Musings

Just for Fun: If Mythological Gods Had Instagram

By /

Loki in the midst of shapeshifting

I’m feeling a bit silly today and I came up with this idea….

Okay, soI know the gods of myth are supposed to be all majestic and timeless and whatever, but I cannot stop imagining what would happen if they got their hands on Instagram. Like, just picture Zeus trying to slide into DMs and accidentally live-streaming himself shapeshifting into a swan. Again. Blocked by Hera for the 387th time this week. Honestly, the god has zero chill and I feel like he’d be the type to post vague thirst traps with cryptic captions like “Lightning never strikes twice… unless I want it to ⚡😉.” Sir, please log off.

Now let’s talk about Athena. Oh, you know she’s running a flawless, grayscale aesthetic with Latin quotes and black coffee in moody lighting. She’s the queen of the #NoFilter movement but also subtly tags her owl in every post, like, “Just me and Glaucus vibing in the war room ☕🦉.” She’d totally have one of those perfectly curated highlight reels labeled “Wisdom,” “Battle,” and “Petty Feuds w/ Poseidon.”

Meanwhile, Poseidon is definitely that guy who overposts vacation selfies. Beaches. Buff arms. Salt in his curls. Always tagging some random trident brand like it’s a casual sponsored post. “Just me, vibing in Atlantis. #OceanDaddy #DeepThoughts.” I feel like he’s also constantly tagging his location even when he’s somewhere sketchy like, “Mediterranean trench 🧜‍♂️🌊💀.”

And Loki? Oof. Loki is absolutely thriving in chaotic Instagram energy. His grid is pure nonsense: mirror selfies that distort his face, cursed memes, illusion tricks, and unhinged Instagram stories where he starts a poll like “Should I shapeshift into your ex and cause emotional turmoil today? 💔🐍” And the results are always 98% yes because honestly, we live for the drama.

Oh! Persephone. My girl would run two accounts. One is all soft-core cottagecore vibes—sun hats, pomegranates, beeswax candles, “accidental” flower crown selfies. The other? It’s a secret Finsta called @UnderworldWitchBabe where she posts shadowy OOTDs, rants about seasonal depression (literal, not metaphorical), and thirst reposts of Hades brooding by a fireplace. “Me looking respectfully.” (And Hades, being the ultimate goth boyfriend, reposts it with the caption: “She lights my eternal abyss.”)

Not gonna lie, I think Dionysus would have the most entertaining stories. Every post is blurry, chaotic, and usually involves someone dancing on a table. He’d be posting from vineyards with half-drunk poetry and random centaurs just wandering in and out of frame. Comments like “bro where even ARE you” would flood in hourly, and the answer would always be a shrug emoji and a photo of a spilled goblet.

And then there’s Anubis—underrated king of the aesthetic feed. Like, you just know that man’s Instagram is visually immaculate. Monochrome black, golden accents, slow-mo shots of incense rising, jackal-themed nail art, and captions like “Sometimes silence speaks louder than the living.” You double-tap it and immediately feel like you need to reevaluate your life.

Honestly, if mythological gods had Instagram, I don’t think the world would be better off—but it’d be way more entertaining. Olympus would fall, sure, but not before we all got to witness a comment fight between Hera and Aphrodite over a shirtless pic of Ares. You can practically hear the passive-aggressive emojis already.

Anyway, now I really want a Greek pantheon reality show where the gods are just influencers with delusions of grandeur and wildly clashing aesthetics. Someone call Netflix. Or better yet—Dionysus. He’ll produce it, stream it, and forget about it all by morning.

When Brooklyn librarian David Rosen accidentally brings a clay figure to life, he discovers an ancient family gift: the power to create golems. As he falls for charismatic social worker Jacob, a dark sorcerer threatens the city. With a rare celestial alignment approaching, David must master his abilities before the Shadow’s ritual unleashes chaos—even if using his power might kill him. The Golem’s Guardian

Just for Fun: If Mythological Gods Had Instagram Read Post »

Why I’d Rather Be Ridiculous Than Boring

By /

eccentric man with silly glasses and outlandish clothing

I still remember the first time I wore leopard-print pants in public.

