Why I Write Like a Taoist Madman on Substack

There’s something radically liberating about reaching your 60s and realizing that you no longer have to ask for permission to exist, much less write.

Since 2020, I’ve been showing up virtually every day to post on Substack, not as a brand-builder or algorithm-chaser, but as a human being with ink-stained hands and a head full of Tao.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped giving a damn about being liked. I stopped polishing every word like it needed to pass peer review. And I began what I now call Writing With My Gut Hanging Out.

That’s the ethos behind Great Books, Great Minds. That’s the soul behind The Chocolate Taoist. I don’t write for clicks. I write because something inside me starts stirring, and the only way to stay sane is to let it spill.

Zhuangzi as My Writing Coach

The Taoist sage Zhuangzi said, “A fish trap is for catching fish. When you’ve got the fish, you can forget the trap.” In the same spirit, I say: The outline is for catching the idea. Once the idea arrives, let the outline go. Let the thing be what it wants to be.

Zhuangzi, too, wrote like a wild man dancing on the edge of paradox. His stories weren’t structured—they were shapeshifters. He didn’t edit for clarity. He blurred for truth. He didn’t strive to be perfect. He sought to be real. That’s my writing model now.

So when I write, I channel his spirit. I write upside down. I write out of order. I let my sentences stutter or scream or slink into shadows. Some days I write like a jazz soloist. Other days it’s just tribal drumming and smoke. But it’s all honest.

The Tao Never Hurries the Paragraph

The Tao Te Ching whispers: “Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear?” Writing, for me, is the act of sitting in the mud long enough to watch the silt swirl into something sacred.

I don’t rush it. I don’t fight the rhythm. Some days, a thousand words fall like rain. Other days, it’s one line—one true line—and that’s enough. I never know if a piece will be beautiful or disjointed. I’ve published essays that sang. Others have limped. I honor both.

Because the Tao reminds me: “When nothing is done, nothing is left undone.” The work flows best when I stop trying to control it. When I drop the ego, the genius shows up.

I Ching, My Cosmic Editor

The I Ching is my co-pilot. When I get stuck or feel a shift coming, I toss the coins. I don’t use it as a crystal ball. I use it as a tuning fork. It tells me: Is this moment calling for movement or stillness? Should I go bold, or should I retreat and let things come to me?

I once pulled Hexagram 29, “The Abysmal (Water),” and realized: My words needed to go into the deep, not skim the surface. Another day, Hexagram 40, “Liberation,” arrived—and I wrote my way out of a spiritual funk by telling the truth without flinching.

Every hexagram is a writing prompt. Every transformation is a call to expression.

Writing Ugly, Writing Alive

There’s beauty in the mess. There’s glory in the gut-pour. Not every sentence needs to shimmer. Some days, you need to let it crawl. Some essays are jazz. Some are junkyard blues. But they’re mine. And more importantly, they’re me.

When you’re not worried about monetization or metrics, something primal returns. You remember why you started writing in the first place—not to impress but to express.

To explore. To play. To howl like Whitman or whisper like Baldwin. To channel your inner Zhuangzi and let the butterfly do the talking.

The Tao of No Attachments

“Care about people’s approval and you will be their prisoner,” says Lao Tzu. Well, I began walking out of that prison long ago.

At 62, I’m not here to hustle for attention. I’m here to offer up what comes through me. What I write may or may not “land.” Sometimes it lands like thunder. Sometimes it lands like a sock in the dryer. Either way, I let go.

Because that’s the Tao. That’s the path of the free writer. The wild scribe. The unedited self. My art doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s art. I am not a brand, I am a river. Sometimes still, sometimes crashing through canyons. But always moving, always honest.

A Closing Thought from the Inkbrush

So here I am, a Chocolate Taoist with ink on his fingers and no concern for your approval. I’ve written about Zora Neale Hurston, death, mason jars, crypto, spiritual delusion, estranged friends, sexual grief, the DMV, and even crockpots.

I’ve delayed essays and published a more rogue version the next morning. I’ve hit “Send” on things I wasn’t sure made sense only to get notes saying it changed someone’s life.

That’s the magic. When you write from the marrow, people feel it. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s mad.

Substack, for me, is not a newsletter. It’s a sacred dojo of expression. A digital temple where I throw down truth, sometimes with rhythm, sometimes with rage. But always, always with reverence for the Tao.

So are you ready to write your own strange and sacred thing? Then just breathe.

Just begin. Just be bold. And let the Tao take it from there.

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