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I’ve just finished re-watching one of my favourite films with Robin Williams…

And as much as the world is going to hell in a hand basket in real time,

This scene always makes me sit back and reflect

We’re only here for a short time.

We need to find and do what makes us happy.

Order that extra dessert.

Wear that wacky outfit.

Asked that guy/girl out.

Make and share your art.

This experience on earth is beautiful but we have to be willing to risk it all.

Stephen Walker.

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Stephen Walker, Stephen Walker, Unit 146317, PO Box 7169, Poole, BH15 9EL, United Kingdom

Usually when I’m doing any type of writing.

The music I listen to hasn’t got vocals in it at all.

Why?

Cause when I get in the flow of things, then lyrics end up being peppered in and around whatever it that I’ve written.

But today was just a nice chill day going through an absolute gem of an album that I re-listen to purely because of the lyricism and word play.

Generally rap music gets a bad rap (lol) due to the nature of the lyrics and subject matter but honestly it’s just poetry with a beat.

Don’t get me wrong. You can’t slap a 90s boom bap beat on a Edgar Allan Poe poem and call it music but the sentiment is there.

Well. After I turned my brain into fantasy mush by re-watching all of the Lord of the rings and Harry Potter films, I had to just come back down to earth some way or the other.

And so Albert Einstein helped me out

There is no lesson here. It’s just music and something I thought I’d share.

Now go make with the Hip Hop and listen.

Cause when your head is stuck between Platform 9¾ and the dark and desolate realm located in the southeast, east of Gondor and the Anduin River aka Mordor.

And your attention is battling for Middle Earth.

Sometimes you just need a day to appreciate some music.

Stephen Walker

https://www.facebook.com/stphnwlkr

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

We need to have a talk.

Not the kind of talk where I’m mad.

Though honestly, maybe mad would be easier. Mad burns hot and fast like a shot of cheap whiskey. Mad gets things off your chest and moves on.

No, this is worse than mad.

I’m just disappointed.

The kind of bone deep, soul crushing disappointment plops right down into your stomach.

Yesterday was Friday the 13th.

And not one of you beautiful degenerates made a single Jason Voorhees reference on my timeline.

Not one “ch ch ch ah ah ah” sound effect. No hockey mask emojis. No jokes about avoiding summer camps or crystal lakes or teenage counsellors with questionable survival instincts.

Nothing.

Radio silence from my fellow horror nerds I thought I knew and loved.

You start to wonder if you’re living in some parallel universe where the cultural reference points that make life bearable have just…

Anywho…

The Friday the 13th franchise that taught us valuable life lessons like “don’t have premarital sex at summer camp” and “maybe don’t split up when there’s a masked killer on the loose” and “seriously, why does anyone still go to Camp Crystal Lake when it has a 100% murder rate?”

Jason Voorhees is the persistent bastard who refuses to stay dead.

Which, honestly, is a mood we should all aspire to in 2025.

The man’s been shot, stabbed, drowned, blown up, sent to space (yes, that happened), and dragged to hell, and he still shows up for work the next day with his trusty machete and inexplicable ability to teleport behind unsuspecting teenagers.

That’s dedication to craft right there.

But apparently, we’ve all become too sophisticated for such simple pleasures.

Too busy doom scrolling through man made hellscapes and arguing about AI ethics to pause and appreciate the pure, unfiltered joy of a seven foot zombie in a hockey mask systematically working through a cast of characters who couldn’t make good decisions if their lives depended on it.

We live in an age of manufactured nostalgia.

Every streaming platform is desperately mining the past for content that’ll trigger some warm fuzzy feeling of recognition.

Hollywood’s rebooting franchises that should’ve stayed buried. Social media’s constantly cycling through “remember this?” posts about things that happened six months ago.

But when an actual, legitimate cultural anniversary rolls around…

One that deserves recognition, celebration, maybe a few poorly photoshopped memes.

Suddenly everyone’s too cool for camp.

I’m not asking for much here, okay?

A simple “Happy Friday the 13th” would’ve sufficed. Maybe a gif of Jason emerging from the lake.

Hell, I would’ve settled for someone just acknowledging that today was statistically more likely to result in machete related incidents than your average Friday.

But no. You all decided to spend yesterday posting about productivity hacks and coffee recipes and whatever other mundane Tuesday energy content fills the void where your sense of fun used to live.

So here’s where we stand…

(cause this place here is a dictatorship ya know?)

You’re all nearly dead to me. Not completely dead…

I’m not that crazy.

You could still make up for it.

You could start sneak in a Friday the 13th reference into your next chat.