It was a Wednesday. I had an iced latte in one hand, mild anxiety in the other, and exactly zero business walking into a coffee shop dressed like a disco ball had gotten frisky with a safari guide. But there I was—strutting (read: internally spiraling) across a sea of denim and neutrals, feeling both foolish and fully alive.

That, my friends, is what Marilyn Monroe was talking about.

“It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”

Let’s talk about that.

The Myth of Playing It Safe

For a good chunk of my life, I tried to blend in. I thought it was safer that way—less awkward, fewer questions, no raised eyebrows. If I could keep my head down, wear “sensible” shoes, and stick to polite opinions, maybe I could make it through life unnoticed and unscathed.

Spoiler: I was very bored. Worse, I was boring.

And here’s the kicker—I wasn’t even happy. I was just… beige. You know that feeling when you’re in a conversation and your brain goes, “Are we really talking about the weather again?” Yeah. That was my whole existence for a while.

But being “normal” is exhausting. It’s a full-time job with no benefits and a dress code that sucks the soul out of you.

The Power of the Ridiculous

There’s a kind of magic that happens when you stop trying to be digestible and start letting yourself be a little absurd. Whether it’s fashion, opinions, hobbies, or how you decorate your living room (hello, disco ball in the kitchen), leaning into the ridiculous is like giving yourself permission to actually be a person.

Not a carefully curated brand. Not an algorithm-friendly highlight reel. A human being, weirdness and all.

Some of the most delightful people I’ve ever met are gloriously ridiculous. One friend wears socks with avocados on them and swears by peanut butter on pizza. Another sings show tunes in public like we’re in a live-action musical. And I love them for it. Not because they’re “quirky” but because they’re alive in a way that people who cling to conformity often aren’t.

Fear of Cringe Is Killing Us

Okay, not literally, but stay with me.

We live in a time where being “cringe” is treated like a social death sentence. Express an unpopular opinion? Cringe. Post a vulnerable thought online? Double cringe. Try something new and flop? Oh no, eternal internet shame.

But guess what—ridiculousness is where growth lives. Creativity lives there. Joy lives there. All the most unforgettable stories I have (and probably you too) came from moments where I was slightly out of my depth, a little over-the-top, or laughing too hard to care how I looked.

Playing it safe won’t give you stories to tell. Being ridiculous will. (Plus I find the word ‘cringe’ so…..cringe!)

So What If They Think You’re Weird?

This is the part where I get a little soapbox-y, so buckle up.

People are going to judge you no matter what. You might as well give them a damn good show.

Wear that neon jacket. Take up pottery even if your first bowl looks like a tragic ashtray (like mine did). Start a blog with twelve readers (hi, Mom). Go salsa dancing even if you’ve got two left feet and one of them’s on fire. Just… do the thing. Whatever it is.

Because living loud, living honest, and yes—living ridiculous—is the only antidote I’ve found to the soul-numbing dullness of being “normal.”

So, yeah…

I’ve learned more about myself in moments of absurdity than I ever did in quiet compliance. So here’s where I land: If the choices are between being a little cringe or being completely forgettable, I’ll take cringe with a side of glitter, thanks.

Life’s too short to be beige.

Go be ridiculous. Marilyn would’ve approved.

P.S. I just got me some purple eyeglasses and I love them! My spouse says I’m cultivating my Dame Edna persona…perhaps I am.

Have you grabbed a copy of my latest book, The Golem’s Guardian? If not, you can grab your copy HERE

 

Why I’d Rather Be Ridiculous Than Boring Read Post »

Ghosts, Grit, and Guys Who Kiss—Why I Write Gay Male Heroes in Supernatural Worlds

By /

Man with dirty face and yellow eyes

So let me tell you something weird and very specific about me (and maybe you can relate, maybe you’ll just smile and nod politely): I’ve always been that guy who wanted the vampire hunter to kiss his brooding male companion instead of rescuing the blonde ingenue. And not just kiss him—but, like, really go through something together first. Blood, betrayal, maybe a deal with a demon that leaves emotional scars. You know. The good stuff.

