Month: September 2025

Working Out & Writing Down

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Socrates is often quoted as saying, “No man has the right to be an amateur in the matter of physical training. It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable.” This man, who is best known for his mind, also called out the need for his students and people more broadly to be physically fit. Does this mean you have to be a gym rat or that you have to be a perfect hourglass figure? No. What it means is that you need to not be stationary. The Bible, Socrates, and even modern science warn against the dangers of a sedentary lifestyle, which, as creatives, it is very easy for us to fall into.

The Bible says, “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways and be wise: Which having no guide, Overseer, or ruler, Provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?” This quote is from the book of Proverbs and was written by King Solomon to his son. The lesson here is clear. The ant, a small, insignificant creature, understands that it needs to work, to move, to gather, and not slumber. You and I can take this and apply it to our lives by understanding that, as it talks about later in the same chapter, inappropriate laziness will allow others to arrive and ruin our lives.

Modern medicine tells us the same, so if you aren’t religious, keep reading. There is a study on the effect of physical exercise on the mental state. In the Abstract of that study, it says, “Regular physical activity improves the functioning of the hypothalamus-pituitary-adrenal axis. Depression and anxiety appear to be influenced by physical exercise, but to a smaller extent in the population than in clinical patients.” Given the data and the article linked, physical activity helps!

Let me emphasize: YOU DON’T NEED TO BE ADONIS OR ARTEMIS, you can just be you, but a version of you who sweats a bit more. My inspiration to restart my writing journey began when I went to the gym with my brother and we got to talking about our WIPs (Works in Progress). Then I got some more physical activity by walking around my town’s convention center at the Comic-Con I spoke about in this article. That culminated in me sitting in on a friend’s panel where they talked about staying creative despite all the mental reasons not to, which I talk about in the previously mentioned article.

Personal experience, quotes from great philosophers (Solomon and Socrates), and modern science all point to needing physical activity to be our best selves, which would include being our best writers. So, next time you want to take a break and watch Netflix, take Netflix to go and listen to that show you’ve already watched a dozen or more times, while walking your dog, or cleaning your kitchen, or even just walking to your mailbox and back, sans-dog. You can do this, and things will get better! Or they won’t, but you will be in a better place to face them!

Tell me about a time when physical activity sparked your creative fire in the comments! Thanks for reading.

Half a Soul

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A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

They saw each other, standing across the battlefield. His grandfather had told him of ancient battlefields torn and obliterated by artillery, but that was during the “last war.” Here he now stood, top of his class; he had succeeded beyond all of his imaginings in all possible ways. His grades in school were all “S,” straight through 14th grade. He has never lagged in swordplay, battle tactics, modern or ancient, and Physical Education. All of that work, despite what he knew was coming.

America has never lost an Olympic challenge, even after the dissolution of the republic and formation of the proper Northern American Empire. In a time when she was very weak due to civil war and infighting, she maintained her pressure on the other nations. When the reformation was complete and the empire was secured. The first Emperor decreed that all disputes could be legally settled with a duel to the death, with God as their witness and arbitrator. The emperor’s idea was that God would side with whoever won, and thus the legal system could not challenge them.

A member nation of the Federation of BRICS called out the emperor in a challenge, much like he has legalized for his own citizens, to be hosted and broadcast to the world in the next Olympic Games. So, swordplay, battle tactics, and physical education became the pillars of education in the American Empire for the next hundreds of years. In all that time, the number of deaths in war between nations has dropped by 99.9999% An average of ten deaths every four years at the Olympic Games, where nations settle their differences in the arena. The combatants lived their entire lives being taught and told that war was the way of the weak and that honor lies only in the duel. Both had killed a peer by the age of 6 on the playground in a school-sanctioned duel.

Now, 16 years after they first tasted blood, in the DCXXXVIII Olympics, one of them would spill the other’s.

One of the traditions established hundreds of years ago was that each nation chose its champions from its graduating classes and gave those two years to make an enemy out of the other competitor, to taunt them, to curse them, to make this duel their own and not just for the sake of their countries. These two, however, found it difficult to make each other their enemy properly. They did not hate each other; they were both barely men. They have told each other who they were going to marry as victors. They both had women in their lives who they loved and who loved them. They both came up with a list of three names that their children would be called, all with agreed-upon alternates for girls. Ultimately, when the doors opened on July 14th and the sun was brutal against the desert sands of the Amazon. Across the way, they saw the face of the boy whom they had come to love, Achilles and Hector, destined to be enemies, but brothers at heart. That was their story. Though it was a story that no one would ever know.

