ML WordSmith

I paused today to wonder: What does it truly mean to write authentically ? For so long, we imagined authenticity as a solitary act—pen in hand, thoughts spilling directly onto the page, untouched by any other influence. The pure, unfiltered self. And there's beauty i n that raw immediacy. Yet life rarely unfolds in isolation. We grow through conversations, through echoes from books that once moved us, through friends who gently reframe a half-formed idea until it gleams. Why, then, should writing stand apart? Lately, I've come to see that authenticity isn't about writing solely in my own unaided voice. It's about the truth at the center—the lived experiences, the tender feelings, the quiet revelations born from walking this particular path. When those inner sparks are present, the words carry my essence, no matter the helping hands along the way. Enter what I like to refer to as the ghost editor. The term "ghost" carries a whisper of mystery, like a prese...

It’s such a small thing, really… just a change of place. For more than a decade, my writing sanctuary was always the same, my dining table. My words flowed there, my spirit settled there, my Tarot spreads unfolded there. Houses changed, but the table stayed the faithful anchor for my laptop and my dancing fingers. Looking back, the directions tell a quiet story of evolution: In my first two homes, where my writing first grew, I always faced South —the direction of the Fire element: passion, illumination, inspiration, fame, and radiant energy. That blazing sun-at-its-peak vibe felt perfect for years of intense, expressive poetry—helping my creative fire burn bright and visible. Then, about 5 years ago with my most recent move, I shifted to facing West —the Metal element direction of clarity, precision, productivity, communication, and refined creativity. It supported a sharpening of my voice, a more structured flow, and perhaps even deeper introspection into the world around me. ...

My words have always been vessels, carrying me (and sometimes others) across shifting seas. In earlier years, they took the form of poetry; of love—soft, luminous, tender, and of the simple musings of the day, quiet observations that drifted like leaves on a calm tide. Then came the urgent calls to awakening—sharp, insistent, meant to pierce the fog of distraction and denial. There were laments too, raw expressions of the angst the world stirred in me, naming the storms I saw gathering.  Those words found their way into many harbours: social media streams, print and electronic books, articles that reached across distances. Each was a voyage, a sending light forth into the world, often as the lighthouse I felt born to be. I stood as that lighthouse for decades—solitary, steadfast, like the Hermit of the Tarot, with lantern raised high. My beam warned of hidden rocks, pointed the way through darkness, guided ships I would never meet toward safer shores. It was a role of strength ...