streaming Our Shame
In Joan is Awful, we follow Joan, an everyday woman whose life unravels after a streaming platform launches a show that dramatizes her every move. But the show’s algorithm doesn’t just imitate Joan’s life; it distorts it for entertainment. Her friends and coworkers watch the exaggerated version of her, and start believing it’s real.
The idea that media can reshape someone’s identity isn’t new—it’s been happening for years, only now with AI, it happens faster, cheaper, and more convincingly.
Reality television has long operated in this blurred zone between truth and manipulation. Contestants on shows like The Bachelor and Survivor have accused producers of using editing tricks to create villains and scandals that never actually happened.
One of the most striking examples comes from The Bachelor contestant Victoria Larson, who accused producers of using “Frankenbiting”, a technique of editing together pieces of dialogue from different times to make her appear like she was spreading rumors or being manipulative. She said the selective editing destroyed her reputation and derailed her career.
Then there’s the speed of public judgment in the age of social media. In 2020, when Amy Cooper—later dubbed “Central Park Karen”—called the police on a Black bird-watcher, the footage went viral within hours. She was fired, denounced, and doxxed almost overnight.
But Joan is Awful also goes deeper, showing how even our most intimate spaces are no longer private.
In 2020, hackers breached Vastaamo, a Finnish psychotherapy service, stealing hundreds of patient files—including therapy notes—and blackmailing both the company and individuals. Finnish authorities eventually caught the hacker, who was sentenced in 2024 for blackmail and unauthorized data breaches.
In this episode, Streamberry’s AI show thrives on a simple principle: outrage. They turn Joan’s humiliation into the audience’s entertainment. The more uncomfortable she becomes, the more viewers tune in. It’s not far from reality.
A 2025 study published in ProMarket found that toxic content drives higher engagement on social media platforms. When users were shielded from negative or hostile posts, they spent 9% less time per day on Facebook, resulting in fewer ads and interactions.
By 2025, over 52% of TikTok videos featured some form of AI generation—synthetic voices, avatars, or deepfake filters. These “AI slop” clips fill feeds with distorted versions of real people, transforming private lives into shareable, monetized outrage.
Joan is Awful magnifies a reality we already live in. Our online world thrives on manipulation—of emotion, of data, of identity—and we’ve signed the release form without even noticing.
Agreeing Away Your Identity
One of the episode’s most painful scenes comes when Joan meets with her lawyer, asking if there’s any legal way to stop the company from using her life as entertainment. But the lawyer points to the fine print—pages of complex legal language Joan had accepted without a second thought.
The moment is both absurd and shockingly real. How many times have you clicked “I agree” without reading a word?
In the real world, most of us do exactly what Joan did. A 2017 Deloitte survey conducted in the U.S. shows that over 90% of users accept terms and conditions without reading them. Platforms can then use that data for marketing, AI training, or even creative content—all perfectly legal because we “consented.”
The dangers of hidden clauses extend far beyond digital services. In 2023, Disneyland attempted to invoke a controversial contract clause to avoid liability for a tragic allergic reaction that led to a woman’s death at a Disney World restaurant in Florida. The company argued that her husband couldn’t sue for wrongful death because—years earlier—he had agreed to arbitration and legal waivers buried in the fine print of a free Disney+ trial.
Critics called the move outrageous, pointing out that Disney was trying to apply streaming service terms to a completely unrelated event. The case exposed how corporations can weaponize routine user agreements to sidestep accountability.
The episode also echoes recent events where real people’s stories have been taken and repackaged for profit.
Take Elizabeth Holmes, the disgraced founder of Theranos. Within months of her trial, her life was dramatized into The Dropout. The Hulu mini-series was produced in real time alongside Holmes’s ongoing trial. As new courtroom revelations surfaced, the writers revised the script. The result was a more layered, unsettling portrayal of Holmes and her business partner Sunny Balwani—a relationship far more complex and toxic than anyone initially imagined.
In Joan is Awful, the show’s AI doesn’t care about Joan’s truth, and in our world, algorithms aren’t so different. Every click, every “I agree,” and every trending headline feeds an ecosystem that rewards speed over accuracy and spectacle over empathy.
When consent becomes a view or a checkbox and stories become assets, the line between living your life and licensing it starts to blur. And by the time we realize what we’ve signed away, it might already be too late.
Facing the Deepfake
In Joan Is Awful, the twist isn’t just that Joan’s life is being dramatized; it’s that everyone’s life is. What begins as a surreal violation spirals into an infinite mirror. Salma Hayek plays Joan in the Streamberry series, but then Cate Blanchett plays Salma Hayek in the next layer.
The rise of AI and deepfake technology is reshaping how we understand identity and consent. Increasingly, people are discovering their faces, voices, or likenesses used in ads, films, or explicit content without permission.