I write gay male heroes in gritty, supernatural worlds because that’s the kind of story I craved growing up—and let’s just say the pickings were slim if you wanted queer characters who weren’t tragic sidekicks, sassy best friends, or some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it coded glance across a smoky bar.

Nope. I wanted haunted alleyways, cursed antiques, moonlit rooftops, and dudes falling in love while dodging ghosts with knives. I wanted longing and horror. Leather jackets and emotional repression. Soulmates and salt circles.

Why supernatural?

There’s just something deliciously cathartic about supernatural settings. Everything’s turned up to eleven. The stakes are literally life and death (or, you know, un-death), and the emotional terrain gets all twisty and intense. It’s messy. Dangerous. Romantic in a way that actually feels risky.

And as a queer person? Yeah, I relate to that. A lot of us grew up having to live in the shadows, second-guessing our gut feelings, trying to figure out which parts of ourselves were “safe” to show. That kind of double life? That’s vampire material right there. That’s shapeshifter. That’s cursed oracle. The metaphor is practically glowing in neon.

Why gritty supernatural?

Because I don’t do fluff well. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I love a sweet story with two dudes baking cupcakes and falling in love over an enchanted mixer, but when I write, I’m chasing something darker. Not grimdark-for-the-sake-of-it, but raw. Ugly. Honest.

I want my heroes bruised, emotionally and otherwise. I want them cracking jokes while bleeding out in a haunted speakeasy. I want them kissing like it’s a last meal. And I want magic to be beautiful and terrifying. Because that’s how the world often feels. Especially when you’re queer.

A lot of queer folks live in survival mode for a while. We become hyper-aware, emotionally nimble, a little cynical. That’s why I love dropping gay male heroes into these pressure-cooker worlds. I want to show how they rise—how they still choose connection, even when everything in them says “nope, too risky, shut it down.”

My favorite kinds of guys to write?

Give me the reluctant hero. The loner. The ex-cop with a demon in his basement and a cigarette habit he keeps swearing he’ll quit. The medium who didn’t ask to see ghosts, thank you very much. The snarky necromancer who falls for the grim reaper. (Still mad that hasn’t been done more, by the way.)

These men are complicated. They’re not always soft or shiny or good at feelings. But they care. And they fight. Not just the monsters in the shadows, but their own trauma, their own guilt, their own belief that they don’t deserve love. Watching them find it anyway? That’s the part that gets me every time.

Why gay male heroes?

Because we need more of them. Not sanitized, side-character versions, but central, messy, sexy, real ones. We deserve stories that let us be the chosen ones. The cursed ones. The heroes and the disasters. I want gay characters who save the world and get the guy. Preferably while covered in blood and muttering something sarcastic.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m still writing for the younger version of me who sat in his childhood bedroom with a horror paperback in one hand and a spiral notebook in the other, dreaming up alternate endings where the monster hunter didn’t end up with the damsel—but with the other monster hunter. The one with the scar and the tragic past and the slow-burn yearning that never made it to the page.

Alright, that’s my ramble. If you’ve ever wanted to see queer guys get their hands dirty in stories full of ghosts, demons, and supernatural what-the-hellery, then hey, welcome to the club. The blood’s fresh, the magic’s weird, and the boys? They’re just trying to survive—and maybe fall in love before the next curse hits.

—

Did you know that the Ghost Oracle series is now available in a box set (ebook only)? It’s broken out into two sets:  Books 1-3 and Books 4-6

Ghosts, Grit, and Guys Who Kiss—Why I Write Gay Male Heroes in Supernatural Worlds Read Post »

Welcome to Homeroom, But With Spells — Why We’re Still Obsessed with Magical Schools (Especially Us Queer Folks)

By /

Handsome young man working on a potion

Okay, real talk: I would absolutely have been the kid in the back row of Potions class pretending I totally meant to turn my cauldron into a small, hissing cabbage. And I would’ve loved every second of it. There’s just something about magical school settings that hits harder than a Firebolt to the face—and I think it’s about time we talk about why these stories keep tugging at our hearts, especially those of us who grew up a little (or a lot) outside the norm.

