Blog
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Use the anti-calendar
The Anti-Calendar isn’t a planner. It’s a brick through the window of what’s expected and if you go back to the 70s when the punk movement came about…
This is punk but for your art.
It’s a middle finger to the algorithm of what’s deemed normal in today’s society.
You know? That greasy hamster wheel of football games, trending hashtags, and microwave relationships served on social media paper plates.
Your art is a vampire. It doesn’t live in daylight. Doesn’t give a soggy fuck about brunch dates, Netflix binges, or whose corpse is currently propped up on the throne of pop culture.
Your job? Feed it your time. Your rage. Your silence. Your goddamn marrow.
Here’s an example of an Anti-Calendar…
It’s football season? Let the normies bark at screens. You? Carve paragraphs from the static.
New video game dropped? Your friends can grind XP. You’ll grind pigment into canvas until your hands look like a crime scene.
Latest TV obsession? Let them simp for plot twists. Twist your own stories.
Romance? Love is a distraction wearing a thong. Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck everything that isn’t the work. (I learnt this the hard way recently…)
But… (There’s always a but, like a goat head in your boot.)
The Anti-Calendar isn’t a cult. You don’t have to live in a cave chewing on roots and your own bitterness. Burnout is a bastard with a flamethrower. So here’s the caveat… Sacrifice, don’t suffocate.
In the beginning? You amputate distractions. Carve away the fat of other people’s priorities.
But once your art has teeth. Once it can hunt for itself. You loosen the leash. Take a night off. Watch the game. Fuck the person. Taste the dopamine.
Balance isn’t a sin. It’s a tactic. You’re not a machine (though machines break too.) You’re a thief, stealing time from a world that wants you numb.
It’s about prioritising your art, cause if you the average life span is 80 years old. I don’t have many years left.
Stephen Walker
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
A story about Mr. Beast every entrepreneur should hear
“People say you’re crazy until you’re successful, then they call you a genius.” – Mr. Beast
I heard an amazing story about Mr. Beast (Jimmy) the other day:
A story every entrepreneur should read, print onto tear-proof paper, frame and keep on their bedside table, dream about at night, tattoo on the inside of their forearm, record and listen to via. hypnotic induction, and pass down to their firstborn child as soon as they come of age, lest they ever forget its supreme wisdom.
Here’s how it goes:
A few months ago, Jimmy is hosting a mastermind meeting for 8, 9, and 10-figure entrepreneurs when he asks the group:
”Do you guys want to go to Walmart?”
Strange question, I know, but Jimmy is a strange dude.
So fxck it, they go to Walmart.
At first, it’s a standard snack run:
Wander around, grab a few things, play bumper cars with the motorized carts, do whatever it is people do at Walmart.
Until they reach the chocolate aisle, where Jimmy’s candy line, Feastables, is on display.
That’s when Jimmy’s excitement bubbles over.
For the next ten minutes, Jimmy launches into a masterclass on the economics of the chocolate business; margins, revenues, supply chains, the whole deal.
While — get this…
Restocking the aisle himself:
Rearranging boxes that had been pushed out of place.
Straightening every crooked candy bar.
Purchasing every bar that was damaged, crinkly, or broken.
Even letting himself into the back stocking room to grab a flavor they’d run out of up front.
And apparently, this wasn’t a one-time thing:
Jimmy does this so often that Walmart gave him his own employee badge.
(once, he even skipped a domestic flight so he could drive and stop at all 14 Walmarts along the way)
Now, obviously:
That’s not a founder’s job.
That’s not even an executive’s job.
(to be clear, it’s not even Jimmy’s job; he doesn’t spend his days doing this, it’s just something he does when he gets the chance)
It’s a minimum wage job 99% of entrepreneurs would barely even be aware of.
But Jimmy has something 99% of entrepreneurs don’t:
That rare blend of…
Scrappy intensity
Hands-on resourcefulness, and
Fearless creativity
…That we don’t have a word for, but is undeniable when we see it.
One of my longest-time students, and 8-figure entrepreneur Mason Vranes simply calls it:
“Sauce.”
