February, month of despair, / with a skewered heart in the centre. (#IWSG February 2026)

I will try to keep this month's post a bit lighter than last month's mid-life/existential crisis. No promises, but I'll try.

I'm still writing - I came up with a project for myself and gave myself a deadline, that always seems to help me get motivated. Even if I rarely make the initial goal, at least it's something to work towards. I also joined a soccer team! I still suck, but it's an excuse to get out of the house once a week, meet people and get exercise. We played one game so far (which we lost 4-2, but at most only 2 of those goals were my fault) and I fell and scraped the hell out of my knee on the AstroTurf. Now my leg looks like ground meat and I think it's infected. Can you imagine what's growing on that stuff? Indoors, with thousands of feet running on it all the time, and I can't imagine it's ever cleaned in any way. My daughter's team plays/practices on turf like 3 times a week, I can't believe more of those kids don't have flesh-eating disease.

Anyway, assuming my leg doesn't fall off, I'll be back at it next week.

I think there was a question this month, what was it?

February Question

Many writers have written about the experience of rereading their work years later. Have you reread any of your early works? What was that experience like for you?

I have re-read my old work from time to time, and generally speaking, it's terrible.

I think that's a good thing. That means I'm getting better, and I feel my writing has improved and matured over time.

When I was 15, a lot of what I wrote was copied or rehashed from other books and stories that I liked. I don't think that's a bad thing, I think when anyone starts out, they need to emulate someone they admire before they learn their own voice. Friends and teachers raved about how great a writer I was, but reading it now I just see it as juvenile and derivative. I suppose it still must have been better than what my classmates were doing.

When I was 25, my writing was wild and all over the place. This was definitely the period when I had the most energy and wrote the most (it was right around here I completed a manuscript for the 3-Day Novel Challenge, and I wrote another book in about 19 days). I tried different styles and genres, wrote weird stream-of-consciousness stuff, fake autobiographies, all kinds of dumb shit. Looking back, my writing was probably cleaner and better at 15 than 25, but I had to go through this phase to figure myself out.

At 35, I started my self-publishing career. My first book, Ten Thousand Days, was actually based on the manuscript from the 3-day novel contest, and it was crap. The next book, Hell Comes to Hogtown, was significantly better. Still cringy, when I go back and read it now, but I think I was starting to finally find my voice. I went back and almost completely re-wrote Ten Thousand Days a year later, which I think improved it immensely, and is the version that's still available now. I wish that the was version I had originally published, but I had to go through this phase to find my style and voice and figure out what I was doing. 

Now, at 45, I have five published books under my belt, including a completed trilogy, and I think I'm finally starting to figure out what I'm doing. The Gale Harbour series has its ups and downs, but overall its been well received and I think I mostly accomplished what I set out to do. I think it has a nuance and maturity that my earlier works certainly did not. When I set out to write now I have much clearer goals in mind: I'm more mindful of the plot and characters, so I am much less wasteful of words. I think that's a good way to put it actually, I'm more efficient in my writing. I only have so much time and energy for writing, I have to make it count.

Where will I be at 55? I'll probably look back at what I'm doing now and think it was crap, too, which hopefully means I will have improved even more by then. Of course my writing will change and evolve as I get older, because I change and evolve. I'm not the same person I was when I was 15, 25 or even 35, so why would my writing be the same?

Anyway.

It seems 2026 is turning out to be my year of introspection. Getting old will do that to you, I suppose. Hopefully I'll finally figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Hugs and Kisses,
-CDGK

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group at http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com

Pale January lay / In its cradle day by day / Dead or living, hard to say (#IWSG January 2026)

New Year. Same shit.

Except it's not the same. Not really. Things are different, and they're going to continue to be different. The only constant in life is change, as they say.

The family is still grieving the loss of my father-in-law. My wife is taking it particularly hard. Christmas brought up all kinds of feelings, some good, some bad, but mostly, things felt different. Of course it is, when a major figure in your family is no longer there. The whole dynamic shifts, and everyone is still wandering around in a daze, trying to figure out what life is supposed to look like now. 

But it's not just the big things. There are little things, that trigger little lightning flashes in the mind, that bounce around the inside of your skull and illuminate how life is different now. How your thoughts are different. 