Develop an appreciation for practical effects and creative kill scenes.

Recognise that sometimes the best way to deal with life’s existential horror is to embrace the fictional kind.

Or you could continue living your reference free existence, blissfully unaware that you’ve let down the ghost of every slasher film ever made.

Your choice.

But know this…

The next time Friday the 13th rolls around, I’ll be watching. Waiting. Ready to judge your commitment to the sacred traditions of acknowledging arbitrary calendar based horror celebrations cause I’m a nerd.

And if we can’t come together as a society to appreciate a good hockey mask wearing, machete wielding, summer camp terrorizing legend, then what’s the bloody point of civilisation anyway?

Jason deserved better from you.

And frankly, so did I.

Ch ch ch ah ah ah, indeed.

Stephen Walker

P.S. This isn’t a serious email. I am paying homage to Jason tonight by watching the OG Friday the 13th. But I will be watching you too…

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

It’s hard to do the things you love when life kicks you in the face.

But here’s a quick little permission slip to do the things you have put aside.

Tonight, just 5 minutes from my place I’m heading to a little gallery where a friend of mine. Rob, will be exhibiting his work for a few days. I’ve known Rob for probably going on 15 years since I’ve been back in the UK.

It boggles my mind that I’ve stopped doing the things I used to love. Which is going on little adventures out to art galleries and supporting the locals.

Maybe it was my GF at the time or some other life handed bullshit.

But I made an active decision this year to follow what I enjoy and love to do.

Be it obsessively write about everything I do. Or my hobbies I’m slowly getting back into.

Way too many people say you shouldn’t do XYZ cause it’s not professional.

Fuck that.

We are human. We need to chase the things that give us meaning and give us that little bit of connection we’ve lost.

I don’t want to be stuck scrolling this sadness rectangle in my hand. I want to go out and experience things like I used to. Make the type of memories that don’t need to be posted on social media (cause let’s be honest. if we had social media when we were younger, we’d all probably be in prison lol)

But the point is this. Do the things that light your soul on fire.

Whether that’s taking yourself out on a solo date to watch a film.

Picking up a hyper niche hobby and going balls deep with it.

Or supporting your local art galleries and artists do cool shit.

Now if you excuse me.

I need to go shower. Be somewhat presentable and go look at paintings while bullshitting others about art, cause hey, that’s what art really is. Standing around. Talking shit. Having a drink and bullshitting about the old masters who pushed paint around on the canvas.

If you want to tell me I’m wrong.

Drop me a message here: https://www.facebook.com/stphnwlkr

Stephen Walker

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

Repeat after me.

I am a writer.

I am the fury and the fire.

I will finish the damn thing I started.

No pity parties. No snot nosed tantrums. No “oh, the words aren’t coming today” melodrama. That shit’s for amateurs. My resolve is forged from titanium.

These pants? They’re adult pants.

The diapers of my excuses? Reduced to ash. Scorched in the crucible of my own ambition.

I will light the match. I will burn the whole forest down.

And when my excuses come scuttling out like cockroaches on fire, their tiny legs sizzling…

I won’t flinch. I’ll stomp them flat. I’ll smash them with my wordhammer until they burst like overripe watermelons full of lies and self pity.

This blank page? It’s not my enemy.

The blinking cursor? Not my tormentor.

These characters? Oh, they’re mine. They scream when I tell them to scream. They bleed when I say bleed. They kiss, fuck, kill, cry, and collapse because I command it.

And if they give me any lip? I’ll send them to the gulag of forgotten side characters, where the marmots nibble toes and the plot holes swallow you whole.

This plot? Might be passed up as “just a story”

It’s a weapon. A noose. A steel trap.

I’ll use it to strangle my doubts, hang my insecurities, and watch them thrash until they’re silent, until every last whisper of “you can’t” is choked into oblivion.

The words?

Oh, they’re my army now. My mercenaries.

Tiny soldiers, built from 26 letters, carrying ideas too big for their brittle little shoulders. They march in formation, hauling metaphors and similes and bad ass imagery like ants dragging a goddamn mountain. Hell, sometimes they even surprise me, forming sentences no one else has dared to write.

Like:

“Gertrude’s haunted crockpot whispered forbidden recipes for demon soufflés, and every time she ignored it, a cat somewhere spontaneously combusted.”

That’s mine. I own that.

Because I am the captain of this absurd journey. The mad scientist of this laboratory of chaos. And yeah, it’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard.

If it were easy, every latte sipping poser with a Moleskine and a dream would be cranking out Pulitzer winning novels in between Instagram posts. But no. This is the mountain goat’s climb. The gauntlet. The hellish, glorious uphill march.