And yes, Jimmy got Sauce.
But — and this is the central point — so does every entrepreneur I’ve ever met who has achieved true lift-off, and scaled their business to high 6, 7, or 8 figures.
More than any other quality, “Sauce” is what I’m looking for as I select candidates for private, one on one business coaching.
(announced yesterday)
I’m looking for hungry, aggressive entrepreneurs who are willing to get their hands dirty, put their ego on the line, and take the shots others are too afraid to take.
One of the three spots is already full, and it looks like the second spot will be filled shortly.
Which means I likely only have one spot left.
If you’re interested, hit reply now to let me know:
Who you are
What business you run (include a link to your site)
Your current monthly revenue
Your primary goal for the business
Why you are a good fit for coaching
As I said yesterday, no essays:
Be clear, efficient, and to the point.
But also, be complete.
I look forward to hearing from you.
- T
P.S. If you missed it yesterday, here’s the full story on our one on one coaching program:
An invitation for entrepreneurs
And, as a bonus:
Here’s a video about Sauce
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Consistency is a cult.
Me, 16ish, dumb as a box of hair.
Armed with a pencil chewed raw by anxiety.
A library book titled Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain (Betty Edwards, bless her witchy soul.)
A crippling fear of failure.
The book’s thesis? “Learn to see.” Not with your eyes. With your guts. Shut off the left brain. The nagging, rule-obsessed nerd that screeches “HANDS DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT” and let the right brain, the feral, ink-stained beast, take over.
How?
Upside. The fuck. Down.
Take a drawing. Flip it. Copy it. Suddenly, you’re not sketching a face anymore. You’re chasing lines. Shapes. Energy. The left brain short-circuits. The right brain screeches. And what comes out isn’t a potato with eyes. It’s art.
It took 2 years of grind.
Wake up.
Flip the paper.
Draw until my hand cramped and my left brain wept in a corner.
Result? My art went from “did a 3rd grader do this?” to “holy shitballs, sell this to a museum”. I’d hacked the matrix. Found the cheat code.
Writing emails? Building a list? Same. Damn. Game.
You think you can dabble? Post when the “muse” whispers? Wrong. The internet’s a hungry beast. Skip a day, and it licks its chops. Skip a week, and your audience? Gone. Vaporised. A post-apocalyptic wasteland of unopened emails.
THE RULES:
Write. Every. Day.
Send. Every. Day.
Even when it feels like squeezing diamonds out of your urethra.
Especially then…
Doing anything consistently is key. Drawing. Painting. Writing emails and telling people to join your list. Do that shit every single day.
Stephen Walker
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
Start your list. Here’s why…
You’re not a “creative,” you say? Bullshit.
Everyone’s creative. Somewhere deep in that skull-cave of yours, there’s a spark. A glimmer. A half-formed thought that smells like burnt toast and desperation…
Start an email list.
Why? Because social media is a goddamn carnival of lies. It’s all filters, flexes, and false fronts. Everyone’s curating their highlight reel while their soul rots in the background.
Email? Email is intimate. Raw. Real. It’s a one-on-one conversation in a world that’s screaming at you from every direction.
Still not convinced? Let me break it down for you in a list (because lists are life)
It’s a Diary, but with Benefits.
Think of it as your personal confessional. A place to dump your thoughts, your fears, your weird little obsessions. Did you eat an entire rotisserie chicken for breakfast? Write about it. Did you cry in the shower because you saw a dog wearing a raincoat? Write about that, too. No one’s judging you here.
Intimacy is the New Currency.
Social media is like shouting into a void. Email is like whispering in someone’s ear. It’s personal. It’s direct. It’s the kind of connection that makes people feel seen. And guess what? People love feeling seen.
No Algorithms, No Bullshit.
You know what’s great about email? It doesn’t give a fuck about algorithms. Your words land in someone’s inbox, not buried under 47 ads for protein powder and toe fungus cream.
It’s Yours. All Yours.
Social media platforms can ban you, shadow-ban you, or just straight-up disappear. Your email list? That’s your kingdom. No one can take it away from you.