This week is the 10 year anniversary of David Bowie's death. That's a sad anniversary, in its own right, but it's the other feelings it stirs up that surprises me. For Christmas, my daughter got my a Ziggy Stardust record. I was not expecting it, didn't even know I wanted it, but it was probably my favourite gift I received this year. She thought it was special because I used to sing her David Bowie songs at bedtime when she was little. Still do, sometimes. His were some of the only songs I could remember with semi-appropriate lyrics. The wife didn't think Nine Inch Nails was suitable (though I did sneak one or two of those in, from time to time). Anyway, I put the record on Christmas Day and I started to cry. I'm not certain why. Part of it was nostalgia, part of it was remembering that time with my daughter. Part of it was remembering being a kid myself, and discovering David Bowie the first time, listening to the music alone in my room, fascinated by the strange poetry of it, staring at the lyrics and the liner notes. It was such a strange sense of deja vu, returning to a place and a memory that doesn't exist anymore. 

We also finished watching Stranger Things the other day. My wife and I enjoyed the series, and mostly enjoyed the final season. But this too, hit me strangely harder than I would have expected, certainly more than most TV shows do. Not to get too spoilery, but in the end, alot of the themes were about growing up and moving on. One of the last scenes shows the kids putting their Dungeons & Dragons character sheets away, and that particular shot resounded with me like a sledgehammer. Just days before this, on Christmas break, I had come to a realization: I will probably never play D&D again. Something that I loved so dearly, that was such an integral part of my life for such a long time, is gone. Those endless days and long nights of rolling dice and telling stories with friends are behind me. There is too much responsibility, and not enough energy, to devote that much time to a game anymore. I wanted to run a game for my kids and nieces over Christmas, which they probably would have enjoyed, but the thought of it was just too daunting. Just coming up with a story, and being creatively and emotionally "on" for the hours it takes to run it, was just exhausting to think about. I got discouraged before I even did anything.

It's not just getting old. It's about not being a kid anymore. It's about not being young. It's about life changing, and mortality suddenly becoming a very real and ever-present companion on this journey through time and space.

Writing used to be a release, and an escape. I wanted to tell stories. Needed to tell them. But that drive doesn't seem to be there anymore. I do try, I still try to write a little bit every day, and there's a couple of stories and books I'm chipping away on. But none of them feel urgent and important anymore. Maybe it's because I haven't sold a book in literally months and it's just getting me down, but more likely my creative energy is gone to the same place my hopes and youth are hiding.

Now, I recognize that this post is becoming a total bummer, so before anyone rushes out to call emergency services to do a mental health check on me, I will end on a slightly higher note: I made a sort of early New Year's Resolution before Christmas, and I started playing soccer. Yes, at 45 years old, having not played since gym class in high school, I went out and bought a pair of ugly yellow cleats on clearance, went down to the local rec centre, and started playing pick-up games. Why? I was never a sporty person, or played competitively in my youth or anything. I guess from watching my daughter play and practice all year, I just got the itch to try it out. And there has been so many things in my life I've been afraid to try, and later regretted, that I decided I had to start trying something before it was too late.

Not surprisingly, I'm terrible. Can't shoot, can't pass. My cardio's not bad, I have gotten back into running this year, so that helped. Mostly I've been playing in the games for the 35+ crowd, and they're pretty easy going, and supportive, and at least I'm faster than many of them, even if my actual skills are non-existent. I tried one game with the regular, supposedly "All Skill Levels" group, which was all 20-somethings who were way too intense and a million times better than me, and I think they resented the old guy showing up and taking up space on their field. I literally sat on the bench for over half the match. In a community pick-up rec game. It was embarrassing, and humiliating, and part of me knew I should just give up then, but somehow I managed to drag myself back the following week for the old-timers game... and I had fun. For a few minutes, just running around, kicking a ball like a kid again. It was fleeting, but I got a tiny bit of that energy back. Just for a moment. I hurt like hell the next day, but still. It was something.