Achilles, who fought for the Empire of America, took up his gladius and saw Hector do the same. Only one would walk away, but in truth, they would walk away with half a soul.

Keeping the Beacon Lit

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Recently, I attended a Comic-Con in my hometown, and there was a panel hosted by an old D&D buddy called “Keeping the Beacon Lit: How to Stay Creative During Dark Times.” He and two other creatives took the stage and talked about their struggles with mental health and how that affected them and their creative ventures. I wanted to take a moment and go over some of the great advice I received and even add some tips that you could use to “Keep the Beacon Lit.”

As creatives, we think, and we think a lot. It is, after all, kind of our job. Sometimes those thoughts get in our way and put up walls against creativity. Today, we sometimes believe that there are little creatures out to steal our creativity. The chaos gremlin, for example, will make your life a mess so that you can’t pursue your passions as a creative. In the Middle Ages, however, there was something quite the opposite: a fantastical creature from Greek lore that would visit artists and bless them with new ideas or the right word for the poem they were working on. In both cases, these creatures would often be used as excuses. We modern artists will say, “Life is too crazy right now, thanks, chaos goblin.” Authors of antiquity might have said, “Well, the muse just was not with me today.” Both of these are excuses. As people, more broadly, not just creatives, we love excuses. “I’m too tired today,” “My heart’s just not in it,” or “I’m exhausted.” I myself have used all of these to just avoid doing what I need to be doing. There was one creative, however, who said, “Enough is enough.” Pablo Picasso famously said, “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.”

I love this quote and cite it often when discussing creative pursuits with family and friends. When I quote it, though, it usually sounds a little different. Mine goes: “When the muse arrives, she must find you working.” In medieval lore, as previously mentioned, the muse was seen as a source of creative inspiration and many excuses. However, Picasso’s quote and my own rendition of it flip things on their heads and put the ball back in your court.

If a mystical muse, the beautiful and illustrious creature she is, shows up because she heard your call for inspiration, but arrives to find you lying in your bed, or scrolling TikTok on your phone, why would she waste her energy by blasting you with a spark of inspiration? Instead, what if she finds you sat at your computer, or at your writing desk with a blank page in front of you, or a pencil in hand? In either scenario, she might still give you that spark, but blank pages are much more flammable than a TikTok FYP (For You Page).

Back to the Comic-Con panel now, much of what the three creatives had to say was about ways they have found to keep the fire alive. Something they did not mention was writing anyway. Which is something I posed to them. Write, or create, not because you want to all the time, but because it matters, or because you can! One author mentioned that she gave up on an entire novel/world that she had created because the Political Climate of the real world didn’t seem welcoming to her story. I rebuffed her later, during one of my questions. I asked, “What if there was a little boy or girl out there who needs your story to see what they could be? What kind of world could they create if they strove for it?”

If you stop writing because you feel like you’re in the dumps, that is a selfish mindset. It is self-centered and self-serving. People out there need your stories, sometimes more than you do! Think about what Dr. Tolkien wrote, “Since it is so likely that (children) will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise, you are making their destiny not brighter but darker.” Little children, both in body and heart, are out there and need to hear of brave knights and heroic courage. (No, I am not saying you must write Medieval Fantasy only.)

TL;DR?

Is the Creative Fire Dimming?

  • Create Anyway!
  • Create for those who need what you create.
  • Create for your family.
  • Create for your friends.
  • Go to a local bookstore and browse the shelves for inspiring books/covers.
  • Take your creating on the go, i.e. a coffee shop, a library, or a bookstore.
  • Take a break (don’t give up! Set a Timer).

The Unwanted Mars

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A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

Mary Johnson looked down on the glowing red globe beneath her ship. Mars was to be her new home; she would die there. Several years prior, when the New Party took power back on Earth in the late twenty-second century, Mary, then called Maria, had been given an ultimatum: Join or Die.

New Party morale monitors had raided her small hotel room, a place on the Sonoran forest’s floor that had been abandoned by all of the North American cities which had risen to reside on the clouds, in ‘Sky’. This moldy apartment had housed her and several dozen other “Unwanteds”. The monitors broke the window and threw in gas canisters to choke the consciousness from those who may have resisted in the room.

She remembered watching her brother try to stand despite the gas, but his chest was riddled with holes before he could even take a step. She lost consciousness as the men in black uniforms kicked the doors down and began to poke at bodies.