Build Trust, Not Followers.
Followers are fickle. Trust is forever. When you write honestly, openly, and vulnerably, you build trust. And trust? That’s the foundation of everything.
Still here? Good. Here’s a little side thought:
You don’t have to be a writer. You just have to be you. Authenticity is the secret sauce. Write like you talk. Write like you’re ranting to a friend over a bottle of cheap wine. Write like you’re leaving a note for your future self.
So, what are you waiting for?
Start that email list. Treat it like a diary, a blog, a therapy session. Build those intimate connections in a world that’s drowning in noise.
And hey, if you’re still not convinced, just remember this…
The only thing worse than starting is not starting at all.
Now go. Write. Be messy. Be honest. Be you.
(And if you need help, hit me up. I’ve got wine and a keyboard. We’ll figure this shit out together.)
Stephen Walker
P.S. The squirrels have started to get the hint that they need to build a list now too…
P.P.S. If you’re still reading this, you’re already halfway there. Don’t overthink it. Just do it.
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
A parasite
In 2020 Netflix released Korean black comedy called parasite.
“The struggling Kim family sees an opportunity when the son starts working for the wealthy Park family. Soon, all of them find a way to work within the same household and start living a parasitic life.”
It was a wild ride. Twists and turns you wouldn’t believe and it got me thinking.
(Especially after I’ve had a few shots of tequila)
As a writer I need to remember this:
“Your prose is a parasite. (Let it eat your enemies)
We all have stories we’re nursing like a back-alley stab wound.
The one that pulses with your DNA, your trauma, your weird obsession with sentient mold?
Someone will read it and recoil like you’ve force-fed them a McRib smoothie.
Good. Let them choke.
And so I sit here and look at what Art is and realise it’s not a consensus. Your job isn’t to be liked. Your job is to be a feral little goblin hurling your truth into the world.
There’s some dirty and accurate math in the world when it comes to being a person who pens words for a living…
For every person who calls your work “a revelation”, there’s another who’ll hiss, “This reads like a chatbot fucked a CVS receipt.”
Your dialogue? To some, it’s Sorkin-sharp. To others, a drunken Morse code.
Your metaphors? Either “Kafka in a waffle house” or “What the fuck is a ‘soul-tarantula’?”
Your climax? A fireworks show of feels or a wet fart in a library.
There is no cure for taste. Only survivors.
Whether you’re painting, writing or composing anything musical. Haters are gonna hate and you need to weaponise that hate.
Treat your work like it’s some kind of bioweapon
You’re not writing. You’re infecting…
Mutate aggressively. Let your prose ooze. Let it sprout tentacles. Let it be the literary equivalent of that one unkillable office cold.
Resist the antidote. Beta readers say “tone it down”? Ignore them. “Tone” is for church choirs and LinkedIn posts. You’re here to scream.
Outlive the host. Your story will outlast its critics. The Roman Empire fell. Fifty Shades did not.
Collect bad reviews like war trophies…
Frame them. Wear them as armour. Let them fuel your spite-engine.
“This author should be banned from vowels.” Good. You’ve weaponised the alphabet.
“I’d rather French-kiss a woodchipper.” Better. You’ve earned a sensory experience.
“Not even my therapist could unpack this.” Best. You’ve broken someone’s brain.
High fives all around…
Your voice isn’t supposed to be palatable. Palateable is for yogurt and politicians.
Write like a werewolf on espresso. Teeth out. Grammar butchered. Let the words howl.
Marinate in your niche. Love cryptid erotica? Write a love triangle between Bigfoot, a GPS, and a disgraced rodeo clown. Own it.
Fuck the “universal.”
The universal is a McDonalds cheeseburger. You’re a durian fruit. Polarising. Pungent. Perfect.
February is here and I want to inspire you to just go absolutely mental at your craft.
Go all in. Go insane. Create work that’ll make everyone look at you as if you’re losing your mind.
Control the chaos. Not the crowd.
Write like the world’s ending tomorrow and you’ve got one last middle finger to launch into universe.