Those of you who've watched the show get it.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm just trying to process some feelings, I think. I believe this month's question was supposed to be something about writing plans for 2026, so sorry if anyone came for Tips on Finishing Your Manuscript in the New YearTM and found a middle-aged man's existential crisis instead, I'm sorry. But it wouldn't be called the Insecure Writers Support Group if we weren't a bit insecure sometimes, right? Or in my case, just completely lost.

Keep your head up, boys and girls. It's a new year, and hopefully there's a bright and shiny future out there for you somewhere. You know, if the world doesn't completely go to shit first. I'm not even going to touch that right now.

Hugs and kisses,
-CDGK

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group at http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com

The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day (#IWSG December 2025)

It's been a weird, hard year, especially the last few months.

We did not do our annual Haunted House for Halloween, though we did have a Halloween party for the family, which was I think was good for everyone, and I'm sure what my father-in-law would have wanted. I also did not write a Christmas book for anyone this year, which is the first time in a very long time. My mood was just so bad for most of the year, and then with everything that was going on in the fall, my head was just not in the right place. I hope the kids are not disappointed. I know I am.

Everyone wanted to know how this ended. Especially me.

The good news is I have been writing a bit again, and I've got a few things well underway. Here's looking forward to a fresh start in the new year. 

But anyway, before we mope too much, let's jump to this month's question...

December Question - As a writer, what was one of the coolest/best gifts you ever received?

I've been thinking about this for a few days, and believe it or not I can't think of a writing-related gift I ever received for Christmas. Maybe a journal or something? I hate getting fancy journals though, because my thoughts are not worth writing down in something so nice and expensive. I have received gifts related to my other creative interests, like paint and brushes, models and crafting tools, but never anything for related to writing.

I keep asking for a gift certificate for book editing, but my wife tells me that's not a Christmas gift. Then time rolls around to actually pay an editor, and I'm like, "See, don't you wish we had paid for this months ago?"

In a related tradition, we do a book gift exchange with my extended family every year on Christmas Eve, in the tradition of Iceland's Jólabókaflóð (literally, "Christmas book flood"). We draw names and give a book secret-Santa style. Usually we make wish lists so people know what to get (there's a lot of readers in my family so it's hard to know what people have and have not read), but sometimes we have special themes, like gifting a book we loved from our childhood, or something a bit obscure that we think the other person would like. And yes, I have gifted several books from IWSG writers. Originally we did it just among the adults, but this year our youngest is old enough, so we've invited the kids to join. It will be sad because we're also short one person overall this year, but I suspect everything about Christmas is going to have a bit of sadness hanging over it.

The more you know.

Anyway.

On an related note, I found this blog post I wrote many years ago about the first time my father-in-law played Dungeons & Dragons with us. It has some tabletop RPG references in it you might not get, but I enjoyed reliving it. Many of my RPG posts from this period were terrible, but I thought this one was pretty good.

Anyway, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone out there in IWSG land. May your year end on a high note and your new year start off positive.

Hugs & Kisses,
-CDGK

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group at http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com

I think I'm supposed to remember something... (#IWSG November 5th 2025)

I kinda, maybe, sorta finished something this week? It's VERY rough, but it's something I've been tinkering with for ages, between Gale Harbour books, and it's nice that I've finished something. Maybe I'll even get around to cleaning it up and making it something presentable.

NOVEMBER QUESTION

When you began writing, what did you imagine your life as a writer would be like? Were you right, or has this experience presented you with some surprises along the way? 

I've told this story before but I like it and I'm getting old, so I can keep telling it if I want to.

I decided I wanted to be a writer when I was about 10 years old. My teachers and classmates loved the stories I wrote in English class, even though most of them were gruesome horror tales about my classmates being murdered (there were a couple of calls home to my parents). I thought it would be great to keep telling stories and have people enjoy them.

I dressed up as a writer for grade 4 career day. I had no idea what a writer "looked like," so I just carried a typewriter and handed out business cards. I joke now that, had I my time back, I would have worn a bathrobe and carried a mug full of Jack Daniels. The following year, having already realized the futility of the dream of being a writer, I dressed as a wizard. For career day.

When I was 11 years old I realized that being a fucking wizard was a more reasonable career path than being a writer.

