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