A Brief Moment of Sanity

You may have noticed a tonal shift in these Whimsies.

More bite, more boldness, more embodiment.

Surreal fiction has begun seeping through the cracks—dreamlike scenes, mysterious characters, and riddled realities popping up like Mother Nature’s special mushrooms after a heavy mid-September rain followed by late-summer sunshine.

You’ve met Jinx, the one who lives within and without me. The glitter-smeared, half-mad, honey-tongued vixen who was locked in a cage of beige as a child.

The pondering forest wizard still exists as a layer to lean into, but is no longer the one in charge. My range has broadened, my interests expanded, my willingness to explore new realms of creativity, of self, unfolding fast and furious. 

Clarifying my Voice for this next season of life has been a giddy, joyous revelation—like unearthing an ancient relic that still hums with the memory of being worshipped.

For too long I wrote in other people’s voices, ghosting myself behind brands, clients, and projects that weren’t my own. Even when I did write for myself, ‘twas always in whichever Voice sprang forth with little effort. Very one-dimensional.

Truth is, I’ve been waiting, wanting, hoping, praying for my Voice to evolve for years.

I didn’t realize I’d need to burn something down to make space.

Fate, admittedly, helped. I can’t recall the exact moment Jinx was freed. I know the day she first appeared as that’s in my journal, but how, why, and when? Beats me.

Probably while wandering in the garden in a haze of smoke.
Probably beneath the moonlight while naming desires.
Probably with Yuki watching for the Sprites.

(For stories of the Sprites, enjoy When the Night Burned and The Spite Tree.) 

Nonetheless, I couldn’t not answer her call, her current, her fire.

So here we are. Leaving behind our familiar sanctum of philosophical, well-behaved beauty to descend into a mire of meaning, madness, and metaphysical mischief.

All of which I share to say:

The more I lean into the surreal, sensual, devotional elements of my Voice, the more I feel like me—which is the most valuable writing feedback I could ever hope to receive.

This Voice doesn’t just feel right, but delicious. Determined. Dangerous. And I love it.

For me, writing is deeply grounding—the silken tether tying my spirit to the earth, while simultaneously allowing me to float amongst the stars, making things up and writing them down like my life hangs in the balance (which it may well do.)

I don’t know exactly where this newfound Voice will lead me, or us, but I do know it’s already done the most important work of all, in bringing me home to myself.

I’ll see you in the next fever dream.

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander

P.S. Earlier this week I published The Velvet Telegram’s origin story, which has received feedback like this:

“Holy sheet. That’s a hell of a post. I feel it. Big time. Especially trying to craft my webpage. Thank you for sharing 🙏”

Have a read if you haven’t already—especially if you’re in the marketing world.