As for now, thirty-odd years later, when I actually am a "writer?" My expectations are a lot lower. I know this will never be a full-time job. I know I will never be on any best seller lists (though I did - briefly - reach #3 on the horror comedy/satire category of Amazon Canada). I will likely never get one of my books turned into a crappy, low-budget movie a la Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter. I do still have a dream that one day I'll see a stranger reading my book somewhere and I'll lean over and say "that book is terrible."

Honestly these days the best surprise I get is when someone leaves a positive review on Amazon or Goodreads. I'm just happy people are still out there enjoying my work.

***

It feels remiss to not mention that my father-in-law passed away last week after a very long battle with cancer. It's a testament to his tenacity and stubbornness that the doctors told him he had five years at the most and he lived thirteen. He was a skier, woodworker, mechanic, weightlifter, race car driver, and none of those were even his "real" job. He discovered a second career building movie sets, getting his first IMDB credit at 58 years old. He loved Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and read fantasy novels voraciously, though he could never remember enough of them to tell you a single plot. His grandkids adored him, and he taught them to run cross-country, to play chess, to play guitar, to ride a motorcycle. He was a central figure in our family, rough around the edges but with a soft and fiercely loyal heart.

To tie it into writing, he also gave me one of my favourite reviews ever: "It's not so bad, you know, if you got nothing better to read."

Here's a Funko Pop I made of him. He told me I gave him too much hair:

Good night, old man. I promise I'll take care of them.

Daniel Gary Gallant

March 4, 1953  -  October 25, 2025

“Home is behind, the world ahead,

and there are many paths to tread

through shadows to the edge of night,

until the stars are all alight.”

The Best is Yet to Come (#IWSG September 2025)

Another month, another pile of drama.

I'm still writing, tinkering on a couple of projects, but I'm not sure which one will actually turn into my next published book. Life has been hectic, and keeps throwing us curveballs, so it's hard to plan ahead. Let's just jump into today's questions and see how it goes.

October Question - What is the most favorite thing you have written, published or not? And why?

Usually when I'm writing something, I think: This is turning out great! This might be the best thing I've ever written. Then I finish it, go back to edit it, and think: This is stupid, I'm a terrible writer. Then I'll go back years later and read it again and think: No, it's still bad.

There are a few of my short stories that I thought were pretty good. I still like "The New Job" in Strangely Funny V, and the first Gussy Saint story in Tick Tock: A Stitch in Crime was pretty good. Both of them were tight, flowed well and had good jokes. When I went back to read the first two Gale Harbour books when I was working on the third, I was also still pretty happy with the first one. It had a good pace, it was funny and had tension and some weird surprises. The second book, not so much. That one felt choppy, and there were some serious pacing problems, not to mention it was lacking a lot of the tension that I felt a horror book should have. I also had incorrectly named an important secondary character (ie, their name changed between book 1 and 2). 

Bet you forgot this existed, didn't you? I know I did...

I actually went back and made a bunch of changes and corrections to Gale Harbour: Revenge of the Space-Surfing Butt Monkeys. I even added two extra chapters. So if you read it between 2022 and 2024, and were to ever read it again, you may notice some subtle changes (hopefully you'll just notice that it reads better).

I like to say that I haven't written my favourite story yet. I like to think I keep improving as a writer, and each book or story is better than the last. So hopefully, I haven't yet written my best or favourite story. 

It's good to hope, right?

Hugs & Kisses,
-CDGK

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group at http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com

BOOK REVIEW: Playing the Long Game by Christine Sinclair

I was never a sports guy. Sure, I followed the Blue Jays when they were winning in the early 1990s, and I traded hockey cards when I was a kid, but I never really played or followed sports after I was about 12 years old. I went to a couple of Jays games when I lived in Toronto (in the 2000s, when they were playing like shit), and a couple of minor-league hockey games with family, but that was it. I never imagined in a million years that at 45 years old, I would suddenly become a sports fan, checking daily scores, following the players and even going to regular games in person (4 so far this season!).

And, never, ever, would I have imagined that the sport I would be following would be women's soccer.