In 2025, Brazilian police arrested four people for using deepfakes of celebrity Gisele Bündchen and others in fraudulent Instagram ads, scamming victims out of nearly $3.9 million USD.
Governments worldwide are beginning to respond. Denmark’s copyright amendment now treats personal likeness as intellectual property, allowing takedown requests and platform fines even posthumously. In the U.S., the 2025 TAKE IT DOWN Act criminalizes non-consensual AI-generated sexual imagery and impersonation.
In May 2025, Mr. Deepfakes, one of the world’s largest deepfake pornography websites, permanently shut down after a core service provider terminated operations. The platform had been online since 2018 and hosted more than 43,000 AI-generated sexual videos, viewed over 1.5 billion times. Roughly 95% of targets were celebrity women, but researchers identified hundreds of victims who were private individuals.
Despite these legal advances, a fundamental gray area remains. As AI becomes increasingly sophisticated, it is getting harder to tell whether content is drawn from a real person or entirely fabricated.
Her lifelike digital persona was built using the performances of real actors—without their consent. The event marked a troubling shift. As producers continue to push AI-generated actors into mainstream projects.
Actress Whoopi Goldberg voiced her concern, saying, “The problem with this, in my humble opinion, is that you’re up against something that’s been generated with 5,000 other actors.”
“It’s a little bit of an unfair advantage,” she added. “But you know what? Bring it on. Because you can always tell them from us.”
In response to the backlash, Tilly’s creator Eline Van der Velden shared a statement: “To those who have expressed anger over the creation of our AI character, Tilly Norwood: she is not a replacement for a human being, but a creative work – a piece of art.”
When Joan and Salma Hayek sneak into the Streamberry headquarters, they overhear Mona Javadi, the executive behind the series, explaining the operation. She reveals that every version of Joan Is Awful is generated simultaneously by a quantum computer, endlessly creating new versions of real people’s lives for entertainment. Each “Joan,” “Salma,” and “Cate” is a copy of a copy—an infinite simulation. And it’s not just Joan; the system runs on an entire catalog of ordinary people. Suddenly, the scale of this entertainment becomes clear—it’s not just wide, it’s deep, with endless iterations and consequences.
At the 2025 Runway AI Film Festival, the winning film Total Pixel Space exemplified how filmmakers are beginning to embrace these multiverse-like AI frameworks. Rather than following a single script, the AI engine dynamically generated visual and narrative elements across multiple variations of the same storyline, creating different viewer experiences each time.
AI and deepfake technologies are already capable of realistically replicating faces, voices, and mannerisms, and platforms collect vast amounts of personal data from our everyday lives. Add quantum computing, algorithmic storytelling, and the legal gray areas surrounding consent and likeness, and the episode’s vision of lives being rewritten for entertainment starts to feel less like fantasy.
Every post, every photo, every digital footprint feeds algorithms that could one day rewrite our lives—or maybe already are. Maybe we can slip the loop, maybe we’re already in it, and maybe the trick is simply staying aware that everything we do is already being watched, whether by the eyes of the audience or the eyes of the creators that is still seeking inspiration.
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Skydiving was something I always wanted to do. And this summer with the encouragement of my mother. We went and did it.
It was a lot of fun, and the best way for me to describe that experience was that it’s like a dream, where you wake up and you still have fragments of that memory, and you are just trying to piece it all together and feel that same feeling again. I definitely see how it can be addictive.
I felt pretty calm the whole time. The night before, I fell asleep listening to a podcast about D-Day and about how the paratroopers had to drop into France in the dead of night. I found that to be quite comforting as it allowed me to put that into perspective and come to terms with my own courage and how I’m doing it recreationally and not dropping into a war zone.
My approach when it comes to doing something stressful like that, whether it’s bungee jumping or skydiving, is to turn my brain off. Once you do that, you just remember what you have to do. This is actually really easy for me, because as a job, I’m a marketing strategist. So I spend a lot of time during the workday thinking about things. A lot of things.
So when I get an opportunity to turn off my brain, I enjoy it. When I get an opportunity, to follow some simple instructions like once the door to the airplane opens, pull your leg over, and just hang there. That’s easy. So yeah.
Once I got flung out and into the free fall, that was a rush. It’s very windy, and the world feels so distorted and strange — it doesn’t even seem real. That’s the biggest difference from bungee jumping, because when you’re bungee jumping, the world comes right at you, and that feeling of plummeting toward the ground is so real and raw. When you’re falling from 10,000 feet, you don’t get that same experience.
When I was bungee jumping, especially when it’s your first time, my instincts just took over, and I started reaching out and grabbing things to stop myself, but there is obviously nothing. Doing that kind of pulled me off balance, and as you can see, I got twisting out of control. So fun.
