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When various AI programs were launched a few years ago, I was intrigued. As an illustrator who rarely finds the time to actually illustrate due to the demands of writing, I thought these tools might offer a solution. I’ve always wanted to illustrate a graphic novel based on Poacher’s origin story, but realistically, I knew I’d never finish it because I am so wretchedly slow. Sloth-like in fact. That’s when I hoped MidJourney might help bring my vision to life.
After spending about a year experimenting with prompts, I discovered two things. First, AI was quickly becoming a rabbit hole that pulled me away from writing. But secondly, and unexpectedly, using AI for image generation was surprisingly additive to my writing. Generated images often sparked new ideas, pulling the story in directions I hadn’t anticipated. Sometimes, a small, incongruous detail—like a wrecked car in the background—would open up an entirely new narrative possibility I hadn’t considered. More often than not, there always seemed to be an unexpected “What if?” moment. AI art generation proved to be a valuable tool for idea generation rather than just a means of producing visual content. After enough experimentation with MidJourney’s outputs, I realized I had fed my creative brain enough fuel. I could then return to my writing with renewed inspiration, knowing that someday I would eventually find an artist—pen in hand—to bring my graphic novel to life.
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Let me start off by saying the restaurant where the oak tree being profiled below has some of the best food in South Florida. This isn't a hatchet job on them - my wife and I frequently eat there and we absolutely love their food. This is meant to serve as an illustration of how something that initially seems like a good idea is in fact, short sighted thinking. Probably falls under the category of human hubris. You know, barreling forward with something that we don't consider the long term impact of on other species. Not too long ago, I was sitting at a restaurant in Florida when I found myself staring at an outdoor play area designed for small children. And perhaps they even let large children there too. The kids were having fun, running around, and being kids. But my attention kept drifting toward a large live oak tree they were gathered under. This tree stood out—it was unhealthy, especially when compared to the other thriving oak trees around it, which were 50 to 100 feet away. Why was this one tree so sickly when oaks are typically robust and resilient? My gaze kept moving between the ailing tree, the healthy ones, and then back again to the sick oak. Finally, I noticed something—the tree’s base was covered in artificial grass. Duh. There it was. Trees are perfect, self-sustaining systems. They feed and nurture themselves naturally. This poor oak couldn’t feed itself or draw nutrients from decaying organic matter surrounding it. Its leaves would fall to the artificial surface, and then I imagined they vacuumed up to keep the area all neat, orderly, and pretty. No wonder it was sick. And here's the kicker. I can almost guarantee that after a year, the owner will be discussing the sick tree, and a landscaper will tell him we have to feed the tree, that's why it's not heathy. The next step of course would be for the landscapers to recommend feeding the tree, you know, with nitrogen based plant foods that can leach down into the aquifer and our drinking water.  While this may not be the best picture, it clearly illustrates how this tree differs from the healthy ones seen in the background. Looking at the ground, it’s easy to see there’s simply no space for natural processes to sustain its life. And yes, this means less grass and fewer actual plants to produce oxygen for the world.
Unhealthy tree on the left, Trees surrounding it are healthy.Months after seeing this, I visited a botanical park in Port St. Lucie, Florida that I hadn't been to recently. I enjoy my visits there, particularly because right next to the garden is a beautiful Ficus tree and I have a thing about Ficus trees. To my surprised a park had been built out in the area next to the garden, putting in more parking and plans to build a restaurant. I exited my car and could tell immediately that the Ficus tree looked terrible. Half of the leaves were missing and it looked unhealthy. I walked over and much to my chagrin, they had installed a play area and yes, artificial turf, surrounding the tree. Jesus Christ.  This once magnificent tree now faces the same fate as the sickly oak at the restaurant: suffocation by artificial turf. I’ve mentioned before how humans often fail to consider the impact we have on other species, but here’s one that’s directly tied to the “artificial grass” craze. At some point, someone will try to save this dying tree, and the solution will likely involve “feeding” it. Did I mention trees are perfectly capable of feeding themselves? Instead of removing the suffocating fake grass, landscapers will be called in to nurse the tree back to health—but not by addressing the root cause. No, they’ll dump nitrogen-based fertilizers into the soil, which will eventually leach into the aquifer and make its way into our homes through drinking water.