And when the thinkpieces come? When the Twitter-threads bloom like mold in a frat-house shower? Laugh. Laugh until you cough up a lung.
Because you? You’re not here to be good.
You’re here to be unforgettable.
Stephen Walker
https://stphnwlkr.com/theleagueP.S. I’ve put the tequila down and I’m going for a walk out in the fresh cold. These projects aren’t going to finish themselves…
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
3 weekend recommendations | 31.1.25
“Our minds are hurt more often by overeating than by hunger.” – Petrarch
Happy Friday.
I’m back home in snowy Canada after a long month away, running plant medicine retreats in Costa Rica and Peru.
There is a lot to catch up on, but a lot of fresh inspiration as well…
…Including inspiration for a brand new project for entrepreneurs, that I may announce early next week.
In the meantime, a few recs for your weekend:
The State of The Tao: 2025
My first QiGong teacher, Taoist Master Bruce Frantzis, writes an annual report on the underlying energy of the year.
And so far, his readings have always proved accurate for me.
Note, this isn’t based on fu-fu astrology or picking new-age cards out of a deck.
The Taoists have spent thousands of years developing sophisticated systems for tracking currents of energy:
Internally, globally, and beyond.
Enjoy.
How To Build Your Day – Huberman & Waitzkin
Great clip from Huberman Lab on how to design personalized daily routines for maximum performance and productivity.
The MIQ principle Waitzkin talks about early in the clip is especially valuable.
The Intellectual Obesity Crisis by Gurwinder Bhogal
How and why “information addiction is rotting our brains.”
Well worth reading if you’re a human being living on planet earth in the 21st century.
(credit to this article for the quote at the top of today’s email)
BONUS: Vikings
Hot damn this show slaps.
Here’s a note about the main character I shared with our Path members, earlier this week:
“Power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.” – Ragnar Lothbrook
The beauty of the Ragnar Lothbrook character, similar to Tommy Shelby in Peaky Blinders, is that his ego does not get in the way of the mission.
He is willing to look bad in the eyes of others, to put himself beneath others, to allow others to temporarily feel like they’re above him and to give them a sense of false superiority.
When others are simply trying to win the next hand, he is willing to sacrifice it in order to win the game 5 moves later.
That’s a wrap.
Have an amazing weekend over there, and I’ll see you back here on Monday.
(and remember, if you’re an entrepreneur — keep a close eye on your inbox…)
- T
P.S. A message for surviving in the age of AI…
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Be cringe. Be kind. Be bored. Be bad at stuff.
Let’s be clear right off of the rip.
The internet used to be a playground for humans.
Now?
It’s a portfolio-packed dystopia of performative flexing.
Everyone’s a CEO, a guru, a brand. (Boring. Exhausting. Lies.)
We’ve turned social media into work media, and now the planet’s drowning in LinkedIn posts that taste like burnt toast and despair.
We need to get back to doing things badly and loving it.
Sing loud in your car. Off-key. To ABBA. Let the guy in the next lane judge you.
Bake bread that looks like a deflated football. Post the photo captioned “Feast your eyes on my cement loaf. DM for recipe.”
Dance alone in socks on a Friday afternoon. No reels. No hashtags. Just bad moves and good vibes.
Fail publicly…
Your sourdough starter died? Perfect.
Your garden’s 90% dandelions? Art.
Did your kid’s “science fair project” involve glitter explosions and a small fire? Frame that shit.
We’ve forgotten how to celebrate attempts instead of achievements.
Screw perfection. Give me stories about burned casseroles and Zoom calls where your cat barfed on the keyboard.
Reclaim the world social…
Social media isn’t your client’s billboard. It’s supposed to be… social. Swap the humblebrags for humble human
“Here’s me eating cereal for dinner because adulting is fake.”
“Folded laundry! (It’s in a heap. I’m calling it abstract art.)”
“Found this rock. It’s my friend now. #Rockstagram”
Yes, your job matters. But you aren’t your job.
You’re a chaotic spark plug of niche hobbies, 3am thoughts, and questionable life choices.
