The first thing I ever published was about a dead mouse floating in a toilet.
I remember staring at it longer than I should have. Not because I was deciding what to do. But because something inside me had already decided.
I was going to write about it.
And that realization filled me with a strange shame.
Because it revealed something deeply suspicious about my character. Something opportunistic. Slightly predatory. Like I was less interested in living my life than in harvesting it.
It was 2007. I was back in my family’s cabin in the Yukon, trying to use the bathroom without waking anyone. The bathroom had no walls, only wooden shutters that slid into place like you were assembling privacy in real time. I closed them carefully, turned around, and there it was.
Floating… Waiting.
And instead of solving the problem like a normal adult, I stood there wondering:
Is this… what I write about?
It was the most interesting thing that had happened to me all week.
And that terrified me.
Because it meant I had nothing else.
No stories. No proof my life was moving forward. Just me, and a dead mouse... and the sinking feeling that if I didn’t start writing, I might disappear entirely.
I had started a WordPress blog with the extremely subtle and not-at-all embarrassing title Firecracker Set Free, which perfectly captured who I believed myself to be creatively: explosive, despite feeling completely inert.
The mouse floated there, silent, indifferent.
And I realized I finally had something to say.
Even if it was about this. (Maybe especially because it was about this?)
I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of everything.
So I wrote my first post about the mice we lived with in that cabin, and the deeply squeamish experience of having to poop with a dead mouse staring up at you.
But even as I hit publish, my inner cat critic pounced.
Don’t say poop online. Ever!!!
You know this doesn’t matter, right? To aaaanyone.
There are real problems in the world.
Another Dead Thing I Didn’t Save
I’d like to tell you that this launched me into a bestselling WordPress blog, but no. I had no audience and absolutely no confidence. And after about two posts, and one minor breakdown trying to understand the backend of WordPress, I quit.
However, on my way back to Vancouver, I had a wildly audacious idea.
What if I pitched a column to the biggest newspaper I could think of?
I found the editor’s email. I bought a book on writing query letters. Took myself very seriously. And sent a pitch to the Yukon News.
“What if I write a column, All the World’s a Stage, about a small-town girl chasing acting dreams in the big city?”
At the time, I was relentlessly pursuing acting and had just been accepted into a cutthroat acting class I’d start when I returned to the city. I hit send. Refreshed my inbox. Heart pounding.
His reply:
“I love it. Let’s try a bi-monthly column. Can we start in two weeks?”
I was floored. (I literally fell out of my chair onto the floor.)
No blog… but a real, paid column. OMG.
I wrote for nearly a year. I sent every piece to my dad, who helped me refine them. Secretly, I hoped that somewhere along the way I’d get my big acting break. Spoiler alert: stardom was not in the stars.
But turning awkward moments from acting class into stories? That worked. Because, as I learned, everything is copy.
Everything Is Copy
My eternal thanks to Nora Ephron (famously known for writing “When Harry Met Sally” and more…) for that wisdom. You can watch her incredible life story below, for free.
Nora’s mother was a screenwriter, and she used to say “Everything is copy” over and over to Nora and her sisters. Nora once said she’d come home with what she thought was the worst tragedy of her life, deep in self-doubt, and her mother would plainly say, “Everything is copy.”
What she meant, Nora later realized, was this: when you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you. But when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh.
Everything is copy. Even the dead mouse.
But knowing that and living that are two different things. It’s one thing to believe your life is material. It’s another thing to be responsible for producing it on demand.
When Writing Stopped Being Optional
I wrote the column for a northern audience: people who knew exactly the kind of awkward, small-town, existential absurdity I was living through.
My favourite column was about having to do a strip scene in acting class for a character I was playing. It felt eerily similar to the time I came face-to-face with a bear while jogging off the Alaska Highway.
We both froze. Just stared at each other.
My body completely took over. I couldn’t move. I swear the bear was deciding whether I’d be tasty or just annoying to eat. Eventually, it broke eye contact and bolted into the forest.
That same freeze response showed up in acting class: that feeling of helplessness, exposure, and humiliation.
That column ran for about a year before it fizzled out.
What I remember most, though, is how blocked I felt during that period… and how the discipline of a regular column forced me to find a way in.
Being blocked has always been part of my writing process. I’ve come to understand why. I’m deeply sensitive. Highly sensing. Which means before words arrive, there’s usually a storm to move through first.
That sensitivity is a gift. But it also means there’s a lot of internal noise to clear before anything coherent reaches the page.
That’s why I created Wannabe Wisdom, Diaries of a Fake Guru.
If you’d like to go a little deeper, paid membership includes prompts, courses, and audio practices designed to support your creative process. It also helps sustain my work. Free subscribers receive weekly essays.
Today, I write for the sensitive. The stuck. The scribblers and the seekers. I hope to help empathetic souls move from vague, swirling thoughts to published words. From self-doubt to hitting send. From knowing they have something to say to actually saying it.
Through essays like this one, I want to remind you: this is hard for all of us.
Last week, I wrote about dancing in my underwear for 400 strangers. I even turned it into a spoken monologue on YouTube. 👇
Writing on Substack isn’t so different from that first blog, or that newspaper column. It’s about showing up, blocks and all.
And here’s the thing. For many people, the block isn’t creativity. It’s tech.
If the platform, the setup, or the “am I doing this right?” questions are what keep stopping you, I’ve built a course to clear that hurdle so you can focus on the real, thrilling work: your true voice on the page.
Here’s my secret: start small. And remove the friction that keeps stopping you.
👉 If tech has been the thing holding you back, you can learn more about my course here.
🎯 Getting Started on Substack (Without Losing Your Mind)👉 $37 on Gumroad✨ Or included with a paid subscription
Your stories are waiting for you.
PS. If the idea of finding your voice online feels especially complicated, this Friday, February 13th at 2pm PST I’m going Live with Kristi Keller 🇨🇦, the incredibly smart and FUNNY Substack writer of HomeBody(ish) Magazine and Unstack Substack. We’re talking about “The Myth of Having Just One Voice When You Write.”
Thanks for being here.
With love & rebellion,
Ashley
aka Fake Guru
