Musings

I’ve been chewing on this older quote for days now…

“Waste of time, waste of human potential. How much time we waste. As if we were going to live forever.”
— Leo Buscaglia

I keep thinking about it while standing in line. While doom-scrolling. While putting off something that actually matters to me because I’m tired or distracted or just plain avoiding it.

Time has a smell to it, I swear. Cold coffee. Warm dust from an old book. The faint hum of electronics late at night. It feels physical when you notice it slipping past.

Time Is Sneaky Like That

I don’t wake up thinking, Ah yes, today I shall waste my potential. Nobody does. It happens sideways. Ten minutes here. A couple of hours there. A day that evaporates without anything to show for it except sore eyes and that low-grade guilt buzzing under your skin.

I catch myself saying things like, “I’ll get to it later.”
Later feels generous. Safe. Infinite.

It isn’t.

That’s the part of Buscaglia’s quote that lands hardest. We act like time renews itself the way phone batteries do. Plug in. Recharge. Start fresh. Real life doesn’t work like that. Time only moves one way, and it does not circle back to check on you.

Potential Is Not Loud

Human potential sounds dramatic. Big speeches. Big goals. Big gestures.

Most of the time, it’s quiet.

It’s the book you keep meaning to write, sitting half-finished on your laptop.
It’s the phone call you keep putting off.
It’s the class you wanted to take.
It’s the language you wanted to learn.
It’s the walk you didn’t go on because the couch felt easier.

Potential doesn’t kick down the door. It waits. Patiently. Sometimes too patiently.

I’ve felt that waiting. It feels like a low ache behind the ribs. Not pain exactly. More like pressure. The sense that something inside you is tapping its fingers on the table, wondering if you’ve forgotten about it.

The Lie of “Someday”

I grew up believing in “someday.” Someday when things calm down. Someday when I feel ready. Someday when I have more time. Someday when money, energy, confidence, or courage magically appear.

Here’s the part nobody loves hearing: someday is not a place you arrive at. It’s a story you tell yourself while time keeps moving.

I’ve lost entire seasons that way. Whole summers. Whole years. I can still picture the light coming through the windows of apartments I no longer live in, thinking I had plenty of time to figure things out.

I didn’t feel panicked back then. That’s the trick. Wasting time rarely feels dramatic. It feels comfortable.

Comfort Is Not the Enemy — Drift Is

I’m not anti-rest. I love rest…a lot! I love quiet afternoons and doing nothing on purpose. That’s different.

Drift is when rest turns into avoidance. When comfort becomes a holding pattern. When days blur together and you can’t quite remember what you were excited about last month.

Buscaglia isn’t yelling at us to hustle harder. He’s pointing at the tragedy of drifting through a life you actually care about.

That hits me in the chest every time.

Mortality Changes the Math

The older I get, the louder this stuff gets. Time feels heavier now. Not scary, just… real.

There’s a strange clarity that comes from accepting that the clock does not owe us anything. It makes small choices feel sharper. It makes saying yes or no feel more deliberate.

I notice how my body reacts when I choose something meaningful. There’s a warmth there. A steadiness. Even when the thing itself is hard.

I notice the opposite reaction too. That dull, dragging feeling after another evening vanished into nothing.

What I’m Trying to Do Differently

I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing honesty.

Asking myself:
Is this how I want to spend this hour?
Does this choice feed me or numb me?
Am I hiding, or am I resting?

Some days I answer badly. Some days I answer well. The point is asking.

Buscaglia’s words don’t feel like a lecture to me. They feel like a hand on the shoulder. A reminder whispered close: you’re here now. Use it.

One Last Thought Before I Go

Time isn’t cruel. It’s just indifferent. That’s oddly comforting.

We don’t need to do everything. We just need to do something that feels honest before the light changes again.

If I waste time, I want it to be intentional. A long walk. A deep breath. A laugh that leaves my face sore.

Human potential doesn’t need to be grand. It just needs to be lived.

---

Lucien Knight came to New York to escape scandal.
He found a dead singer, a beautiful liar, and a ghost that won’t let go.
Murder at the Savoy — jazz-soaked noir meets the supernatural.
Grab your copy HERE

You know that old Alice Walker quote?  “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.”  I swear, every time I hear it, it feels like she’s standing right next to me, giving me the side-eye while sipping tea and saying, “So… what are you gonna do about it?” Because honestly, that one line sums up so much of what’s happening right now in the U.S.—the creeping sense that regular folks can’t do much against the mess that’s unfolding. Spoiler: that’s exactly how the people in charge want it.