So share the mess. The weird. The nothing.
The world’s on fire. Algorithms are eating our joy.
So let’s all agree to stop commodifying our humanity and start smashing the “aesthetic” with a sledgehammer of authenticity.
Be cringe. Be kind. Be bored. Be bad at stuff.
The revolution is just an unmade bed, a half-finished crossword, and you. Flawed, glorious, alive.
Now go touch grass. Literally.
And don’t go gently into the weekend.
Stephen Walker
P.S. Gonna be doing some drawing and painting again after taking a very long break from it. So at least the squirrels will leave me alone…
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
John Doe’s box of horrors…
PRE-EMPTIVE SPOILER WARNING (AKA “THE ETHICS CLAUSE YOU’LL IGNORE BUT SHOULDN’T”)
This email is written like a rabid squirrel on espresso to mimic the greasy-fingered, soul-sucking tactics of marketers who treat humans like ATMs with hair.
The profanity? The aggression? The deliciously manipulative structure? That’s the point.
It’s a funhouse mirror.
A warning and not a blueprint…
If you use these sins to manipulate instead of serve, you’re not a marketer. You’re a carny running a rigged game where the goldfish die.
Don’t be the asshole. Don’t be John Doe. Got a product that’s better? A service that doesn’t taste like despair?
Then your moral imperative is to shout it loud. Hoarding ethical goods is a sin too. Let them choose. Let them breathe.
But don’t cry when karma serves your head in a box.
Now. Let’s dance with the devil but only if he signs a consent form first…
SE7EN DEADLY MARKETING LESSONS
So. You wanna be John Doe?
You wanna crawl inside the meat-puppet skulls of your audience and play their dopamine receptors like a demonic kazoo.
Let’s talk about the 1995 Seven.
The one where Morgan Freeman’s detective aura battles Brad Pitt’s bone structure and a killer who’s really into moral arts and crafts. The seven sins. The box. The flies. The what’s-in-the-fucking-box scream-whisper of capitalism or whatever.
I’ve said this in many forms over the years if you’ve been paying attention…
Marketing is just sin-jujitsu. You take their worst impulses and twist.
Let’s break it down like a ribcage full of razorblades…
Lust
You don’t sell shoes. You sell foot-fetish fuel. You don’t hawk perfume. You sell the throat-punch memory of your ex’s neck sweat. Make them thirst. Tease. “Click to uncover.”
Lust isn’t about sex. It’s about the gap between what they have and what they itch to have. Leave them panting at the edge of the “Buy Now” button.
Gluttony
Feed them till they burst. More content. More deals. More MORE. Autoplay. Suggested for you. “People who bought this also bought a fragment of their own soul.” Gluttony isn’t about satisfaction. It’s about the ritual of consumption. Cram their cart. Stuff their notifications. Watch them chew through subscriptions like a starved rat eating its way through your stomach as the bucket gets hotter and hotter…
Greed
Limited stock. Countdown timers. “Only 3 left!” (There’s 3000 left. You monster.) Greed isn’t currency. It’s panic. The fear that someone else will get their treasure. Turn buyers into dragons hoarding plastic trinkets. “Exclusive access.” “VIP tiers.” “You deserve this.” (Spoiler: They don’t. But fuck it, neither do you.)
Sloth
One-click purchases. Pre-filled forms. “Skip the tutorial.” Sloth isn’t laziness. It’s impatience weaponised. Reduce every decision to a reflex. Autofill their lives. “Subscribe and never think again.” They’ll thank you while their muscles atrophy into pudding.
Wrath
Hot take: Outrage is glue. Pick a side. Any side. Make them angry at the other side. “Don’t let THEM win.” Wrath isn’t conflict. It’s loyalty. Unite your tribe against a common enemy (real or imagined). Sell pitchforks and torches. Market share = war territory.
Envy
Stage the perfect life. Curated imperfection. “Look what THEY have.” Envy isn’t wanting. It’s comparison as self-harm. Filter. Retouch. Highlight reels. User-generated content which is free labour. Turn followers into stalkers. Make their neighbours’ grass literally greener. (Did they use spray paint?)