My hamstrings might snap under the strain and twang like broken banjo strings. My backbone might liquify into Jell-O.

My kneecaps might launch into the stratosphere like rogue champagne corks. And maybe, just maybe, a yeti will descend from the snowy peaks, rip off both my arms, and use them to beat me into a fine paste.

But even then. Even in the face of utter annihilation.

I won’t quit.

I’ll grab one of my severed arms in my teeth.

I’ll slug that yeti in his frosty balls until he howls like a banshee and tumbles into the abyss.

I’ll duct tape my limbs back on.

I’ll realign my spine with a wrench and a prayer.

I’ll puppet my busted legs like a deranged marionette master until I stumble across the finish line, bloody and victorious.

Because I am not weak.

I am not fragile.

I am a writer.

I will finish what I started.

I am the warlord of these words.

The architect of this goddamn chaos.

The ruler of this story.

Repeat after me:

I will write.

I will conquer.

I will burn the excuses.

And when I’m done, when the last word is written, I will look at the smoldering battlefield I’ve created and whisper,

“I did this. This is mine.”

Amen.

And good luck.

You got this.

Stephen Walker

https://www.facebook.com/stphnwlkr

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

I’m a creature of habit.

And as always. Whenever I’m out and about, I follow my regular route.

On this regular route I always see two cats. At a quick glance they’re identical. Mother and kitten.

Now if you’ve ever seen The Matrix (1999) you’ll remember the scene where Neo sees a black cat meow, shake itself off and walk away.

He then carries on, turns his head and as he looks again, he sees the cat do the exact same thing before saying “Oh, Déjà vu!” which basically means “already seen”

And so here’s the micro lesson for today.

Already seen.

Artists of all shapes and genres, business folk and marketing weirdos ALWAYS worry about being unique and coming up with new ideas, concepts and what not.

They lie awake at 3am, staring at the ceiling, wondering if their latest project is just a rehash of something that’s been done before. They Google their ideas obsessively, searching for evidence that they’re either brilliant pioneers or complete frauds.

But the thing they forget about is that sometimes the audience just needs to see the same thing over and over again, cause they might’ve missed it.

Think about it. You’re consuming content, sucking down information from seventeen different platforms while simultaneously trying to maintain the illusion of productivity. Your attention is scattered across more surfaces than a broken mirror in a fun house.

What are the odds you caught that profound insight the first time it scrolled past your eyeballs?

Zero.

The odds are zero.

Your “groundbreaking” idea? Someone’s probably done it. Your unique angle? It’s been angled before. Your revolutionary approach? There’s a decent chance it revolutionised something back in 1987, and everyone just forgot because the internet wasn’t around to make it permanent.

And you know what? That’s exactly why it needs to exist again.

Because the person who needed to hear it in 1987 was probably in diapers. The audience who would benefit from your particular flavour of wisdom wasn’t ready for it when it first appeared.

They were busy dealing with other crises, consuming different content, living in different headspaces.

Personally I can’t even remember something I read a few days ago, unless I’ve actively saved it for later study.

We need to stop thinking that repetition invalidates value.

Every story is a retelling of older stories. Every business model is a variation on commerce that’s existed since humans started trading shiny rocks for food.

Every creative breakthrough is just someone taking existing elements and rearranging them in a way that resonates with their particular moment in time.

Shakespeare straight up stole most of his plots. Led Zeppelin built their entire catalogue on blues riffs that preceded them by decades.

Every startup pitch deck contains the same twelve ideas that have been recycling through Silicon Valley since the invention of venture capital.

And somehow, mysteriously, these “unoriginal” creators managed to build legacies that outlasted their original sources.

The cats on my route aren’t performing some weird glitch from The Matrix when they repeat their behaviours.

They’re just being cats. Consistently. Authentically. Without apologising for not being the first cats to ever exist.

Maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe the goal isn’t to avoid the déjà vu?

It’s to become the kind of person whose version of “already seen” feels necessary, valuable, and somehow inevitable.

Your voice. Your angle. Your particular way of explaining why the world is beautiful and broken and worth paying attention to.

The person who needs to hear it hasn’t heard it yet. And they’re walking their own route, following their own habits, waiting for their own moment of recognition.

Already seen. About to be seen again.

And thank god for that.

Finding the good stuff and being reminded of it when we needed it is always a good thing.

Unless it’s some asshole phoning us 4353 times a day wanting to talk to us about our cars extended warranty.

Fuck that.

Stephen Walker

https://www.facebook.com/stphnwlkr

P.S. If you have a kitty. Show ’em to me.

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom