Have you ever wondered why your works and hobbies continue to be ignored? Why don’t you sell anything, why are you not heard or seen? Then, consider the layer of truths that prevent your work being published, noticed, bought, or recognized.
To absolutely begin with—any true piece of writing, whether a blog, a story, an article, or a post—must open with a sentence that doesn’t just speak, but strikes. It has to rattle the bones, stir the heart, and demand attention. The first line should wake someone from the sleep of ordinary life and make them feel—whether it’s laughter bubbling up uncontrollably, tears they didn’t expect, or even a flash of rage that reminds them they’re alive.
Without that, words are just words. Flat. Forgettable.
But with it? Writing becomes a spark. It becomes a hand reaching out, pulling the reader through a doorway into another world—your world. That’s what every writer who truly writes must aim for: not just to inform, but to move, to shake, to change something inside the person reading.
That is where the story begins. For example regarding “fractal existences” and a man’s mysterious death… “They say the man did not die in the ordinary sense at all—his body collapsed, yes, but his consciousness slipped into a repeating fold of reality, a fractal existence where each death was only the echo of another, and no one can yet tell which version of him still walks among us.”
Ending the next parts of the line of writing with a quiet threat — A subtle last line that implies consequences if the wrong people wake up could leave the reader tingling. However, I don’t like threats because it’s designed to manipulate. Just use the facts. That’s my way of telling the tale.
By “quiet threat,” I mean ending in a way that isn’t loud or melodramatic, but still leaves the reader with a lingering sense that the stakes are higher than they realized—and that there are risks, even dangers, in the knowledge you’re offering.
It’s not “doom and gloom” shouting; it’s the low hum of a locked door clicking open behind them.
For example:
“Most will keep sleeping. But if the wrong ones wake, the story won’t just change—it will burn.”
or
“Every door has a hinge. Just remember—if you can open it, someone else can close it.”
This kind of ending works because it doesn’t just inspire—it plants a faint unease. The reader finishes with the sense that awakening isn’t only empowering, it’s dangerous, and that playing with the architecture of reality can have consequences if the “wrong” architects arrive first.
It works on several levels:
Opening hook — “You’ve been living inside a story written by someone else” immediately destabilizes the reader’s sense of agency. Layered truth — You frame reality not just as deceptive, but as architected, which is more unsettling. This shifts it from “someone lied” to “someone built the world to work this way.” Psychological pivot — The hinge metaphor is brilliant—it gives a tangible mental image for a subtle, almost invisible mechanism of change. Escalation — You move from passive observation (“you start noticing…”) to active agency (“you start shaping”). This flips the reader from victim to potential architect. Call to action — Without being explicit, you separate the sleepers from the awakened, inviting the reader to choose a side.
If I were refining it, I’d suggest:
Tightening repetition — “surface as the truth” and “surface worth looking at” could be varied to keep imagery fresh. Sharpening the hinge metaphor — You could make it even more visceral by showing what happens when a hinge moves—doors slam, gates open, entire structures shift. Ending with a quiet threat — A subtle last line that implies
And, sometimes, the wrong guys are awake or asleep?
The art of manifesting is truly a gift. My mother had the gift, yet, she told no one, not even her children. It wasn’t until after her death that I began seeing her as she truly was, and she knew how to turn a small amount of money into something larger. And, I then remembered her sitting anywhere, with her her eyes closed, and quietly repeating to herself how words, that only she knew, and she might rock slightly, but would hold the position for maybe ten minutes or more. Maybe less. I didn’t pay attention when she was alive. I wish now that I I I had asked her questions. Her meditation stance was not done for showing off, nor done publicly. It was in our house that I noticed her. Usually she was sitting on the couch, and I walked into the room. This is one layer, her layer and what worked for her. We all have layers and some layers are more efficient than others.
And, this is my example of writing in layers one at a time. Capture your audience immediately. Don’t wait! Pull them into your story. To add, even if one is writing an autobiography about self, use factual similarities in writing. Do not write about yourself in a boring nondescript manner, but use intriguing information about yourself because you are not boring… are you?
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 