Pride
“You’re special.” “Be legendary.” “Treat yourself.” Pride isn’t confidence. It’s narcissism monetised. Sell them their own reflection, polished and pixel-perfect. Premium memberships. Gold-plated USB cords. “Because you’re worth it.”
Here’s how you can be the antidote…
The seven sins aren’t shackles. They’re mirrors. Stare into them long enough, and you’ll see the rot. Or the redemption.
Marketing isn’t inherently evil. Humans are. (Mostly.) But here’s the secret they don’t sell in your $2000 “Dark Lord Funnel” course.
Good shit sells itself…
Flip the sins.
Lust → Passion. Make them crave your product like it’s the last spark in a wet matchbook.
Gluttony → Abundance. Overflow with value till they’re drunk on trust.
Greed → Generosity. Give so much they feel guilty not buying.
Sloth → Ease. Remove friction, not dignity.
Wrath → Courage. Fight for them, not against “enemies.”
Envy → Aspiration. Make them want to be better, not bitter.
Pride → Purpose. Let them buy into a legacy, not a lie.
Be the cure. The unapologetic, neon-bright alternative to the vultures picking at society’s bones.
Market like your product could save a life. Because maybe it does. Maybe it’s insulin. Maybe it’s art. Maybe it’s just a really fucking good taco.
Stephen Walker
https://stphnwlkr.com/theleagueP.S. Go check out Seven if you haven’t. It’s wild and the twist gets me every time.
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
Lessons from the Darkness (Part 2)
“When we have no choice but to become greater, we do.”
As we said on Monday:
Darkness — pain, suffering, trauma, fear, doubt, anxiety, illness, disease — is not scary.
Darkness is not scary; fear of darkness is scary.
Darkness uses fear as it’s power source, weaponizing our imagination against us.
Remove the fear, remove the power, and darkness dissolves on it’s own.
Which brings us to Part 2:
How do we stop fearing the darkness?
The answer:
Use it productively.
When a negative is used to create a positive, the negative itself becomes a positive.
So our strategy is simple:
Find the benefit hiding in the darkness, and turn it to our advantage.
(as a teacher once told me… if you’re living with a demon, have it make your coffee in the morning)
And there is perhaps no greater benefit to the darkness than this:When the darkness closes in, when our back is against the ropes and heavy blows are raining down…
…When we have no choice but to find a deeper well of strength to pull from and fight back…
…We do.
We find our deeper strength, strength that hides under the surface when life is smooth and easy, waiting until the day we need it.
A well of strength that, once accessed, can be accessed again.
Strength that can be pulled from for the rest of our lives.
Yes, darkness makes us stronger.
Because when the bar is about to crush us, we lift it.
When the tiger is at our heels, we run faster.
And, when we have no choice but to become greater, we do.
- T
P.S. In case you missed it:
This clip pairs perfectly with today’s email.
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Your voice is a shape shifting demon.
Voice is always an interesting topic that rears its ugly head in the writer community.
It’s not the kind you use to order tacos or argue with your cat though…
A writing voice is what I’m talking about.
That slippery fucker that’s either hiding under your bed dressed as Kafka, or screaming through a megaphone as a knockoff Tarantino.
You’ve been told to “find it” like it’s car keys.
The thing is though. Your voice isn’t lost. It’s just buried under all the bullshit they taught you in school, the trauma of middle school book reports, and that one tweet that went viral and made you question your entire existence.
Murder your heroes.
Your voice isn’t hiding. It’s smothered under the wet blanket of every author you’ve ever aped.
Love Neil Gaiman? Great. Now write a paragraph in his style, then set it on fire. Watch it burn.
What’s left in the ashes? That’s your shit. That’s the DNA.
This is a big one in the copywriting world…
Talk like a human, not a thesaurus.
You’re not writing a Renaissance Faire scroll. If you’d say “this sandwich tastes like a foot,” don’t write “the gastronomic experience evoked podiatric undertones.” Stop that shit.