So yeah, back to skydiving. You’re just free-falling for a few seconds — probably between 10 and 30 — not long, before the parachute deploys. And that’s such a relief. It’s kind of the same feeling as when the bungee cord catches you and you don’t splat on the ground. There aren’t many feelings like that in life, so that was great.
From this point on, the experience is actually quite similar between skydiving and bungee jumping. You get this second ride — a second experience. With bungee jumping, you’re bouncing up and down, and the second bounce is almost as high as the first drop. That’s great because now you know the cord will hold you. With skydiving, it’s more like sightseeing — I was just trying to soak it all in.
But what really made me want to do it again was that my tandem partner, the instructor, gave me the handle to control the parachute, letting me steer. I didn’t know how to do it properly, but when you really pulled on it, it felt like a rollercoaster drop — you get swung sideways and really feel the Gs. That was awesome, and I would love to feel that again. I don’t get to go on too many rollercoasters these days, but that was incredible.
When it comes down to it, skydiving and bungee jumping often get clumped together, but they’re actually very different experiences. I’d say if you really want that “I’m going to die” feeling, bungee jumping is for you. I’ve done bungee jumping both forward and backward, and I’d recommend going forward so you can see the world coming at you — although backward is really scary too.
If you want more of a rollercoaster ride, then go skydiving. I don’t know if I can explain it any better.
Both are so much fun, and I recommend giving both a try it’s so worth it!
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We adopted Petey about nine months ago, and at the time, we weren’t sure if he’d ever be stable enough to travel with us. The shelter warned us that because of his fear, he might never even manage a walk in the park—his anxiety around dogs and kids was that severe.
But little by little, he surprised us. First, he stopped barking at every sound in the neighborhood. Then he quit chewing our blankets and pillows. Eventually, he began to enjoy walks and car rides. Sure, he still gets spooked by the occasional dog, but now he can be redirected—something that felt impossible in those first three months.
Petey has proven not only the shelter wrong, but also shown us just how smart and loving he really is. Underneath his trauma, there’s a sweet, capable dog. We know that if we keep nudging him forward, he’ll grow into the great dog we believe he can be.
So, with that in mind, we decided it was time for Petey’s first trip: Pender Island, one of the Gulf Islands off Vancouver Island. His first ferry ride. His first hotel stay. His first night away from home.
Would he rise to the challenge—or would the stress unravel everything?
We packed early, making sure to bring along his donut bed and blanket for comfort. Because my wife and I get anxious about travel too, we gave ourselves a big buffer. While we waited, we walked Petey around Tsawwassen Mills Mall. Everything was closed, but it helped burn off his energy.
We lucked out and squeezed onto an earlier ferry, saving ourselves two hours. The catch: we were the last car on, parked at an incline that made the ride a bit shaky. Petey struggled at first—barking whenever I left the car, jittery on walks near other dogs. The dog deck was a non-starter. So we stayed with him in the back seat until he finally settled down for a nap.
At last, the ferry docked at Otter Bay on Pender Island. Our first stop was Hope Bay, where we barely stepped out before an off-leash dog came trotting over. Friendly or not, it would’ve set Petey off, so we ducked down to the water’s edge and enjoyed the view from a safe distance.
Next, we checked out the island’s main junction—a bakery, liquor store, and a few restaurants. It seemed to be the hub of Pender, and just about everyone had a dog. Normally that would’ve been great, but with Petey, it made things tricky. We barely left the car.
We grabbed food to go. And drove until we found some peace at Magic Lake. There, on a quiet bench with no dogs in sight, we ate our sandwiches and drank our coffee while Petey anxiously sniffed around the tall grass.
From there, we drove to Mortimer Spit, a narrow strip of land between the two parts of Pender. The roads were rough, but the unique views were worth it—it ended up being my favorite spot. Petey seemed to enjoy it too.
His favorite, however, was the Enchanted Forest Park. Quiet, shaded trails, no other dogs—a perfect first real hike for him. He loved it, though by then he was exhausted; apart from a short ferry nap, he’d been going non-stop.
We tried checking into our hotel early, but our room wasn’t ready. So we drove to Gowlland Point, a rocky beach at the southeastern tip. The scenery was stunning, but it was hard to enjoy with Petey on high alert. Dogs, people, and one overly confident old man who couldn’t believe any dog wouldn’t like him—none of it helped.
Finally, we made it to our hotel, Poet’s Cove Resort, right on the water. Getting Petey inside was rough—an off-leash dog greeted us at the door, setting him off. If it wasn’t for that dog, I think Petey could have done much better. I have thoughts on off-leash dogs, for sure, especially when their owners aren’t able to call them back. Alas, we can’t control other people.
Anyways, once in the room, he relaxed. He bounced around the bed, explored the new space, and slowly grew more comfortable when I had to step out. We give him a C plus. A pass, but also a lot of room for improvement.
The resort itself was wonderful: a balcony with ocean views, a restaurant kind enough to pack meals to go, and even a deep bathtub that made up for skipping the crowded pool and hot tub. We ended the evening quietly in the room. Petey curled up on his donut bed and later snuggled with us like he always does.
The trip wasn’t easy. Without him, it would’ve been simpler, maybe even more relaxing—but it wouldn’t have been the same. He wasn’t perfect; his triggers are still there. But compared to the scared dog we brought home last December, he was unrecognizable.
And the biggest surprise came after. Back home, he was calmer. During the workday, instead of chewing things for attention, he started napping peacefully by our side. The trip gave him a boost of confidence—and for that alone, it was worth it.
As for Pender Island? It’s small, hilly, and full of bees. Beautiful, yes, and we saw most of it in one trip. I’m not sure we’ll rush back, but it will always be special: the first place Petey traveled, something we never thought possible.
I can’t wait for more trips with him. He’s a smart, stubborn little guy—and while he’s still a bit crazy, I wouldn’t bet against him becoming the good boy we always knew he could be.
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What happens when writing gets hard? When the excitement, the energy, the motivation you had at the start begin to fade?
Because here’s the truth: it will fade. And when that inspiration well runs dry… what do you do? Do a rain dance? Give up entirely? Or do you go out and start hunting for it again? Searching, gathering, and collecting new fuel.
You can’t keep pulling inspiration from the same place forever. That’s the trap we fall into, especially with big, long-term projects. We tell ourselves we have to remain close to the original spark, to keep circling the same seed that started it all so the story stays “authentic.” But what if the thing that got you here isn’t enough to get you there?
Sometimes the original inspiration is just the beginning — not the whole map.
For me, books alone stopped being enough. I needed more. So I started paying attention to other things — film, music, food, movement, architecture, nature, silence. I stopped searching for the one thing that would spark my writing and started letting it come from everything else.
Because art is about blending. The visual and the emotional. The structured and the chaotic. The outer world and the inner world.
What helped me jumpstart my writing again was realizing that inspiration isn’t a straight line — it’s a mosaic. And the more pieces I add, the richer the story becomes. Staying inspired is still a challenge. But I’ve learned how to refill the well — piece by piece, day by day, source by source.
Books were my starting point.
It started with fantasy — big worlds, bold stakes, magic and myth. That’s what I loved, and that’s what I set out to write. But as I kept drafting, I realized the story needed more dimension.
So I started reading more dystopian books — stories where things feel heavy and tense. They helped me think about what it’s like to live under control, when people don’t have real freedom, and how that kind of pressure affects every little choice a character makes.
Then came sci-fi, which cracked open ideas around memory, time, and identity.
That led me to survival stories — gritty, grounded, visceral — where every decision matters.
And finally, humor. Writers like Terry Pratchett reminded me that even serious stories need light. That levity brings depth. It’s about giving the reader space to breathe. Especially in a long, heavy story, humor makes the darker moments hit even harder.
Each genre added a new tone, a new layer. And the more I read, the more I started to see the overlap — like a Venn diagram where themes echoed across genres. And that’s how my story stayed alive — not by staying in one lane, but by blending them all.
Then I started watching movies differently.
It wasn’t a passive experience anymore. I’d rewatch films I always loved, but with new eyes. Not for the story, but for the spaces between it. The quiet edits. The way light falls. A shot that lingers just long enough.
Movies taught me a lot about pacing—especially those by the Coen Brothers. Fargo showed me how tension can thrive in seemingly quiet moments: a snow-covered highway, a character’s lingering glance, the distant hum of a TV in another room. It revealed how absurdity and violence can exist side by side, and how even the driest humor can be stretched out until you don’t know whether to laugh, cringe, or sit in silence.
Inside Llewyn Davis offered slow, looping melancholy. The story doesn’t build; it drifts. But the mood is so specific, so textured, it stays with you. There’s music, but it’s mournful. There’s struggle, but no resolution. That tone — lost, searching, slightly bitter — helped me lean into the emotional ambiguity in my own work.
And then there’s No Country for Old Men. I’d seen it before, but rewatching it while thinking about my writing, I focused on the silence. No score. Just footsteps down the hall. Then, gunshots in the distance. It made me ask: what happens when I let the quiet moments breathe in my own scenes — when I make my characters sit in the tension and feel every beat of a stressful moment?
Music became my outline.
From film, I turned to music.
It stopped being background noise and started becoming the outline. I didn’t just write to songs — I wrote from them, using them not to establish a scene, but to lead to a feeling.
“The Spiderbite Song” from the album The Soft Bulletin by The Flaming Lips stayed with me because of its deeply personal metaphors — a wound from addiction mistaken for a spiderbite.
The line: “Cause if it destroyed you, it would destroy me” really struck a chord. It changed how I see fantasy: it doesn’t always need dragons or kingdoms. Sometimes the magic lives in the metaphors themselves — in the way grief and love can exist together in a single sentence.
Then there’s “Love Is a Laserquest” from Suck It and See by Arctic Monkeys. I love this song, because of its mix of jadedness, wistfulness, and strange romance — like someone trying to ask a serious question behind a smirk. It made me think about growing up not as gaining wisdom, but as watching your idealism slowly fade. That mood helped me shape characters haunted by who they once were and what they still wish could be true.
Finally, “Under Glass” from Thin Mind by Wolf Parade hit me like a rush of energy. It’s fast, frantic, filled with building dread — like someone running toward something unknown. The lyrics feel trapped, like banging against the edge of an invisible barrier. It reminded me that dystopia isn’t always about strict regimes or harsh rules — sometimes it’s the slow, personal panic of realizing you can’t escape. That feeling became the emotional core for some of my most intense scenes.
I began shaping chapters like tracks on an album — letting rhythm set the pacing, letting lyrics echo through dialogue. Each chapter could stand on its own, like a song, but together they built something larger. An album. A whole. This was especially useful when the plot refused to move in a straight line.
Art gave me images when words wouldn’t.
Sometimes, when words stop flowing, I take a break and turned to art. One image — just one — can shake something loose. I’ll scroll through a gallery or flip through an old art book until something catches. It doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, it’s better when it doesn’t.
Surrealist art is great for that. I went through a Dali phase, and one piece I remember growing fond of was The Hand.
The giant, distorted hand extended over a vast, dream-like landscape, with just a few individuals scattered below. Who is the strange figure that belongs to? Is he a statue of some past ruler, or was the hand reaching out to beg? Who is that strange woman smiling behind like a lover past? Whatever it means, to me, this piece feels like authority, guilt, and longing all rolled into one.
That tension and imbalance seep into my writing: characters who reach for something they can’t quite hold, worlds where power feels both disembodied and dangerously close. These moments of visual stillness create scenes not through plot, but through emotion, space, and question.
Alongside classic surrealism, I also turn to the vivid art of Magic: The Gathering cards. Each card is a microcosm — a warrior mid-battle, a sorceress unmoved by swirling storms, a ruined temple glowing with latent power. A single illustration can spark inspiration for an entire chapter.
Whether it’s Dalí’s hand demanding something unseen, or a fantasy card hinting at ancient magic, these images become a little excursion away from the pages on the screen, which allows me to come back fresh.
Food reminded me to use my senses.
We talk about “show, don’t tell,” but nothing expands a story like taste. The sharp burn of wasabi that hits your nose, the fiery punch of hot sauce lingering on your lips, or the unexpected bitterness of dark chocolate that makes you pucker.
Some flavors comfort, like a warm bowl of miso soup or tangy kimchi, but others sting—like the sour bite of fermented mustard greens or the acrid edge of bitter melon. It’s hard to describe it, but these tastes strangely resemble old painful memories.
Food can also be surprisingly divisive — what’s a comfort to one person might be unbearable to another. A perfectly balanced hot sauce awakens the senses, but overdo it, and it hurts. Bread fresh from the oven is soft and inviting, but stale or burnt, it turns tough and abrasive, changing the whole experience.
I find that transformation inspiring. It reminds me that even the best things can shift with time, care, or neglect — just like characters and stories. How something changes, for better or worse, adds layers of complexity that I try to bring into my writing.
Architecture showed me how space shapes story.
As my search for inspiration deepened, I found myself drawn to architecture from around the world — from the stark brutalist towers of Eastern Europe to the half-sunken temples in Cambodia, to neon-lit apartments in Tokyo.
I began imagining my characters moving through these spaces, experiencing the subtle shifts as they step inside and out. The cool air inside a stone temple after the scorching sun outside. The hollow echo of footsteps in a concrete hallway of a Soviet-era building. The sudden flood of neon light in a cramped Tokyo stairwell.
That feeling of crossing thresholds — walking through a doorway or stepping into a new room — changes everything. The way the air smells, how light bends and shifts, the sounds and textures that greet you. The high ceilings. The tight quarters
Architecture has the power to shape mood, tension, and stories. It can be a sanctuary or a cage. And that’s the kind of atmosphere I try to bring into my writing when creating an environment.
Working on a long project requires both inspiration and motivation. Motivation keeps you showing up, day after day, page after page. But it’s inspiration that gives your motivation direction—it lights the path forward when the road feels long.
This story is mine, and most importantly, I’m enjoying the process again—filling the well as I go. When you return to the page, start with one source of inspiration. But then, let it grow, let it fill your character, your world, your story. If you get stuck, don’t push too hard—go fill your well.
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I want to tell you a story. Not the one I’ve been writing, but the story of bringing it to life.
About five years ago, something sparked. A character showed up, then a scene, then a whole world. I remember thinking, This is it. This is the story I have to tell.
I had this image in my head of how it would go: sleepless nights, fast fingers, drafts piling up like magic. You know the stereotype, the fevered genius at the keyboard.
That didn’t happen.
Instead, writing this story turned into something slower. Quieter. Not a mad sprint, but more like wandering. I felt like a lost hiker, circling the same trees, passing the same landmarks, unsure if I was getting anywhere at all. But there was hope. Every plot breakthrough gave me energy—just long enough to run into the next wall.
In the beginning, everything buzzed. But the spark isn’t supposed to last.
At some point, the dialogue dries up. You lose the thread. You open your draft and just… sit there.
I told myself I was “thinking about the story,” when really, I was avoiding it. Because facing the page meant facing the fear that maybe this story wasn’t good. Or worse, that I wasn’t good.
That’s when I started to understand: inspiration might start the fire, but discipline keeps it going.
So I began showing up. On bad days. On tired days. For ten minutes at a time. I’d rewrite the same paragraph five times and still feel like I hadn’t moved. But that was progress, too.
Writers like George R. R. Martin have talked about the middle—the long slog—as the real heart of the work.
Eventually, I gave up on waiting for ideal conditions. I let go of perfect. Some days I wrote two pages. Other days, I added a single word only to cut it. That had to be enough.
What helped was remembering that no one reads the first version and that revision isn’t punishment—it’s a privilege.
Robert Jordan used to write sprawling, chaotic outlines just to figure out what he might say. Brandon Sanderson rewrote entire books. That gave me permission to take my time too.
Time wasn’t the enemy. It was the process.
There were moments I felt guilty for not writing. For thinking about quitting. For wondering if I should just start a new project with all that fresh, exciting energy again.
But there were also quiet wins: a chapter that finally clicked. A problem I solved after months of spinning. The story shifted. So did I. It stopped being about finishing fast and started being about building something I enjoyed.
Characters evolve not just in my drafts, but in my mind. Themes start to mean more. My voice changed. The world I wrote grows richer, not because I pushed, but because I lived with it.
That’s what chipping away builds. Not perfection. Not speed. But depth.
Every great epic—The Lord of the Rings, The Wheel of Time, A Song of Ice and Fire—wasn’t written overnight. They were sculpted. One patient, faithful, messy page at a time.
These days, I think of persistence as its own kind of art.
It’s not about grinding harder. It’s about staying close to the work. Trusting that something is happening, even when it feels slow. Especially when it feels slow.
So if you’re working on something long—something that keeps asking for your time and care—you’re not behind.
You’re not lost.
You’re an artist in motion.
Maybe you’ll finish the thing. Maybe you’ll shelf it. Maybe you’ll come back in a year with fresh eyes and finally crack it open. Whatever happens, the time wasn’t wasted.
If you’re in the middle of a project that’s taking longer than you expected. Keep chipping away.
And remember: art isn’t finished. It’s only ever abandoned. There is no end.
So maybe today’s the day you write one more sentence. Maybe that’s enough.
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I think a lot about how momentum works. Not just in training—although yeah, I do love a good triathlon—but in creativity too.
When I’m training for a triathlon, I’m not just running every day. I swim. I bike. And I run. Each discipline works different muscles, keeps things fresh, and somehow… they all support each other. Like, I come out of a bike ride with stronger legs for the run.
And that’s kinda how I’m approaching my creative life too.
I don’t just write. I don’t just draw. I don’t just make videos. I move between all of them—and doing that actually helps me stay motivated and inspired. If I’m stuck in one, I switch to another. If I’m tired of reading, I pull out my camera. If I can’t sit down to draw, I cut up footage and express my creativity in a whole new way.
So today, I’m sharing something I call the Creative Triathlon. It’s a predetermined length of focused time on three different creative practices: illustrating, video creation, and writing. One discipline at a time. No pressure. No multitasking. Just a way to find time to do what you enjoy.
First leg: illustration. For the past 4 years, I’ve been working on this massive personal project—drawing every single Pokémon. Yeah. All of them. It’s been slow-going, not because I don’t love it, but because finding the time is hard. Life piles up. Other projects take priority. And as strange as it sounds, drawing Pokemon doesn’t pay the bills.
But when I do this creative triathlon, it forces me to carve out time for it. Even just 25 minutes. And honestly? It’s kind of like swimming. At first, it takes a while to get ready. But once I start? I don’t want to stop. It’s peaceful. It’s focused. And there’s something really satisfying about seeing one more little creature take shape.
This leg always reminds me why I started this project in the first place: because I love it. Because it brings me back to that kid part of myself that used to draw these things on notebooks.
I’m almost at 1000 Pokemon. I really want to finish before they add more. If you are interested in see the rest, check out this video in the cards and the instagram in the link in the description.
Second leg: video creation. Right now, I’ve been making a series of YouTube Shorts where I highlight key takeaways from books I’ve read. It’s honestly become one of my favorite creative outlets.
What I love about it is that it’s a true mashup of all my past-time activities—reading, thinking, writing, editing—it all comes together in these tiny videos. It makes everything I do feel active. Reading no longer feels like a passive intake of ideas. By turning it into a video, I get to spend more time with what I’m reading. I get to sit with the concepts, rephrase them, visualize them. And because of that, the lessons stick. They become part of me. A little snapshot of my life.
Video creation is great that way. It lets you experience your own thoughts in a completely new medium. You go from absorbing to articulating, from quiet reflection to something that moves and speaks. Seeing an idea come to life on screen—it just never gets old.
Final leg: writing. I’m currently editing the fifth draft of the first book in a trilogy I’ve been working on for years. And yeah—it’s a slog. A meaningful one, but a slog nonetheless.
It’s such a big project that most days, I’m just chipping away at it. I don’t always see progress. There’s no big “aha” moment, no flashy breakthrough. It’s slow, repetitive work. And honestly, it feels a lot like running. Not a sprint—a marathon. You get tired. You want to stop. But you don’t, because the work is worth it. The fatigue is part of the point. It’s what builds endurance. It’s what makes the story matter.
Working on something this big, this long—it becomes part of your life. It’s something you carry. And the beautiful thing about creativity is that it’s not like sports… there’s no finish line in the same way. It doesn’t end. But that’s why I love this Creative Triathlon practice—because it does give me small finish lines.
Instead of focusing on finishing the book, I just focus on finishing a session. That’s it. One 25-minute block. And when it’s done, I get this little burst of relief, a sense of accomplishment. Like I’ve closed a loop. It’s such a good feeling—being able to look back at my day and say, “I did something today.” No guilt. No disappointment.
So that’s my Creative Triathlon. Three disciplines, 25 minutes each for me today. It could be more on other days, but today was only 25 minutes. Which is enough to get a good chunk of work done. Know this, though, it’s not about finishing a masterpiece in an hour and a half—it’s about movement. It’s about momentum.
Just like in a real triathlon, each leg has its own rhythm. Some feel strong. Some feel slow. But they all carry me forward.
If you’re someone who loves multiple creative things—or if you’re feeling stuck—try this. Treat your creativity like a triathlon. Mix it up. Work different muscles. Let each practice breathe new life into the others.
Thanks for hanging out with me today. If you decide to try your own Creative Triathlon, let me know how it goes! And if you already have a different combo that works for you—maybe it’s music, painting, and cooking—drop it in the comments. I’d love to hear what you’re working on.
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Winter nights have a particular kind of silence that makes everything feel slower. This year, that quiet has become my writing time. I’ve had to face the fact that I only have 30 minutes a day to work on my novel. Between a busy job, taking care of Petey—my newly adopted dog—and the general rush of life, there’s no extra time to spare. But I’ve made it work, and consistency has been the secret.
Petey is a sweet soul who’s been through his own rough chapters. Between training sessions, walks, and making sure he’s not chewing on our blankets, my evenings belong to him. By the time he’s snoring at my feet, it’s close to bedtime. That’s when I sit down, put on Game of Thrones in the background, and dive into the fifth draft of my novel.
This draft is all about fixing inconsistencies and aligning the story with the rest of the trilogy I’m building. Every sentence I tweak and every plot hole I patch has to fit into the larger picture. With only 30 minutes a day, progress is slow but steady. Some nights I manage to rewrite an entire scene; other nights, I just have the energy to read a few paragraphs. But it’s not about how much I get done in one session—it’s about showing up every day.
Here’s how I’ve made the most of my limited time:
Plan Ahead: I end each session by anticipating what comes next. That way, when I sit down the next night, I know exactly where to pick up. I give a purpose for each session, am I reading, am I leaving comments, or am I making the edits? When I know what comes next, I can take action.
Set A Timer: I don’t only say that I’m going to write for 30 mins, I actually set a timer to ensure that I do. And at the end of the timer, I can stop or I can push through a little more. Often, I will end up doing a little more than 30 mins, but rarely do I do less.
Find Motivation in the Routine: Writing at the same time every night has turned it into a habit. Even on days when I’m tired, my brain knows it’s time to write. It’s the last thing I do. A final burst of energy, the kind you would do in a HIIT workout.
Tracking Your Streak: I find that marking down the days that I write really helps me stay committed. By marking it down, I can see how many days in a row I have been writing and then that gives me a little boost of motivation.
If you are hard-pressed to find time, often what you need is to feel committed. I know I’m always pushed to start and keep going when I have committed to a project, a program, or even a person.
If you are looking for that little extra push, you should check out Reedsy’s events and memberships. It’s a fantastic source to get your questions answered by publishing professionals, including literary agents and editors at Big 5 publishers. With the membership, you’d receive 12 months of exclusive access to events with bestselling authors and top publishing professionals from the Reedsy Marketplace.
If you are interested, check out the link here to learn more about the events and memberships.
This winter, I’ve learned that consistency is more powerful than long stretches of time. Petey reminds me of this in his own way. For dogs, in order to train them, they need to do the same things every day. Consistency. He’s grown so much since I adopted him, but it’s happened gradually, with patience and daily effort. The same is true of this novel. Each night I sit down, I’m inching closer to the story I’ve been imagining for years.
If you’re struggling to find time to write, my advice is simple: make the most of what you have. Whether it’s 30 minutes a day or even less, commit to showing up. Plan your sessions, set small goals, and trust the process. One day, you’ll look back and realize how far those tiny steps have taken you.
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Bryan Cranston—you know, the guy who gave us Walter White—once shared some advice for actors going into an audition. But this advice felt bigger than just acting. He said: “know what your job is
At first, it sounds simple, almost too simple. But then he elaborates:
“I was going to auditions to try and get a job. That is not what you are supposed to do. An actor is supposed to create a compelling, interesting character that serves the text, you present it in the environment where you audition. And then you walk away. And that’s it. Everything else is outside your control, so don’t even think about it, don’t focus on that. You’re not going there to get a job. You’re going there to present what you do. You act. And there it is. And you walk away and there’s power in that.”
Cranston’s not saying “Don’t care about the outcome.” He’s saying, “Care about what you can control.” For him, it’s about crafting a character that serves the story. For us—whether we’re writers, marketers, or creators—it’s about honing our craft and delivering it with intention.
I remember a time when I was deep in job applications, obsessing over every detail, trying to predict what each company wanted. The constant second-guessing, the tweaking of synonyms and punctuations—it was exhausting. My job wasn’t to convince them I was perfect. My job was to show up and be myself—to present what I do best.
The same rule applies when you’re already on the job. Showing up every day isn’t just about ticking off tasks or meeting deadlines. It’s about knowing what’s at the heart of your work. If you’re a writer, your job isn’t just to write—it’s to tell a story that connects. If you’re a marketer, it’s not just about ad campaigns—it’s about creating something that leads to action.
But here’s the thing—the pressure to get it “right” can mess with your head. You want the recognition, the results, the wins. That’s why Cranston’s advice feels so important. He’s saying: let go of what you can’t control. You can’t control how people respond to your performance, your draft, or your campaign. But you can control the effort and care you put into it.
So, how do you do this in real life? First, focus on the process. Instead of asking, “Will they like it?”
Ask: “Am I proud of this? Does it serve the purpose?”
Second, detach from the outcome. Present it and move on.
And third, redefine success. It’s not just about landing the job or nailing the project—it’s about the growth that comes from the work itself.
Rejections sting. Constructive criticism can break me down. And negative comments are hard to ignore. But when you focus on what’s within your control, you start to find a different kind of power. You’re less tied to the highs and lows, and more grounded in the work you’re doing every day.
So, whether you’re pitching ideas, crafting stories, or designing campaigns, take Cranston’s advice: “Know what your job is.” Show up. Do the work. Let go of the rest. There’s freedom in that.
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Show up. … when you’re tired. … when you don’t have to. … even when you have an excuse. … even if you’re busy. … even if no one will notice. … even if it’s beating you down.
Once you start, you can build on it. Once you act, momentum can grow. Showing up is the key—because when you show up, you can do.
Over a nearly 60-year career, Joyce Carol Oates wrote novels, stories, poetry, plays — millions of words. If she can show up every day, you can get on the treadmill. Pick up the violin. Answer emails. Write a scene. Lift some weights. Cross one thing off your list.
It doesn’t matter what it is—all aspects of life improve when you work on them daily.
The Greeks have a word for this: philoponia—a love of hard work.
So, show up. Do the work. Not for perfection, but for progress. The grind pays off.
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Elliot Chan 