In a blink, she had gone from the floor of a moldy hotel room to a pristine white room. The room was so white and her clothes so bleached that the only reason she knew she was still on this side of the grave was her black hair, which she had caught a look at as she had woken up. Through an unseen doorway, a woman in her forties had walked in and sat on something across from Mary. The woman’s clothes, which stretched from neck to toe, were so white that she appeared to be a floating head. Her skin was as dark as night, and it made for a disturbing contrast.

“Maria Velasquez.” The woman tilted her head and looked into the eyes of Mary. Her eyes were a dark brown. “Your name is not pure enough.” She said as if this would have been plainly obvious to even a child. “Choose another family name.”

The woman placed a sheet of large printed black text names on the table between them. The table’s existence shocked Mary as there was no differentiation of light or shadow to distinguish the four legs, or the plane from the surrounding room. After the brief shock wore off, Mary leaned in and looked at the papers. On the list were four options. “Red, Johnson, White, Henry.”

“Henry isn’t even a last name.” Mary was surprised when the thought she had made privately was produced aloud for herself and the woman to hear. When she looked up, confused, and watched the woman speak, Mary realized her lips never moved.

“The mind speaks, and the words are formed. We do not move our lips in Sky. We have no use for them.” She did not move her lips into a smile but somehow gave off the warmth a smile would have otherwise produced. “I didn’t think you would know the name Henry. Most Unwanteds don’t care to even know our great history. North American Literature has a strong tradition that dates back centuries, even before the unification of the twenty-first century. Not that your kind would ever care. I am surprised you can even pronounce it.” She seemed to catch herself and stop. “There I go rambling again,” the thought-sound projector produced a low giggle. “Now pick, please, we do not have all day.”

“Johnson.” Mary pointed at the name and nodded. She had heard stories like the one she was living right then. Most of the unwanteds that she knew in their small enclaves just called these stories propaganda, lies, or fiction. No one had ever heard of an Unwanted going into a University and coming out alive.

“That is true,” the woman said, responding to the words Mary had thought. “And yes, you are in a University, good job. But we do not kill the Unwanted, no, that would be a waste. We merely train them. Teach them how to be Wanted, this is what we do.” The woman took the text prompt away and stood from whatever she had sat on. Mary felt like her eyes were burning, and pulled her hair in front of her eyes as the woman walked out of the room.

“Don’t worry.” The woman’s thought-voice permeated the room. “Soon the light will be your friend.”

Mary had not resisted. In her heart, she knew this was the end. Why resist the end? Every day in that neverdim room was a day closer to the death of Maria Velasquez and the birth of Mary Johnson. Her guard never offered a name in thought or in writing, so Mary only knew her as “the woman”.

After only several months, the woman told Maria that she had progressed much faster than her friends.

“Tell me something, Mary,” the woman said. “Do you want to be Wanted?”

“Of course, miss,” Mary had answered. “I’ve wanted that since I was a child. Ever since the Unification wars, my family has-” the woman held up a hand, and this silenced Mary.

“I do not need, nor did I ask for, your story. Now tell me: Do you want to be Wanted?” the woman repeated her question.

“Yes,” Mary remembered having to fight to keep more thoughts from entering her mind.

“What are you willing to do to be Wanted?” the woman asked.

“Anything.”

“Anything? Even abandon Sky and go to a new planet for the glory of Sky, her people, and to become Wanted?” the woman asked.

“Anything, miss,” Mary answered.

“Well, you are not the first, and you will not be the last. We have use of those who want to be Wanted. Servitude for seven years. Then, freedom. Service to the glory of Sky under a new Sky.” The woman made the idea seem like a pitch—

“It is,” the woman clarified. “So, what do you say, Mary?”

With the death of Maria Velasquez, Mary Johnson ascended through the clouds of Sky to a place far above it. She looked out of the porthole window in her accommodations aboard the N.P.S. New Horizons, and Mary saw Mars. The world where Unwanted became Wanted.

Artemas: The Twice Proselyte

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A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

Artemas stood in the marketplace listening to the preachers. Just who did these men think they were? Every time he made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the Passover, there was a new preacher and a new heresy. A few years prior, he had shouted ‘crucify him’ along with a crowd of other upstanding Jewish men. While he himself was a proselyte, he felt a kinship with the jews, and now there were these preachers in the dusty marketplace of Lystra, where he was going to get on his boat back to Athens. The lead preacher, a Jew from the looks of him, was preaching some fresh heresy, that Jesus was risen from the dead. Preposterous, the whole situation was preposterous! There is only resurrection on the last day. Everyone knew this, even a lowly gentile like him.