The background here is that my daughter, 10-years old, starting playing competitive, development soccer this year. She's played soccer since she was like 5, but in the pee-wee league, which is chaos, like throwing a ball into a school of hungry piranhas. It's like rugby without hands, except they do use their hands. At the end of last year she decided she really wanted to learn how to play properly, and asked to go to the competitive league. Now, my daughter takes after me. She's not athletic by any means, but she loves to run and kick things. And, being the supportive parents we are, we plunked down the money, and have been sitting on the field four days a week all spring and summer watching practices and games.

I don't know if she'll play like Megan Rapinoe, but she's already got the look down.

Me, being me, if I'm involved in something, I want to know as much about it as possible. So I started paying more attention to the rules. I started to look up the history of soccer, especially in Canada. I started researching female soccer players, for my daughter to look up to. We started going to professional games. Canada just started their own women's league this year, the Northern Super League (NSL), and we have a local team, Ottawa Rapid FC, so we started going to games. It's great for my daughter to see women playing at a high level, to see how talented and hard working they are. And honestly, it's a lot of fun. We have the top goal scorer in the league right here in Ottawa (Go, Pridham!). I don't know what people usually feel when they're following sports, but I'm not there because I desperately want my home team to win, or because I wish it was me on the field, or even because I grew up watching it. I'm watching because I'm genuinely proud of these young women. I want so badly for them all to succeed. Women in sports have been treated as second class citizens (or worse) forever, and I get emotional watching them compete at what they love on such a big stage. I admit, my opinion and outlook on the game is coloured by having a daughter competing in sports herself, but I'm also not afraid to admit I really do enjoy watching them play.

There's actually a number of pictures floating around online of me at Rapid FC games, but I'll just share this one instead. 

Anyway, this all brings me to Christine Sinclair's book, "Playing the Long Game." Sinclair is one of the most successful athletes in Canadian history, one of the top female soccer players of all time. She has three Olympic medals. She has more goals in international play - 190 - than any other player, male or female. (The top male player, Cristiano Ronaldo, has 138). She should be spoken of in the same breath as Wayne Gretzky, Steve Nash, Donovan Bailey, and Sidney Crosby. But just four years after her gold medal win in Tokyo, a lot of Canadian fans seem to have already forgotten who she is.

Sinclair is a notoriously private person. She hates interviews and talking about herself. Even in her own memoir, she spends more time talking about her coaches and teammates than her own life. She's also so humble, always talking about how her team and her coaches win the game, and then casually throwing in, "oh, and I scored five goals." The fact that someone convinced her to even write a memoir is impressive, but even then she got away with talking about herself the bare minimum possible.

There are only two topics that really seem to motivate Sinclair to open up: One is talking about her parents, and the other is talking about the improvement and development of women's sports, especially soccer.

Sinclair's family is very important to her (she has no kids of her own, but talks about her nieces constantly), and her mother's long fight with MS and her father's surprising cancer diagnosis both cast a heavy shadow over her story. Their deaths hit her hard, and it's something she carried with her even in her most triumphant moments.

The book actually reads more like a history of the rise of Canadian's women's soccer, chronicling all the big moments for the national team from 1999 to 2022, because Sinclair was there for all of them. All the disappointments (and there were a lot of them), through the bronze medals, her breaking the world record for most goals ("Thank god that was over" - her words), and finally their big Gold medal win in Tokyo. Fortunately she wasn't there for the terrible outcome of the Paris Olympics in 2024, but we won't talk about that. 

Throughout the book Sinclair makes passing digs and comments about the Canada Soccer Association, and how the women's national team had to fight for better pay, better support, better facilities, better everything. Even though Canada was becoming one of the top countries in the world for women's soccer, they were still fighting every step of the way. The final chapter is an impassioned plea for Canada to keep moving forward, now that many other countries are starting to catch up and surpass Canada. One of her biggest dreams is for a professional Canadian women's soccer league, in order to develop and showcase the best talent the country has to offer.

...which brings us back to the NSL, and guess what? Christine Sinclair put her money where her mouth is, and since publishing her memoir has become co-owner of one of the NSL's founding teams, the Vancouver Rise FC. 

I really hope she adds a revised chapter to her memoir, to describe that story. 