This once magnificent tree was suffering the same fate as the sickly oak at the restaurant. Suffocation by artificial turf. I mentioned humans not considering the impact we have on other species, but here's one directly tied to the "artificial grass" silliness. You know at some point they'll try to save the dying tree and the solution will be it needs to get fed. Did I mention trees are perfectly fine at feeding themselves? So they'll bring in landscapers to nurse the tree back to health, and it won't be by tearing out the fake grass. It will be by dumping in nitrogen based plant foods which will leach down into the aquifer, and make its way merrily into our homes via drinking water. Side note: a disturbing trend I see at Lowe's and Home Depot they're selling artificial turf for homes. Anyone read "The Death of Grass" by John Christopher btw? I'd also suggest if you want a wonderful overview of the science of plants, pick up a copy of "Botany for Gardeners" by Brian Capon. It's written for people who are curious about how plant life works but don't want to get bogged down in science. It's a wonderful read and I highly recommend it. I hate to be "that guy," but sometimes I have to be. Okay, I've had some questions about the sculptures. As in why, how, the process, etc. I dug through pictures and this will give you a clearer idea of the process. I'll use a current wall that I built years ago and its really plain. So much so that I decided to zhuzh it up a bit. So the first picture is the plain wall about to get a face life. And yes, that is Big Moo, our new rescue bully who most likely spent the first five or six years of her life in a cage as a breeding dog. Bastards.  As you can see, there isn't much there. So first things first. The wall is cinderblock. After dry laying them, I apply several layers of a concrete stucco mix. Then eventually I add a few details. This was the first wall and so the etchings were modest. Eventually I actually started sculpting. But more on that in a bit. Here's the current status of the wall that I've started to work on because I'm coming close to finishing up a SynOrganics short story anthology.
So what's going on here? The close up on the left illustrates a layer of concrete with no stucco mix added. It will dry for two to three hours before I can start to etch in a design. The picture on the right shows the surrounding area which I've already started to carve. The faces on the left edge are actually smaller sculptures that I made as tile, then made molds so I could have multiple images in a large piece.  This is a close up of a section of the second one, the "Poacher" project wall were I briefly descended into madness. I like this because the cracks are from a very large truck trying to turn in our cul de sac. They were successful, the just crunched the wall a bit. But it works. Added about fifty years to the aging process. The good news is, it's super easy to play around with concrete and you don't have to be a writer to do so. Hit me up if you have more questions. Thanks for reading!
How maddening is writing? You can answer that for yourself, of course. But when I step back and really consider what we, as writers, put ourselves through—a thankless task, mind you—it’s almost absurd. Take my process, for example. I wouldn’t call it unusual, but hell, maybe it is. First, I vomit words straight from my brain onto the page. No filter, no finesse—just raw thoughts spilled out. Then comes the editing, which for me, requires a tangible quality. I print out a hard copy because I need the physicality of pen and paper. Touch helps me grapple with my words. From there, it’s a seemingly endless cycle: edit, type in changes, print, repeat. And repeat. And repeat. By the time I’ve slogged through 40 drafts, I might finally begin to feel somewhat comfortable—like maybe I won’t completely embarrass myself. And then maybe I'll let someone read it. But that is a difficult one. But even then, let’s be honest—are we ever truly finished editing? I think, and maybe it's just me, but I could "finish" something and revisit it in a year and I guarantee the first page would be full of edits. Maddening, I say. Maddening.  I believe this was the fortieth iteration of this piece.As I mentioned in a previous post, I need to do something physical to ground myself after finishing a writing project, whether it lasts three months, three years, or—sometimes, painfully—longer. Recently, I found myself walking around our property, taking stock of the sculptures I’ve created over the years. In doing so, I realized I’d neglected to properly introduce the Headward family. They're a collection of primitive art pieces that look, well, primitive. The first Headward was inspired by the colossal Olmec heads residing at the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. I built him not long after we completed a pond alongside our house. I thought it would be interesting to have a sort of marker to track how much our property floods during hurricanes. As it turns out, Headward serves that purpose perfectly: when the water level in the pond rises by five feet, it reaches his eyebrows. Beyond that point, it’s uncharted territory—and we know we’re in trouble. Now, over 20 years later, Headward is still standing strong, weathered by time and the elements, aging gracefully as part of the landscape.
Red Headward, is my favorite. Pardon the hurricane debris around him, but he's a good looking lad. He's rock solid and he'll be around for a hundred years or more. That's a lot of concrete built around four or five discarded care tires that we used for his armature. He's about five foot tall and perhaps two hundreds pounds. One of the challenges for writers is maintaining our connection to the physical world. At least, I think it is—or it should be. As writers, we often live almost exclusively in our heads. Of course, you could argue that’s true for everyone to some degree, but for creatives, it’s particularly pronounced. Even when I’m driving, I’m writing. Eating? I’m probably chewing over dialogue or imagining how a character might respond to something I’ve just observed. Even sleeping doesn't offer much respite. My dreams, which have always been vivid and incredibly detailed, are either addressing pressing questions for a piece I'm writing, or taking something I'm writing and running in a whole new direction, pulling me down a rabbit hole that I am powerless to ignore. Which brings me back to the physical world. The last few years I’ve noticed a pattern: after long stretches of writing, I crave something tangible. I’ll turn to physical art—designing, sketching, or building. My mind doesn't want to deal with abstraction and needs to be engaged by something I can touch. For example, after finishing a project that had been brewing for over a year, I felt the overwhelming urge to get my hands dirty—literally. That’s when I started building outdoor walls, channeling my creative energy into something tactile and immediate.  After finishing Poacher, I began a sculpture, which ended with this bit of madness below: You can tell from this insane bit of work that Poacher was intense and dealt with humans seemingly endless capacity for inflicting pain on other innocent species.  Curious what outlets other writers have between projects. Reach out to me below and let me know what you're doing, what you write about and how you keep from going insane. Yes, we all face moments of doubt at some point in our lives. For writers, it can feel like a constant deluge of punches, pummeling you into submission. Until recently, I was never a fan of my own work and would never let anyone read what I had written. That changed when I received an invitation to a writers' workshop in NYC, which would force me to actually, god forbid, have someone read my work. And not just someone. Approximately ten other writers, certainly more talented than I. I nearly backed out—convinced that a jury of my peers would decide that I should perhaps consider selling insurance. I decided to face the music and put myself out there creatively.