The Illusion of Powerlessness

Let’s be real—power doesn’t always look like marching bands and microphones. Most of the time, it’s quiet. It’s the voice inside that says, “My vote doesn’t matter,” or “They’ll just do what they want anyway.” And just like that, poof—power gone. Not because someone took it, but because we handed it over wrapped in apathy and tied with a bow of exhaustion.

And who could blame anyone for feeling tired? We’re bombarded with headlines that feel like a slow-motion train wreck. Book bans, attacks on LGBTQ+ rights, journalists being harassed, politicians acting like democracy is optional—it’s easy to feel like the tide is too strong. But that’s the trick. Authoritarianism thrives on convincing people they’re too small to fight back. It feeds on our collective shrug.

The Gaslighting of a Nation

We’ve been gaslit into believing “this is just how things are.” You know that uneasy feeling when you start doubting what’s real? Like, wait, did that senator  actually  just say that out loud? And then half the country shrugs? Yeah. That’s the numbing fog of manipulation.

When the loudest voices say “don’t worry, everything’s fine,” even as laws chip away at freedoms, it’s tempting to sink into the couch and pretend not to notice. But that’s the moment Alice Walker’s quote starts glowing neon in my brain. Because realizing you  do  have power is the first crack in the facade.

Power Isn’t Always Loud

We tend to picture “power” as something external—like being on TV, or having a title, or yelling into a megaphone. But sometimes, power is just saying  no . No, I’m not going to normalize cruelty. No, I won’t pretend not to see what’s happening. No, I won’t let fear make me small.

Voting is one obvious tool, sure. But it’s also choosing where you spend your money, who you support, what stories you amplify, what conversations you start. It’s telling your local library board, “Hey, I like those books you’re trying to ban.” (Yes, that counts as power. Librarians are unsung superheroes in this mess.)

The Authoritarian Playbook

If you’ve ever watched a slow takeover unfold—whether in history books or live on your feed—it always starts with the same formula: convince people they’re powerless. Then, pick off rights one group at a time, while everyone else watches from the sidelines thinking, “Well, that doesn’t affect me.” Until it does.

That’s what makes Walker’s words feel especially urgent right now. We’re standing in this weird liminal space where everything still looks normal enough, but the cracks are spreading. And the people spreading them are counting on us being too distracted or discouraged to care.

Reclaiming What’s Ours

I’ve been thinking a lot about what reclaiming power looks like on a small scale. For me, it’s writing. It’s speaking up even when my voice shakes. It’s supporting journalists and artists and teachers who refuse to be silenced. It’s donating ten bucks to someone’s campaign who actually gives a damn. It’s talking to friends who are slipping into that “nothing matters” headspace and reminding them, gently, that it does.

It’s also joy, weirdly enough. Authoritarianism hates joy. It hates laughter and drag shows and art that questions things. It wants conformity and fear. So, every time we create, love loudly, or refuse to play along with hate, we’re pushing back. That’s power.

The Spark That Spreads

Here’s the thing about realizing you have power—it’s contagious. The moment you start acting like your actions matter, other people notice. And that ripple effect is how movements start. Not from grand gestures, but from a bunch of ordinary humans refusing to go numb.

It’s okay to feel small sometimes. We all do. But remember that those in power are terrified of you remembering your worth. Because once you do, the illusion falls apart.

So yeah, maybe we can’t fix everything overnight. But we can refuse to hand over our agency. We can write, vote, protest, love, create, question—and keep doing it, even when it feels pointless. Especially then.

Because as Alice Walker reminds us, power isn’t something they give you. It’s something you already have. You just have to stop pretending you don’t.

And whatever you do, don’t give them your silence.

---

My Ghost Oracle Box Set (Nick Michelson) is now available from your favorite online retailer.

Books 1-3: https://books2read.com/u/mBKOAv
Books 4-6 https://books2read.com/u/mVxr2l

You ever notice how some thoughts just stick? Like you’re minding your own business, making coffee, when suddenly your brain goes, “Remember that thing you messed up in 2009?” And you’re like—oh cool, thanks for that. John Maxwell once said, _“Once our minds are tattooed with negative thinking, our chances for long-term success diminish.”_And boy, did that one land.