The crowd began to move, and a massive cloud of dust arose as the angry mob shoved and pushed this ‘Paul’ outside the city walls. “They disgrace the law and the prophets!” Artemas found himself shouting. His words were lost in the incoherent yelling of the mob. “They must be put to death for this blasphemy! Stone the heretics.” Artemas took up a stone the size of his own head and threw it at the man who led the preachers, the supposed ‘Paul’. Artemas watched the man fall under a hail of stones and spat at his body as it fell limp to the sandy floor of the desert. Dirty heretic, Artemas thought. He should have been stoned as soon as he mentioned Jesus of Nazareth.

Artemas went about his day like nothing had happened. At sundown, he boarded a ship set for Athens and forgot about the heretic he had helped kill.

The waves of the Mediterranean Sea rocked Artemas to sleep, and he fell into a dream. The dream was hot and foreboding, but he could not remember a single crystal detail of the vision. As he went about his life on the ship, he missed his wife dearly. The stabilizing woman had been there with him in Jerusalem every year for almost a decade since she converted him to her Jewish faith. (A piece of him still ached at what that conversion cost him.) She had not come with him, this time, however. She lay at home while insisting that he not miss his yearly expedition to the promised land. He did as she wished and went. He was glad he did. He had not only gotten to see the wonders of the temple and the proceedings there, but he also got to stone a heretic on the way back. A wonderful story.

He took his sandals off at the door and grabbed a rag hanging from the water pot they kept by the door and wiped down his feet as he entered his Greek home. He kissed the tips of his fingers and whispered a small prayer to Adonai as he passed the mezuzah. He rushed into his wife’s room, where he found her being comforted by their two sons, both not old enough to join their father in Jerusalem. “Abba!” They both said as he walked in. They rushed and hugged him while pointing at their mother and talking on top of one another.

“Whoa, slow down, boys, one at a time.” Artemas hugged them both and then approached his wife.

“Ima, you should go first. Tell daddy what you did while he was gone.” The older boy said.

“Welcome home, my love.” The dying woman spoke softly to her husband as he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.

“Shalom, my love,” Artemas said.

“Boys, would you leave us for a moment?” The two children, both spitting images of the other spouse, depending on who you asked, ran off and closed the door behind them.

“Artemas.” The woman said softly and slowly. “We are Christians now.”

The man’s world fell apart. He could not accept this. His wife would explain how a man named Paul had been through the city preaching the resurrection and that one of their friends had gotten converted. “It was as if Adonai spoke through her, dear, she produced, from the scriptures, something we’ve both only heard in Synagogue, proof of the messiah. It was amazing!” She would say. She had been baptized on the shore only a few weeks prior to Artemas’ return.

Over the next few months, Artemas saw a light return to his wife’s eyes more and more each day. Despite this, her body got weaker and weaker. “It won’t be long now.” She would say. “Oh my love, I would just ever so love to see you baptized before I go.” But Artemas could never even bring himself to tell his wife that he had helped kill the man she idolized. She knew of his involvement in the death of her Messiah, but she forgave him for that.

When the day came, Artemas decided to let his wife’s Christian friends take care of her body and bury her as they wished. He was glad that she had found her messiah, but was full of so much pain and rage to care what happened to her body. He suffered the Christian proselytizers whom he had once called friends, and paid them platitudes.

Another three months passed, and Artemas had begun to heal. His sons were doing fantastically in Hebrew school and had been progressing in their studies greatly; he might even have a few Pharisees on his hands.

It was a cool Shabbat afternoon and Artemas found himself weeping at the place where the Christian’s had buried their dead, however few of them there were. While he put up a front for his sons every time they mentioned their mother, he cried inside. This afternoon, as he knelt, weeping, he heard a pair of voices whispering, “No, Silas, I am still going to talk to him.”

Artemas stood and turned around, his bare feet crunching a patch of dried grass as he faced—. He felt the blood drain from his face. He was staring into the eyes of a ghost. There, before him, was the face of the man whose skull he had helped flatten. “Paul?”

“Artemas.” Paul maintained a sober demeanor in honor of where they stood. “It is good to see you again.”

“Good to see me?” Artemas felt his eyebrows raise in shock. “How can you, of all people, possibly say that?”

“Come with me, I will explain everything.”