The conference was transformative. I wasn’t prepared for the level of talent on display—writers from across genres who could flat-out write. But what truly floored me was their response to the piece I submitted. I wasn't prepared for how much people enjoyed or were captivated by Poacher and it pushed me to for once believe in myself and keep going. On a side note, the Poacher piece I submitted to the workshop, my wife read it and she said "You are such a good writer!" I had to reread, then of course, I started to have doubts. I even read lines that I thought...I couldn't have written this. I must have remembered this, pulled up from some deep lizard like recess of my brain and called it my own. I even went so far as to start dropping lines in plagiarism checkers to see if they were someone else's work. I figure, well, I've been reading for forty years surely someone's writing must have lodged in my head. How pathological is that? And no, the checkers couldn't find any plagiarism so I had to take responsibility for my work. Shortly after returning home, something remarkable happened. My wife was going for a checkup and I was sitting in a waiting room. I had a yellow legal pad with me and started to jot down some ideas. Pretty soon I had written forty-five pages that would become In Their Words: Project MindShare just three weeks later. It was an adrenaline rush unlike anything I’d experienced, watching a project emerge from the fog, rearing its little head and screaming for attention. If you’re a writer, or any kind of creative, you probably know this feeling all too well—the belief that your work isn’t good enough. But if you’re writing, if you have something to say that matters to you, then you are a writer. Keep going. Don’t stop.  "Headward Jr. is the third Olmec-inspired sculpture on the property, and he’s aging well.
Please disregard the hurricane and tornado damage to our property -- still trying to clean up the place because it's a mess. But Headward doesn't care. Like his predecessors, Junior emerged during a writing break, this time following a year-long dive into a script—a television pilot called GRLSTSFYRE (‘girl starts fire’). Creating Headward Jr. was a first for me in terms of materials: five discarded tires were stacked and filled with organic matter, wrapped in wire mesh, and transformed layer by layer. Concrete and water became my medium, schlepped and slathered on in careful coats until—slowly but surely—a face began to emerge. And voila! Another member joins the family." I've spoken with other writers about their favorite ways to avoid writing and their are many. The obvious ones are immersing yourself in a streaming series as a distraction. Or perhaps reading a book that you've been wanting to get to for a while. Or eating. Gardening. The list goes on. My distraction is based on a need. After spending a month, three months, a year or more on a piece, you have to try and turn off the brain. If you're like me, and I think most writers are, you can't not write. Even when you are in a group, you are writing. You see a mannerism, hear a comment, witness an exchange in a restaurant and it triggers something. And when you spend that kind of mental energy, sixteen, eighteen hours a day, your twitching neurons and synapses need a break. And that is where sculpting comes in. I need something grounded in a physical act. I can't use my brain, or at least not consciously. So I mix up concrete and lose myself in fashioning...something. Sometimes I will make a rough sketch, but more often than not, I'm freelancing and making whatever comes to mind. Sometimes you make a small face and like it so much, you make a mold so you can produce ten more of them to sprinkle into a wall. On a side note, walls are my current fixation. The wall below was created after twelve months of pushing through on Poacher and three related SynOrganics stories. At some point, you have enough and your head is filled and you have to get your hands dirty. She's starting to age nicely and I can't wait for moss and lichen to show up and give her a bit more character. Right now she looks like she just dropped in, out of place, trying to get her bearings. But soon enough she'll blend in and be the member of the family she has always been. Now it's time to get back to writing.  Every writer, whether financially successful or not, needs a partner who offers the freedom to truly be a writer. This means navigating our quirks and foibles without fleeing into the sunset, and standing by our side through all the struggles, ups, and downs that come with this path. Monique and I have been together for over thirty years. We’ve faced loss, celebrated triumphs, and endured more than our fair share of life’s ups and downs. Through it all, she has always been there for me. I’d like to think I do the same for her. When I was laid off, she was the one—without hesitation—who said, “Forget about finding work. Just focus on your writing.” She knew I had always struggled to find the time and space to write, to truly dive deep into what I wanted to say. But here’s the real gift: she has made me a far better person than I could have ever been on my own. This isn’t just something I feel—it’s something I know with absolute certainty. I know the road I would have traveled without her, and it’s not one I’d want to imagine. For that, and for so much more, I am profoundly thankful. I love you more than anything, Peep. Thank you for always being there.
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