How do you write what people actually want to read?
There are three kinds of readers: people who don’t want to read anymore, people who can’t read anymore, and those rare and wonderful souls who genuinely enjoy reading.
Three (four) types of readers
Some people don’t want to read. They prefer to scatter themselves across Twitter feeds—now simply called X, presumably because Twitter was becoming far too long a word to read.
They scan, react and move on. By the end of the day, they cannot remember a single word they have read—except, of course, the X. It is short enough.
Then there are those who can’t read anymore. The algorithm has gradually relieved them of the ability.
When I doomscroll through Facebook, my eyes are delighted by images and videos that leap from the screen to entertain my mind before it has time to become bored. Instagram and YouTube are the faithful companions of the non-reader. For them, even X may be asking too much.
Ahhh, and then we come to my favourite category: people who love reading.
They sit down with a book and disappear into it. Their imaginations conjure characters, landscapes and entire worlds from nothing more than marks on a page.
And yes, some of them are here on WordPress.
If you are still reading, you are probably one of them.
I write for you—hopefully offering some variety, a different way of looking at the world and, on certain days, enough humour to make you keep a few tissues nearby for the tears.
Of course, not everyone on WordPress is actually a reader. Some merely pretend to be. They click Like without pausing long enough to read the title.
But even the Like helps. It encourages me to keep writing—pieces considerably longer than an X—for those who still enjoy the craft of words.
And then…
Oh, my word!
There is that highly irregular individual who actually leaves a comment.
I write for you, baby!
One thoughtful comment can fuel another six months of writing. So please, don’t be shy.
What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?
In the corner of the restaurant sat five students, deeply engaged in solving the problems of the world.
We were young. We were naïve. We had pizza. We had wine. And we had absolute confidence that, given another hour or two, we could probably sort out most of humanity’s difficulties.
If only world leaders understood the diplomatic power of pizza and wine, we might have achieved world peace a long time ago.
The serious discussion gradually dissolved into laughter, banter and the kind of increasingly ridiculous conversation that happens when good friends have nowhere else they need to be.
Then, somewhere in the chaos, the conversation turned personal.
One of my friends said quietly, almost apologetically:
“I am sad about one thing. I have never seen the sea.”
Silence.
“Never?”
The chorus was almost unanimous.
“Never seen the sea?”
She immediately realised she had made a terrible mistake. Four pairs of eyes were staring at her as though she had just confessed to never having seen the sky. Her face turned red. She looked as if she wanted to disappear beneath the table.
And that was the precise moment my mouth overtook my brain.
“Don’t worry. Be happy. Tomorrow morning you will watch the sun rise over the sea.”
Silence again.
This time everyone stared at me.
One of my friends nearly choked on his pizza.
Their confusion was understandable.
The nearest sea was more than 600 kilometres away.
There are moments in life when common sense taps you politely on the shoulder.
This was not one of them.
I slapped my hand on the table.
“Road trip! Who’s in? We drive to Durban. Right now.”
Suddenly everybody was talking at once.
“What?”
“Durban?”
“Tonight?”
Then one voice attempted to restore sanity.
“We have an exam in two days!”
“No problem!” I declared, with the supreme confidence of someone who had done absolutely no calculations whatsoever. “We drive through tonight. We watch the sunrise. We swim naked in the ocean. Then we drive straight back. You’ll be home in plenty of time.”
That was the entire plan.
And somehow, it was enough.
Within minutes, the restaurant summit on world peace had been abandoned. Chairs scraped backwards. People rushed home to grab whatever they thought they needed. Pockets were emptied. Coins and notes were counted. Somehow we scraped together enough money for petrol, food and whatever other necessities five students imagined they might need for a completely unplanned 1,200-kilometre round trip.
Less than an hour after somebody had casually mentioned that she had never seen the sea, five students were squeezed into my little Datsun 120Y, speeding down the highway towards Durban.
No bookings.
No itinerary.
No proper budget.
Not much of a plan.
Just five young people, one tiny car and the Indian Ocean waiting somewhere beyond the darkness.
We drove through the night.
And yes—we made it.
We sat on the beach and watched the first light spread across the horizon. My friend saw the sea for the first time in her life.
That alone made every ridiculous kilometre worthwhile.
Decades later, she still boasts about that trip. She still tells people about the night we simply got into a car and drove 600 kilometres so that she could see the sun rise over the ocean.
That should probably be where the story ends.
Unfortunately, there was still the small matter of the exam.
Did we get back in time?
No.
My heroic little Datsun 120Y, perhaps having finally realised what its irresponsible owner had asked of its 1,200 cc engine, developed mechanical problems on the return journey.
And of all the places in South Africa where five exhausted students could become stranded, we got stuck at a place called Pramkop—an Afrikaans name whose anatomical implications provided considerably more entertainment than assistance.
The delay cost us the exam.
But that is another story.
The strange thing is that I cannot remember what examination it was. I cannot remember what mark was eventually written on some academic record.
But I remember that night.
I remember the restaurant.
I remember slapping my hand on the table.
I remember five students scrambling for money.
I remember the little Datsun carrying us through the darkness.
And I remember sitting beside a friend as she watched the sun rise over the sea for the first time.
Sometimes spontaneity is simply that tiny gap between an outrageous idea and the arrival of common sense.
That night, fortunately, we were already on the highway before common sense caught up with us.
“Those who are inspired to achieve great things must wake early to cultivate the consciousness and conscience they need to succeed. Those who habitually sleep late risk spending much of life reacting mechanically to circumstances and impulses rather than making conscious choices.”
For me, self-care begins by protecting the first hour of the day for myself.