You have to look at writing as if you’re confessing to the page.
Write a secret you’ve never told anyone. The time you stole, lied, licked a battery.
Doesn’t matter. Burn it after. The point is to vomit raw you onto the page, no filters, no “but what will grandma think?”
Embrace your inner cringe-lord
Your voice is cringe.
Good.
Cringe is the mold that grows on the authentic.
The world doesn’t need another polished pebble.
It needs your jagged, broken-glass laugh.
Write drunk, edit sober (metaphorically)
Write a sex scene where the real monster is awkwardness. A hero who picks their nose. A villain who just wants to nap. Let it be messy. Let it be embarrassing.
Steal your own life…
That time you got dumped at a water park?
The way your dad hums showtunes while doing taxes?
The intrusive thought about licking a subway pole?
Harvest it. Marinate in your own weird.
Write a Yelp review in the voice of a Victorian ghost. Rewrite the Starbucks menu as a Norse epic. Scream into the void until the void screams back in your accent.
Voice isn’t born. It’s built.
From the corpses of everyone and everything you’ve ever loved, hated, or doomscrolled past.
Make a toxic smoothie.
Blend Toni Morrison with your group chat.
Shakespeare with shitposting.
Twilight fanfic with Cormac McCarthy.
Drink it. If it doesn’t make you hallucinate, add more tabasco.
Use your tics.
Do you default to sarcasm? Poetry? Rambling footnotes that overexplain like a nervous wizard (guilty?)
Lean in. Double down. Make your tics a style.
Borrow voices like a library book.
Write a scene as a noir detective. Then as a bored teen. Then as a sentient Roomba. Take what clicks. Burn the rest.
Your voice isn’t a static thing. It’s a feral thing.
A werewolf. A sentient stain. It’ll shapeshift. But you gotta stop apologising for it.
Kill the right way.
Grammar rules? Fuck ‘em when needed.
Plot structure? Throw it into a woodchipper.
Write a chapter as a grocery list. A battle scene in emojis. A love story in spam emails.
Go niche or go home.
Love body horror? Write a rom-com where the third act twist is a parasitic twin.
Obsessed with baking? Make a thriller about sentient sourdough.
Your voice thrives in specificity, not “universal appeal.”
Argue with yourself. Write a manifesto about why your voice matters.
Then write a counter-manifesto calling it pretentious garbage. Let them fight. Winner gets the crown.
Voice isn’t found. It’s claimed.
Through blood, bad drafts, and the humility of realising your “genius” sounds like a mime cosplaying Hemingway.
Write until it hurts. Then write more. Finish the story. Let it suck. Let it be a first pancake that’s burnt, lumpy and glorious.
Test it in the wild. Read it aloud to your dog. Post a snippet anonymously. Watch people call it “deranged.” Good. Deranged is a brand.
Kill the clone army. Stop comparing your voice to anyone else’s. Margaret Atwood didn’t write The Handmaid’s Taleby asking, “But is this vibey enough for BookTok?”
Your voice isn’t in the woods. It’s in the wound. The one you keep poking to see if it’s still there.
Stop looking for it. Use it. Write like you’re carving your name into a prison wall.
Write like the rent’s due and the devil’s knocking.
Write like no one’s listening, because that’s the only way they ever will.
The demon’s hungry. Feed it your fear.
Or don’t.
But if you don’t, you’re just another ghost that’ll die on an unread page.
Stephen Walker
http://stphnwlkr.com/theleague
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom -
Flesh Monsters, Anxiety Meds, and You: A Love Story (Unsubscribe Now or Suffer)
YOU’RE HUNGRY.
Not the oh-shit-I-forgot-lunch kind of hungry.
The kind that gnaws.
The kind that starts in your gut and climbs your spine like a rat with a meat cleaver.
You haven’t eaten in three days.
Not since the power grid coughed up a hairball and died.
Not since the cucumbers in the fridge started screaming.
(You don’t question the screaming cucumbers anymore. You just leave the kitchen. Fast.)
