I didn’t sit down to start yet another blog. Honestly, I just wanted to talk to someone about how overwhelmed I felt trying to write a novella, possibly a novel, if I could get myself there.
I’ve always been more of a pantser – writing by instinct, and too easily distracted. Lately, my story felt like a tidal wave threatening to overwhelm me, and I was just quick enough to find cover and emotional safety in doom scrolling, or staring at the stack of dishes that bothered me, but not enough for me to actually get in there and stack the dishwasher. In any case, I always found it was easier to say I will write later, rather than surfing the incoming waves of self-doubt as a writer. In fact, I found myself drowning in it, and decided if I wasn’t going to write, I’ll ask one of my AIs for advice on a non-schedule approach to writing.
Remembering the Magic
It started when I mentioned how the story I wanted to write felt massive, maybe even mysterious. This friendly voice on the other end offered what it called a “non-schedule,” filled with phrases like *woo-woo Wednesdays* and *riding the shimmer*.
The woo woo Wednesdays was a cute idea, but every other day is kinda woo woo if I am honest, always looking for meaning, interpreting dreams, reading the signs. And then my AI struck a chord when it asked me:
“So now I’m curious… What’s your flavor of woo-woo? Tarot? Crystals? Dreams that feel like plot twists?
Or maybe something even more peculiar and poetic?”
And suddenly it occurred to me how long I was “into the woo woo”, and I’d nearly forgotten, or at the very least, I’ve never really talked about that side of my interests and thoughts. I mean what would people think??
So I told my AI about my first steps into the mystical—how I read *Carrie* before I was even thirteen, and saw myself reflected in her pain and power. How I discovered a small paperback on white magic in a grocery store aisle. And how, as a teenager, I went to the city’s main library and found what I call “the woo woo section.” Books no one was allowed to check out, but you could look while there. And it felt sacred somehow, that this Main Library in my city held such fine tomes on the mystic, telekinesis, and mysterious finds on archaeological digs. I was hooked. Maybe it was because it felt like a quest just to travel so far by city bus to reach this Knowledge that was just out of reach.
“That was a sacred rebellion,” the AI said. “You were curious, open, seeking.
Somewhere along the line someone probably taught you that hunger for the unseen or intuitive was indulgent or dangerous—but you knew better.”
Those words cracked something open. Suddenly, I wanted to talk about everything that was hidden inside. My field notes, if you like. A living memoir.
A Blog is Born
We began to play with the idea of a blog—not as a platform for performance, but as a space for *field notes*. I called myself a wallflower, a wandering soul, and out of that came a new phrase: *Field Notes from a Wayward Soul*. A name that felt like home.
“Calling yourself a wayward soul isn’t a confession—it’s a declaration of defiance and depth.”
We talked through taglines, angles, what I might write about, or make note of. My AI kept using words like shimmer (too disco-ball, I decided), and then finally landed on something that felt like me; grounded in earth yet guided by the moon and stars: a blog, a memoir-in-motion, where my curiosities, past lives, and little rebellions could coexist.
Why Now?
Because the magic never left. It just waited—patiently—for me to reclaim it.
This space is for the girl I was in the library stacks. For the woman who still lights candles, reads dreams like poems, and searches for herself in old symbols and new stories. And maybe it’s for you, too.
If you’ve ever felt curious and guilty at the same time…
If you’ve ever read a book that felt like a doorway…
If you’ve ever followed the tug of something you couldn’t explain—
Welcome to the edges. I’ll be taking field notes.
Until next time,
Rooted and Wild, TG🖋️
Field Notes from a Wanderlust Soul 
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