Because honestly, negative thinking really is like a bad tattoo—except it’s not a dragon on your bicep, it’s a tiny whisper on repeat saying “you’re not good enough.”

The Ink That Doesn’t Fade

Here’s the thing about tattoos (the literal and mental kind): they last. You might fade them, you might cover them, but they don’t fully disappear. Negative thinking is sneaky like that—it seeps into your habits, your decisions, your self-talk. It’s like background static you forget is even there until you try to do something new and your brain mutters, “Yeah, but you’ll probably fail, so why bother?”

When I first started writing books, I used to think I wasn’t “real” enough to call myself an author. I told myself I was just “dabbling.” That word became my mental tattoo—“dabbler.” It showed up every time I sat down to write, whispering that what I was doing didn’t really matter. That tattoo didn’t come from one big event either—it built up slowly, inked in by every small doubt I didn’t bother to challenge.

Mental Graffiti and the Art of Rewriting

But here’s the wild part: you can’t really erase a tattoo, but you can draw over it. That’s the mental version of laser removal—repetition, kindness, and a bit of audacity.

I started doing this thing where I’d talk back to my brain. Not in a “needs medical attention” kind of way—more like a snarky roommate situation.

Brain: “This story’s not as good as other authors’ stuff.”
Me: “Maybe not yet, but it’s mine. Now hush.”

And weirdly, it works. I didn’t magically turn into Mr. Positivity, but those little counter-arguments started building new patterns—fresh ink over the old scars. Slowly, the old “I can’t” started to lose its punch.

The Tattoo Artists in Our Heads

A lot of those mental tattoos come from other people, too—teachers, parents, bosses, that one ex who thought sarcasm counted as personality. They say something once, maybe even jokingly, and your brain’s like, “Oh cool, permanent record.”

I had a high school teacher who told me, “You’re good at creative stuff, but you’ll never make a career out of it. You should focus on something useful.” I didn’t realize how deep that tattoo went until years later when I hesitated to publish my first novel. That one offhand remark had been quietly coloring every creative decision I made.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are walking around wearing other people’s graffiti on our minds.

The Art of the Cover-Up

The real challenge is that negative thinking feels comfortable. It’s familiar. It gives us a weird sense of safety—because if you already expect to fail, you can’t be disappointed, right? But that’s the trick of it. It’s like staying in a room with bad lighting and then convincing yourself you look terrible in every mirror.

The first time you try to think differently, it feels awkward. You feel fake saying stuff like, “I’m capable,” or “I’m learning.” But every time you repeat it, you’re laying down new ink. Brighter colors. Better lines.

And eventually, the old tattoo—the one that says “failure” or “not enough”—starts to fade under something that actually looks like you.

A Few Mental Needles Worth Using

Here’s what’s helped me sandblast the worst of my mental graffiti:

1. Catch the thought mid-sentence. When I hear myself thinking, “I can’t—” I literally stop and say, “Yet.” It’s such a small word, but it turns the sentence into possibility instead of a verdict.
2. Act anyway. Confidence rarely shows up first. Action does. You can’t think your way into self-belief—you have to move into it.
3. Make friends with failure. Failure is just practice with dramatic lighting.
4. Find new artists. Hang out (virtually or otherwise) with people who see your potential, not your past mistakes.

So yeah…

If your mind is tattooed with negativity, it doesn’t mean you’re doomed—it just means you’ve got some touch-up work to do. And honestly, that’s kind of the fun part. You get to choose what you ink over it with.

I’ve been adding new tattoos lately: “persistent,” “curious,” “weirdly optimistic.” And even on the days I don’t fully believe them, I leave them there. Because belief, like art, starts rough and gets better with layers.

So maybe Maxwell was right—if we let those negative tattoos define us, success will always be out of reach. But if we pick up the metaphorical needle ourselves? We can start designing something new.

---

A murdered songbird. A haunted ballroom. A detective with secrets of his own.

When Evelyn Sinclair’s body is found backstage at the Savoy, everyone calls it an overdose. Everyone but Clara Beaumont.
She hires newcomer Lucien Knight, an English detective with a checkered past and a knack for finding trouble.
From Harlem’s jazz clubs to Manhattan’s shadowed alleys, Lucien hunts a killer—and faces the ghosts that followed him across the Atlantic.

You can check out the paperback version on my web store or get the ebook from Amazon..