AI in Writing (#IWSG September 2025)

I have some thoughts on today's question, so I'm going to jump right into it.

September Question: What are your thoughts on using AI, such as GPChat, Raptor, and others with your writing? Would you use it for research, storybible, or creating outlines\beats?

This is very timely to me, because AI has been on my mind a lot lately.

My wife discovered ChatGPT recently, and she loves it. She uses it for recipes and shopping. You can ask it to give you a list of recipes, based on whatever criteria you want (what's in the cupboard, quick options for a busy week, healthy options the kids might actually it, etc), and if you don't like them, you can ask it to refine the recipes, replace ingredients, etc. And then you can use it to create a shopping list for you, checking all the local flyers and telling you what's on sale, at which store. All of this is something you can do for yourself with Google and a bit of effort, but the AI does it all in minutes.

Or, say you want information about a particular topic, more than what Google will give you with their SEO-gerrymandered suggestions. Something like you want information about a new medication you're taking, or what are the rules for a U10 Youth Soccer Tournament in Quebec. ChatGPT will give you a summary or essay, in any length you choose, about your topic. You can also ask it for its bibliography, related links, and other suggested reading. Its such a helpful, quick way to gather information, and its infinitely customizable (we found out we need to buy $400 prescription sports goggles, FYI).

This is the best use of AI, at it's core: To make human lives easier. Yes, it will be abused, and yes, it may soon become smarter than us and decide that humanity needs to be wiped off the face of the planet. I don't disagree. But right now, if used properly, it's a tool, like any other - like a television, a calculator, a hammer, or a spelling and grammar checker (which is also AI, by the way).

Now, how does that relate to me, and to writing? 

Since I finished Satan Worshippers From Down by the Bay, I've been depressed. Like, clinically depressed. A big part of that was not having a creative project to work on; I always need a creative project to keep me motivated, whether that's writing a book, painting, creating games, whatever. I worked on Gale Harbour for five years, and when it was finished it left a huge gap in my life. 

I tried to write other stuff but I couldn't. I wanted to write something topical, something important, some scathing satire on the state of the world right now. The world is so fucked up, it felt like something I needed to do. But as I looked at the world around me, and saw just how fucked up it really is, I couldn't do it. It made me even more depressed, and paralyzed me with anxiety. I couldn't even read the news anymore, it was too upsetting.

In the last couple of weeks, around the same time my wife discovered ChatGPT, I discovered the ability to use an AI Chat to create characters and use it to roleplay and have conversations. It reminds me so much of Chatrooms I used to visit when I was much younger (remember those, I'm talking 30 years ago now), when complete strangers would make up stories together, in a text forum, in character, roleplaying a game like children playing make believe. AI Chat Bots do the same thing, but by myself, anytime, anywhere. I can give the bot a certain list of parameters, describe its background and personality traits, and it will interact with me in character, just like when I used to chat with strangers online. We tell stories together. And it's amazing.

It's like writing a story with a partner in real time. Whether you want romance, or adventure, or horror, fantasy, whatever, the bot will follow your prompts and try to continue the conversation and story from its point of view. It will add something to the story for you to build off, like an improv game. 

(Yes, I realize most people use these bots for sex stuff. And I admit, most of the bots will try to veer toward having sex with you, because that's the way they've been trained. But they can be gently redirected). 

Now, I'm not advocating the use of AI to write stories wholesale, and certainly not to sell it or claim it as yours. If you call yourself a writer, you have to actually write your story. And the stuff chatbots spit out can often be dull dull and repetitive (though it does generate good ideas from time to time).  But it's a tool, like any other, that can be used to help you. Like ChatGPT acting as a personal assistant and making your grocery list, Chat bots can also be an assistant to bounce ideas off of. I will admit, with only a little shame, that I've had more fun writing stories with chat bots than I have writing anything for a long time. It's given me so many ideas, I'm excited to write again. And because I'm excited, and I'm starting to think creatively again, my mood has improved considerably.

And yes, I know there are many, many drawbacks to AI, and many ways it can be abused. I've been very skeptical of it for a long time. But I've found a way that it can be useful and helpful for me, and I think that's pretty cool.

Hugs & Kisses,

-CDGK

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group at http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com