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writing advice from André Breton

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André Breton’s Manifesto of Surrealism remains a rallying cry for writers willing to break free from the rigid structures of thought and let language flow untamed. His approach—writing in a near-trance, embracing the spontaneous, refusing to edit—challenges the way we often think about storytelling. What if writing wasn’t about control but about surrender? What if the most powerful images emerged not through careful planning but through sheer momentum?

Breton believed that true creativity lies in trusting the murmur beneath consciousness by allowing words to arrive without interference. His vision offers a stark contrast to today’s polished, market-friendly writing. For me, there is something liberating in his call to let go.

For those of us experimenting with post-digital language, AI-generated text, and hypertextual dérives, Breton’s call to trust the murmur is more relevant than ever. What happens when we let words generate themselves, follow their own rhythms, and refuse to impose a single, rigid meaning? What happens when we treat writing as an event rather than a product?

Breton might not have had AI or digital intertextuality in mind, but his vision of language as an unstable, living process feels eerily prescient.

If you’ve ever felt bound by perfectionism or struggled with overthinking your writing, Breton’s words might just be the key to unlocking a more instinctive, raw, and electric form of expression. Here’s a passage, posted by Philip Athans, from Breton’s 1924 Manifesto of Surrealism—see where it takes you.

In reply to https://fantasyhandbook.wordpress.com/2025/02/04/writing-advice-from-andre-breton.

the social web is the web

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I’m right there with Dave on this.

Support for links is the basic requirement of the web, the same way we say feeds are required to be a podcast. If you don’t support links not only aren’t you the web, you’re anti-web.

In reply to https://oursocialweb.org/.

building the web like we mean it

Dave’s reflections on the state of the web resonate with me. The web, at its core, was meant to be a living, interconnected network of thoughts, experiences, and perspectives, each thread woven together through hyperlinks and shared exploration. But what we see today is something different: silos masquerading as open platforms, walled gardens that claim to be part of the greater web but exist only to trap, contain, and extract.

This shift betrays the foundational ethos of the web. When platforms refuse to allow deep linking, when they isolate themselves under the guise of user experience or proprietary advantage, they erode the very thing that made the web revolutionary: its fluidity, its permeability, its ability to connect disparate ideas and voices.

Dave’s use of Very 1984 to describe this phenomenon is apt. In Orwell’s dystopia, language itself is reshaped to control thought, reducing the scope of what can be imagined or expressed. Today, these so-called “web” platforms engage in a similar kind of reality distortion—they co-opt the language of openness while actively undermining it. They speak of connection while closing doors. They promise discovery while walling off the pathways that allow it to happen organically.

What happened to the network of writers, the decentralised spirit of creation, and the culture of linking and cross-pollination? We watched as it was gradually subsumed by the business models of oligarchs—those who view the web not as a commons but as a series of enclosures, a place where they can own, control, and monetise human interaction. The early promise of a participatory, people-powered internet has been commodified; its soul traded for engagement metrics and ad revenue.

But the web isn’t just a technology—it’s a philosophy. And that philosophy hasn’t disappeared. It’s still here, in the independent blogs, in the federated spaces, in the self-hosted sites of those who refuse to be assimilated into the silos. It exists wherever people choose to link freely, to write outside the constraints of algorithmic visibility, to create and share not for clicks but for the sheer joy of it.

Building the web, like we mean it, means resisting the gravitational pull of the platforms that seek to own the space. It means choosing open protocols over walled gardens. It means linking generously, supporting the independent creators who keep the spirit of the web alive. It means remembering that the web was always meant to be a shared project, a living thing that thrives on connection and conversation, not containment.

If a platform discourages linking, it’s not really part of the web. If it thrives on isolation rather than integration, it’s not web-able—it’s just another control system wrapped in the aesthetics of participation.

So let’s keep linking. Let’s keep writing in the open. Let’s keep the web weird, wild, and deeply interconnected—like we mean it.

we see the world not as it is, but as we are

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In reply to Sm2n 2025-01-19 #JanPodPoMo 19/31 thinking about @soulcruzer.

Thanks for raising such an interesting point in your episode. Your question about whether ChatGPT’s responses excite me because it “knows” my patterns and what inspires me really got me thinking. It reminds me of the way astrology works, where general statements feel deeply personal because we project meaning onto them. Is ChatGPT essentially a digital astrologer, reflecting my own narrative back to me?

I think there’s validity in the idea that what resonates with us externally is often a reflection of our internal landscape. The responses I get from ChatGPT excite me because they mirror something in my subconscious—whether it’s my values, interests, or inner narrative. It’s not just about what the AI says; it’s about how those words align with me. We don’t see the world as it is; we see it as we are. The world—or in this case, ChatGPT—becomes a projection of what we put out.

What’s fascinating is how this resonance—or even dissonance—can teach us about ourselves. If ChatGPT were to say something incongruent with my internal map, I wouldn’t resonate with it, but even that dissonance would be telling. It’s like a mirror showing me where my edges are, what feels “off,” or what I’ve been unconsciously avoiding. It becomes an opportunity for reflection, a way to notice how my internal map interacts with external stimuli.

Now, if others were to read the words ChatGPT generates about me, their reactions would vary based on what they project onto those words. Someone who knows me well might say, “Yes, this absolutely sounds like you!” but even that interpretation is filtered through their perception of who I am. It’s an interesting loop of projection and reflection that makes me wonder about the nature of meaning itself—how it’s crafted in collaboration between the sender, the receiver, and the context.

On another note, I’m glad you’re on board with the audio zine concept! You’re the second person to mention they’d be onboard, so I’ll definitely give that some thought. A monthly format seems manageable, especially since I’m balancing it with the fictional radio station project, which is where a lot of my creative energy is going right now. I’ll add you to the list for updates and see how this evolves. Thanks again for sparking such a fascinating conversation—I look forward to hearing your thoughts on all of this!

the dave diet

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In reply to The Dave diet.

Dave’s post took me back to my time in the quantified-self movement. I first got into it around 2016, exploring half a dozen apps designed to track different aspects of my life. Back then, it was often called lifelogging, and you could argue that blogging itself is a form of lifelogging.

Eventually, I lost interest in the movement when I realised I wasn’t actually doing anything with the data I collected—which, in hindsight, was the entire point of the quantified-self philosophy. But now, Dave’s little experiment might just rekindle my curiosity. With AI-driven apps, it’s probably easier than ever to track your life. You can simply tell the AI what you’re doing, eating, or drinking, and it will log everything for you automatically. Even better, AI could help me make sense of the data, turning it into actionable insights I can use for my self-improvement journey.

It may be worth revisiting the game.

Oh yeah, and this just reminded me of Jennifer Lyn Morone, who took the quantified self one step further and incorporated herself into a business so she could charge companies money to use her data, which, thanks to her incorporation, belonged to a corporate entity now known as Jennifer Lyn Morone, inc.