There is something precious about those first moments when consciousness begins to stir after a night’s rest. Before the demands of the world arrive, there is a brief space in which I can consciously choose who I want to become and how I want to meet the day.
I go directly from waking into my morning ritual. It is a time to connect with my body, nurture contemplation, and embody the mythology and cosmology through which I make meaning of my life.
More importantly, I simply show up.
I show up every morning to be present for myself. I protect this sacred time irrespective of the weather, my mood, or how I happen to feel. It is a contract I have made with myself. By honouring that commitment consistently, the vow compounds over time into something deeper: a way of becoming.
What you actually do during that hour matters less than the act of showing up. Your practice may be meditation, prayer, exercise, journalling, walking, stretching, reading, contemplation, or simply sitting quietly with a cup of coffee. The practice is personal. The commitment is what matters.
For me, those early hours—sometimes still in darkness, sometimes as the sun begins to rise—are where I prepare to meet the world. Through posture, breath, meditation and visualisation, I restore my energy and prepare myself for the demands of work, family and everyday life.
I return to patience.
I return to equanimity.
I return to gratitude.
And from there, I am better able to step into conscious service of others.
This has changed how I understand self-care. Protecting time for myself is not withdrawing from life or placing myself before everyone else. Quite the opposite. The hour I reserve for myself becomes a shield around the quality of the hours I subsequently give to others.
By first becoming present to myself, I become more capable of being genuinely present to my family, friends and colleagues.
So, how do I make time for self-care?
I don’t try to find it somewhere in an already crowded day.
I claim the first hour.
I show up.
Every day.
And over time, that simple act of keeping a promise to myself becomes part of who I am.
What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
Youth is wealth beyond measure—the gift of time in which to be and become.
Do not squander it by blaming others, wallowing in self-pity or surrendering yourself to constant criticism. Lift your head and live. Make mistakes, learn, choose again and keep moving. Feel the texture of life while time is still generous.
After much contemplation, I gathered my own advice to the younger generation in my book, The Letters of the AR-MAN Knight: eighteen letters from the mature Knight to the younger Knight, each inspired by one statement of the Knight’s Creed.
These are not mere affirmations. They form a code by which to live—a path rooted in wisdom, courage, justice and temperance.
Read the Knight’s Creed slowly. Ponder it deeply. Do not merely agree with its words; test them against your own life.
🕯️ The Knight’s Creed of the 18 Sacred Runes 🕯️
ᚠ. I am the bearer of the Sacred Flame; I kindle life through noble intent. ᚢ. I descend into shadow and rise anew; the strength of the earth lives in me. ᚦ. I stand at the threshold; no falsehood passes the watch of my soul. ᚮ. I speak as one anointed by Light; my words are vows woven with reverence. ᚱ. I walk the line of Law and Star; in rhythm and ritual, I fulfil my vow. ᚴ. I forge myself in action; my lance is will in motion. ᚼ. I embrace the breaking as the shaping; in the storm, I find the form eternal. ᚾ. I bow to the chalice of fate; in service to what must be, I am made whole. ᛁ. I become still as the sword on the altar; in silence, I remember my Name. ᛆ. I rise with the light of dawn; in my radiance, justice finds form. ᛋ. I shine with earned glory; the Light within is my eternal standard. ᛏ. I give myself for the greater design; my sacrifice is a seed of eternity. ᛒ. I bring forth the hidden gold; in me, Spirit finds a body. ᛚ. I flow with the Breath Divine; every trial is an initiation into deeper grace. ᛉ. I am the temple of abundance for all; through me, humanity remembers itself. ᛣ. I bow to the inner death; from the ashes of the self, the Knight is born anew. ᛅ. I unite blade and chalice; in honour and love, I become more together than I am alone. ᚷ. I give all into the act divine; in sacred gift and gesture, I become the Grail.
Youth will pass, as all seasons must. But if you live deliberately, it will not be lost. It will become the foundation from which wisdom rises.
What’s one thing that would instantly improve your city?
Cape Town stands among the world’s finest tourist destinations. Resting at the foot of Table Mountain—one of the New Seven Wonders of Nature—and offering an extraordinary variety of attractions, it is undoubtedly a city worth visiting. Irrespective of where you live, Cape Town will seduce you with its beauty.
But this metropolitan city, with its rich and diverse population, has an Achilles heel.
Traffic.
Like an ugly beast, the traffic brings highways designed for speeds of 120 kilometres per hour to a grinding halt. If there is an accident, you are stuck. The estimated arrival time on your GPS slowly changes from a few minutes late to the point where you begin wondering whether you will arrive at all.
The problem is partly geographical. The city lies within a V-shaped landmass, with a massive mountain occupying the centre of that V. There are only a few major roads leading in and out. Cape Town is more than 300 years old and was never designed to carry modern traffic volumes.
So, if you want to improve the city, improve its transport infrastructure.
Build a ring road above the existing buildings and roads, allowing traffic to flow more freely around the city. Construct a major bridge or tunnel connecting the Foreshore and Blouberg. Create another tunnel entering the city through the mountain. Two new routes in and out, supported by a ring road to distribute the traffic—and Cape Town could finally have infrastructure worthy of its fame as one of the world’s greatest tourist destinations.
Proposed infrastructure enhancement for the Mothers city
Want to host the world’s biggest sporting events? The new Cape Town would be ready. Want to stage an international conference? The CTICC would be the place. Visitors could arrive on an international flight and, within moments, enter a city offering easy access to seascapes, mountains, deserts and forests.
How, then, should Cape Town be improved?
Slay the traffic demon—and set the city free!
Note: no actual demons were hurt during the writing of this article.