We All Want to Get the Letter

Let’s start here: the fantasy of escape. One day, you’re stuck in algebra class thinking about how your life is aggressively unmagical, and the next? Boom. A letter shows up saying you’re actually destined for something bigger. Like, “Here’s your wand, here’s your roommate, and oh, by the way, you have latent powers because you’re special.”

Tell me that doesn’t hit differently when you’ve spent your childhood feeling like the odd one out.

Whether it’s Hogwarts, Brakebills (The Magicians), Hex Hall, The Scholomance, or even Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters (yes, that counts—don’t fight me), magical schools offer this built-in narrative of “Hey, you’re not weird, you’re just magical.” And if that’s not a queer metaphor, I don’t know what is.

The Magic of Chosen Family

Here’s the thing: a lot of us LGBTQ+ folks have a complicated relationship with traditional family structures. Magical school settings often create space for chosen family—the best kind of found friendships that grow out of survival, shared secrets, and late-night sneaking into the library to research forbidden charms.

Think about Will and Jem in the Shadowhunter Academy (The Infernal Devices), or even the chaotic friendship dynamics in Carry On by Rainbow Rowell. You get these intense, emotional bonds formed in the pressure cooker of coming-of-age, with extra bonus points for dragons and magical duels.

And honestly? Watching queer-coded or explicitly queer characters find that kind of deep connection in a magical environment feels healing. It’s not just about the spells. It’s about finding your people. Even if one of them turns out to be half-demon.

Structure, but Make It Sparkle

Another reason magical schools are so satisfying? The structure. As someone who lives by lists but also dreams of floating through a dark forest talking to sentient trees, I get the appeal.

You’ve got the school year, the class schedule, the dormitories… It gives a familiar rhythm. But instead of gym class, you’re dodging hexes. Instead of bullies throwing spitballs, it’s rival houses flinging minor curses across the dining hall.

It’s comforting and thrilling. There’s a safe framework—class, homework, exams—but inside it, anything can happen. Your professor might be secretly a vampire. Your best friend might turn out to be a reincarnated phoenix. And you? You might finally learn that being different isn’t a flaw, it’s your gift.

The Queer Allegory Is Not Subtle, and We Love That

Okay, can we just acknowledge how many queer-coded narratives exist in magical school books? There’s a whole subgenre of “Oops, I kissed my roommate and now our magical bond is spiraling out of control and also we might be soulmates.” (Looking at you, Witchmark and The House in the Cerulean Sea.)

There’s also the fact that magic itself is often portrayed as something hidden or suppressed until the character embraces it. Sound familiar? Yeah, it’s giving “closeted teenager finally coming into his own at wizard boot camp.”

Magical schools offer that sweet, sweet metaphorical buffet: repression, transformation, identity, power, found family, first love, and sometimes dragons. The queer parallels basically write themselves.

The Drama, Darling

Let’s be real—no one does high-stakes emotional drama like teenagers with magic. Especially queer teenagers with magic. The yearning? Off the charts. The angst? Breathtaking. The romantic subplots that simmer for 200 pages before exploding in a single magical kiss under the moonlight? Inject it straight into my veins.

If you’ve ever read “A Deadly Education” by Naomi Novik, you know what I mean. Or “The Witch King” by H.E. Edgmon, which unapologetically centers a trans protagonist navigating magic, trauma, and hot fae politics. There’s something deliciously cathartic about reading a story where the main character is both emotionally fragile and powerful enough to accidentally shatter a castle.

Closing the Spellbook (for now)

So yeah, I love magical schools. Always have. Probably always will. They’re not just fantasy—they’re wish fulfillment, especially for those of us who spent our formative years feeling like outsiders, hoping there was somewhere—anywhere—we might finally fit.