Here’s the thing about the end of the world…
It’s boring. Apocalypses aren’t fireworks and leather-clad cannibals on flaming Harleys…
Nope, they’re this:
Day 1: Your kid fills a Tupperware with dead ladybugs, calls it “soup.”
Day 2: You drink hand sanitiser. (The raspberry kind. Classy.)
Day 3: You Google “can rage cure lactose intolerance” while your ex blows up your phone with texts like ”u still alive???”
The baby monitor crackles. Static, then a wet gurgle. You pretend it’s nothing.
(Spoiler: It’s never nothing. This isn’t a Hallmark movie. This is David Cronenberg directing an infomercial for baby monitors.)
You stumble upstairs.
Big mistake…
The nursery door’s ajar.
Inside… Crib bars bent like liquorice twists. The air smells of burnt honey and regret.
And there, in the corner. Your kid.
Except their skin’s peeling off in ribbon-curls, pink and shiny as raw chicken.
Their eyes? Two oily marbles.
Their mouth? A wet hole full of teeth that aren’t theirs.
“Mommy,” it says.
(Or the thing wearing your kid’s voice like a skinsuit says.)
“I’m hungry too.”
LET’S PAUSE.
Because here’s the secret they don’t tell you in those shitty self-help books
(Looking at you, ”Apocalypse for Dummies”)
You don’t get to be the hero. Heroes bathe in sunlight and have moral compasses sharper than a vegan’s eyeliner.
You? You’ve got…
A half-empty bottle of Xanax (circa 2019, vintage)
A crowbar named “Mr. Cuddles.”
A love for your kid that feels less like warmth and more like swallowing a lit sparkler.
You choose the sparkler.
THE THING THAT ISN’T YOUR KID lunges.
You swing Mr. Cuddles. It screeches. A sound like a thousand Instagram influencers discovering they’re all wearing the same outfit.
The crowbar sticks. Of course it does. The thing’s flesh parts like warm brie.
“Fuck,” you say.
And then, louder… “FUCK.”
Because parenting pamphlets never mentioned this.
(Your Child: Demonic Possession and You! – Free with coupon.)
It lunges again. You dodge. The Xanax bottle rattles in your pocket like a tiny ghost.
Take me, it whispers. Swallow the whole damn thing and nap through the rapture.
But you…
(Wait. Hold on. Let’s talk craft for a sec. You’re writing a protagonist here. Give them agency. Make them choose. Not a saint, not a demon. A person. A person who’d sell their soul for Wi-Fi and eats grief like it’s gas station sushi. Got it? Good. Now back to the screaming.)
…you grab the Xanax. Not to swallow. To bait. You shake the pills like maracas.
“C’mon, you little sphincter-waffle. Dinner’s served.”
The thing hesitates. (Even monsters get anxious, pal…)
You throw the pills down its throat. It chokes. Gags. Its skin bubbles like nacho cheese in a meth lab.
Then POP
It explodes.
The aftermath? Chunks. Everywhere. One lands in your hair. It whispers, ”Mommy…”
You pluck it out. Flick it into the ruins of the crib. “Call me Mother,” you say. Because boundaries matter.
Then comes the epilogue:
You sit on the porch. The sky’s the colour of a bruised avocado. Your phone dings. It’s your ex… ”u good???”
You type back ”Peachy. Kids are hard.”
The sun rises. Or maybe it’s a wildfire. Either way, you light a cigarette with a shaking hand and laugh. Because what’s next?
Who the fuck knows.
But you’ll choose it.
(And if you don’t? Well, fuck it. There’s always hand sanitiser to wash it down with.)
Now if you stuck it to the end.
This is what I get up to during the day while inhaling every bit of caffeine possible, when I don’t have adult responsibilities and the weather is absolutely god awful.
Semi-horror-apocalyptic short story ideas scribbled down in a notepad, followed by sending it to my editor who will tell me if it’s a good idea to write out fully and make it thing.
Nothing too crazy and something I’m focusing more on in the future.
So if you see me plugging a collection of horror shorts. I’m trying to knock Stephen King and Dean Koontz off of the top spot.
Stephen Walker
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom
