If the main reason you’re writing on Medium is to make a tidy profit, then I would suggest you’re somewhat deluded… There are a lot of stories about making reasonable money, and I don’t doubt that for some this is a reality, but it requires a mindset and a drive…

Today, I would like to introduce you to Geoffrey. He’s six years old, and I am very happy to discover that he and I share the same birthday. Like me, Geoffrey is also a bit of a daydreamer, but I am pleased to say that his dreams are happy —…

Fiction — “You moved the couch again.” Henry draped his jacket on the back of a chair and began to loosen his tie. Delilah picked it up and disappeared into the hall. “Making room for the chaise,” she called. “Chaise?” She was back, plucking the stripy tie from the sideboard where Henry…

You already know how easy it is to become fixated on something that nobody else seems to care about, right? Many of you out there in Mediumland are writers, so I know you do… When I was a kid, I was introduced to a poet named John Hegley by my…

I write garbage. That’s how it feels. Occasionally, I scribble down a pseudo-random sequences of words, spattered with my best guess at proper punctuation, and it somehow looks okay. Once in a while I actually like it. Monkeys and typewriters, right? Openly sharing the results of your efforts in any…

“He Turns,” Replies Maria Hill — Sounds exhausting. It is. It’s perhaps not one of the most noteworthy MCU quotations, but it is one that resonated with me and it sticks to this day. I was born with a relatively minor genetic defect that causes the carrier to develop cataracts in both eyes, completely undetectable at…

Flash fiction — Devon lived in the apartment above. We’d pass each other on the stairs as often as not, he descending — carefree and reckless as a maple seed — while I climbed upward in a slow, square helix, weighed down by the ever-present luggage of life. “I will call,” he would…

Fiction — There were places of shadow in the deep of the forest where the sun didn’t ever quite reach, and in mid-winter time, when the sun stayed low in the sky for much of the day, even the Glen could sometimes seem dim and gloomy, with the bright green of summer…

From what I have gathered during the decades I’ve spent writing and interacting with those who also write, I am not alone in being a chronic procrastinator. It isn’t a habit. It is an affliction. Without any sort of deadline, tasks becomes so abstract that their meaningfulness eludes me entirely…