Give me a boarding school where the library whispers secrets and every student has a closet full of capes. Give me crushes that bloom under enchanted moons. Give me chaos and beauty and the kind of magic that makes you finally feel seen.

And if someone builds that school IRL? I’ve got my bags packed.

Welcome to Homeroom, But With Spells — Why We’re Still Obsessed with Magical Schools (Especially Us Queer Folks) Read Post »

Spellbound & Fabulous — Queer Icons Who Deserve Supernatural Roles

By /

creepy lookiing guy with face half alien

So, I’ve been thinking (always a dangerous start, right?): What if we could pick our favorite queer actors and bless them with supernatural roles? Like, how amazing would it be to see some of the most talented LGBTQ+ folks playing witches, warlocks, vampires, shapeshifters, or whatever other magical beings are lurking out there? I mean, supernatural stories thrive on drama, with all the brooding and epic battles, and who does high drama better than queer folks?? Answer: No one, honestly. The casting universe needs to get with the program and give us more of this.

Okay, let’s dive in.

First on my list—and this might be influenced by my low-key obsession with him—Billy Porter. We already know Billy brings flair, elegance, and power to pretty much everything he does (like, POSE anyone? Have you seen that wardrobe?). Now, imagine him as the most extra, fashion-forward warlock, living in some chic urban magical headquarters. He’d be the kind of warlock who’s ten steps ahead of everyone else, raises an eyebrow and—bam—summons a dragon. And don’t even get me started on the outfits. He’d slaughter in those sweeping ceremonial robes. Plus, his voice alone could literally enchant an entire council of elders into agreeing with whatever scheme he’s cooking up.

Now, let’s talk Indya Moore. If Indya wasn’t already a real-life goddess, I’d say it’s time for them to enter the supernatural world. Indya would make an incredible vampire queen—like, picture it. Regal, ancient, and incredibly fierce. The kind of vampire that doesn’t just sip tea (uh, blood) in a castle, but…stalks the night in designer heels. There’s something in their quiet intensity that screams “ancient power in a very modern world.” Plus, those eyes? Hypnotic. Probably doesn’t even need vamp powers to get you under their thrall (I mean, don’t pretend you’d resist).

I feel like Elliot Page would be such a phenomenal shapeshifter. Hear me out. Elliot has this really grounded, subtle approach to acting—you totally believe him in whatever he’s doing—with the ability to make you care about his character’s journey. A department store shapeshifter, living among ordinary humans while secretly bouncing between identities for fun? Honestly, his dry humor would make those interactions so relatable and hilarious. One second, he’s a sassy cat refusing to get off a random stranger’s car, the next, he’s casually rescuing people without anyone noticing. He’d definitely be chaotic neutral.

And uh, speaking of chaos—Laverne Cox as a kickass witch. So we already know Laverne has this incredible, commanding screen presence, right? Well, imagine her character as this stunning, highly powerful witch who walks into a magical council meeting and just takes over with perfect composure. Everyone else is fumbling around with their spell books, and Laverne’s already untangling interdimensional knots with a snap of her fingers and a perfectly arched eyebrow. I bet she’d have snarky, layered spells where the magic’s elegant, but deadly—and that’s exactly what we need in a world that doesn’t take magical queens seriously. Trust Laverne to shut that down.

Also, I’m going to sneak in Dan Levy for a role as some chaotic, ethereal fae king. Come on, you know it works. The man was born to be a snarky magical creature. I envision him leading a band of misfit fae, being salty about literally everything but also very on top of an ancient war over enchanted forests or whatever it is fae squabble about. There’s such an “I don’t have time for humanity’s shenanigans” look in his eye that he’d wear the crown without even trying. And don’t you just know David Rose believes in magic? No one who owns that many scarves doesn’t believe there’s a magical manatee somewhere out there.

Next up for hero vamp status: Tessa Thompson. Look, we’ve already seen some insane action from Tessa in Thor: Ragnarok as Valkyrie (she literally showed up on a spaceship, casually, while flipping off all kinds of danger). Imagine that energy as a rogue vampire, equal parts conviction, rebellion, and stunning. The blade work alone would be freaking epic. I just want her dressed in leather, owning the night with a cool smirk and her swanky vampiric underground headquarters. Honestly, she could take down a whole council of ancient vampires while sipping a cocktail and not look even mildly stressed. And I’d be lining up for that battle scene.

Last, but nowhere near least, Janelle Monáe needs to play a goddess—preferably one who shifts between realms like it’s just… brunch plans. I mean, have you seen her entire aesthetic? I’m imagining a goddess of chaos and cosmic justice, one who’s got one foot in the real world and the other in something totally otherworldly. She’d wear those super sleek, futuristic outfits from her music videos, but in a divine way, and her powers would just be unstoppable. Oh, and music would definitely bend to her will—so calling on different dimensions with a different style of music every time? Yeah, that.

Okay, I realize I could go on for hours—Sara Ramirez would make a gnarly werewolf leader who’s actually balancing classes at law school, and don’t get me started on Ezra Miller—but we don’t have all day. So, if you’re feeling any of these picks, let me know, and we can totally start drafting some petitions to send to Hollywood. They’re way overdue on queer magical representation. 😉

Spellbound & Fabulous — Queer Icons Who Deserve Supernatural Roles Read Post »

Whiskey, Wards, and Wisecracks—How Noir Paved the Way for Urban Fantasy Detectives

By /

Noir detective at work

So here’s a thing I’ve been thinking about (probably too much): modern urban fantasy detectives are basically chain-smoking, spell-slinging love children of classic noir gumshoes. Like, if Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe woke up in a world full of vampires, magical artifacts, and ghosts with unfinished business, you’d get about 80% of today’s gritty, snarky paranormal investigators.

Seriously—if you love stuff like The Dresden Files, Rivers of London, or even Netflix’s weird little gem The Order(RIP), you owe a big, grimy hug to noir.

Let’s go back a sec. Classic noir detectives—think Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon) or Mike Hammer—were loners. Cynical. Had questionable hygiene but, like, were somehow still magnetic. They lurked in alleys, drank too much, trusted no one, and almost always got emotionally wrecked by a femme fatale with legs for days and secrets for centuries.

Sound familiar?

Now imagine swapping out the fedora for a charm-laced trench coat, the revolver for a runed dagger, and the cigarette for… okay fine, they probably still smoke. Just maybe cloves or enchanted ones now. And boom: you’ve got Harry Dresden (The Dresden Files, Jim Butcher’s long-running series). He’s basically a noir detective wrapped in wizard drag—he works cases, gets beat up a lot, deals with shady clients, and has that whole “I’m tired but I care too much” thing going on. Also, his office literally has “Wizard” painted on the door. No subtlety, just vibes.

Another one? Peter Grant in Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London series. He starts off as a regular beat cop who accidentally sees a ghost and gets roped into a hidden magical underworld. There’s bureaucracy, ancient gods squatting in public housing, and a talking river goddess who could probably punch your soul out of your body. Peter’s dry humor and methodical cop brain are pure noir, but now it’s layered with arcane rituals and angry fae creatures.

You know what I love about this noir-meets-magic cocktail? It’s messy. Noir has always thrived in moral gray areas, and urban fantasy just throws glitter on those grays. Like, your local necromancer might be shady, but if he’s the only one who can stop a soul bomb from going off in the subway, guess what? You’re working with him. Begrudgingly. Probably while insulting each other the whole time.

Let’s not ignore the visuals, either. Classic noir is all rain-slick streets and flickering neon signs. Urban fantasy kept that aesthetic but added gargoyle sentries, haunted jazz clubs, and the occasional demon-possession incident in a 24-hour diner. It’s like someone took Double Indemnity and decided it needed more tentacles. I am not mad about this.

Also! Fun fact: the word “noir” literally means black in French. So noir fiction? Black fiction. As in dark, shadowy, morally twisted. Not just about literal lighting (though I do love a good backlit silhouette and a dramatic cloud of cigarette smoke). Source: Merriam-Webster, because I’m nerdy like that.

Anyway, back to feelings. One of the reasons I love this noir-to-now lineage is because it gives us detectives who don’t always win—but they try anyway. They’re the kind of characters who’ll go toe-to-toe with a cursed mobster or a succubus assassin even when they’re bleeding out and down to their last sarcastic quip. They’re compelled to do the right thing, even when it’s probably the stupidest option on the table. I vibe with that.

So yeah. Next time you’re watching some brooding private eye cast a spell while bleeding into his trench coat and muttering about justice, just know—he’s channeling the ghosts of noir legends past. And probably getting ghost-mugged in a magically seedy alleyway for his trouble.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go reread Storm Front and pretend I don’t want to name my future cat “Mab.”

Stay strange and solve things.

Whiskey, Wards, and Wisecracks—How Noir Paved the Way for Urban Fantasy Detectives Read Post »

From Stick Figures to Stardom — Why We All Start Somewhere

By /

young man painting

So I’ve been thinking about this quote lately that’s been bouncing around in my head like a ping-pong ball – “Every artist was first an amateur” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. You know how sometimes a phrase just hits you at the weirdest moment? I was literally standing in line at the coffee shop yesterday, watching the barista create these insane latte art designs, when it clicked.

I mean, think about it. That barista probably started out making coffee that looked like brown soup with foam blobs floating on top. But there she was, crafting these delicate little leaf patterns that made me feel guilty for even drinking them. It got me wondering about all the times I’ve been too scared to try something because I wasn’t immediately good at it.

Remember when you were a kid and you’d grab those chunky crayons and just go wild on paper? The smell of that waxy residue, the scratchy sound against construction paper – pure magic. Nobody told us we were “bad” at art back then. We just created because it felt good. Somewhere along the way, though, we started comparing ourselves to others and suddenly our stick figures seemed embarrassing.

Here’s something that blew my mind recently: Vincent van Gogh didn’t even start painting until he was 27 years old. Twenty-seven! That’s older than some of my friends who think they’re “too late” to learn guitar or try pottery. The guy who gave us “Starry Night” was basically a late bloomer, and look how that turned out.

I’ve got this friend who always said she couldn’t draw to save her life. Like, she’d literally apologize before sketching directions on a napkin. But last year she got fed up with her corporate job and enrolled in an art class on a whim. The first few weeks were rough – I’m talking geometric shapes that looked like they’d been drawn during an earthquake. But something shifted around week four. Her hands started remembering what her brain was telling them to do.

Now her whole social media presence is dedicated to her botanical sketches, and honestly? They’re gorgeous. Not museum-worthy yet, maybe, but there’s something raw and honest about them that makes you stop scrolling. She told me the other day that she can actually smell the pencil shavings from sharpening her drawing tools now — it’s become this weird meditation for her.

The thing is, we live in this instant-everything culture where people expect to be TikTok famous after posting one video. But mastery is messy. It’s about showing up when your work looks terrible and doing it anyway. It’s about the calluses forming on your fingertips from guitar strings, or the paint under your nails that won’t come out no matter how much you scrub.

I read somewhere that it takes about 10,000 hours to truly master something — that’s roughly five years of full-time work! But here’s what they don’t tell you: those first hundred hours are usually the most fun because everything is new and surprising. You’re not worried about being perfect yet; you’re just playing.

So maybe Emerson was onto something bigger than just art. Maybe he was talking about giving ourselves permission to suck at things initially. To embrace that awkward beginner phase where everything feels foreign and your creations look nothing like what you pictured in your head.

What’s stopping you from picking up that paintbrush or learning that language you’ve been thinking about? Start amateur. Stay curious.

From Stick Figures to Stardom — Why We All Start Somewhere Read Post »

Scroll to Top