Prompt Addicts Anonymous – Session Two

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Are you being serious right now?

You do know I’m a writer, right?

Losing track of time isn’t a bug — it’s a feature. A built-in occupational hazard. Time slips, evaporates, gets swallowed whole. You want to know what makes me lose track of time? Existing. Creating. Trying to survive my own thoughts with a pen in my hand and a playlist I’ve overanalyzed into oblivion.

Writing. Not just any writing. The kind that starts as a whisper, then sets your spine on fire. The kind that makes your coffee go cold and your leg fall asleep. The kind where you look up and three meals have gone missing. The next thing you know, you’re ranting on a blog (Memoirs of Madness) about the phantom who comes up with these writing prompts like they’re paying attention to your ass.

“Which activities make you lose track of time?”
Go to sleep.

Because I sure haven’t.

You ever try to sleep when your brain is busy unraveling fictional timelines, reorganizing half-finished character arcs, or rewording a sentence you wrote in 2014? That’s not insomnia. That’s creative maintenance.

Then there’s music — but again, not casual listening. I’m talking full immersion. Deep dives into B-sides and dusty vinyl grooves. Emotional spelunking. What starts as one track becomes a therapy session. A confession. A reconstruction of every heartbreak I thought I forgot. That’s not a playlist — that’s a time machine. And I keep punching the return ticket.

Next thing you know, there’s a whole damn website just about music (House of Tunage), because you clearly have nothing better to do with your time than build emotional mixtapes for ghosts.
Oh yeah, go to sleep.

Thinking is another trap. Or maybe the original sin. I sit down for “a minute,” and suddenly I’m in a three-act dialogue with a dead mentor, an imaginary enemy, and the version of myself that had more optimism and less back pain. Thought spirals aren’t a time suck. They’re the prelude to every good story I’ve ever written — and the footnote to everyone I’ve abandoned.

Next thing you know, your table’s covered in monographs and marginalia. Then you have the nerve to post them like they’re literary gold on yet another website (The Howlin’ Inkwell), because apparently the only thing more dangerous than thinking is believing any of it might matter.
Wow.
…maybe I shou—
go to sleep.

And let’s not forget the premium act of staring into space. That’s not wasted time. That’s creative buffering. System reboot. Soul loading.

So no, I don’t just “lose track of time.”
I command it.
I twist, bend, and shape it to the will of the gods of story and sound.
And most days, they don’t even say thank you.

But that’s fine. Because this isn’t for them. Not really.

My job is to guide you through the splinters that only exist outside of time.
You know the place: cold, light, dark, and joyful land.
Where memory hums, story bites, and music bleeds.

Let me guide you.
Come and take my hand.
You’re looking at me like you’re confused.
Let me help you clear things up.
You look as if you need to get something off your chest.

Seriously, sit down, please.
Talk to Mangus.

But if you still think this was all just about losing track of time, I’ll allow the indulgence — just this once.
Because I whined once. In the ’70s.
Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.
Whining was allowed briefly after the bicentennial.
There was a memo.

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Missed the first meeting of Prompt Addicts Anonymous?
That’s okay. We don’t judge.
But you might want to catch up before the next spiral.
👉 Session One: “Hi, My Name is Mangus…”

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Author’s Note

Yes, the websites mentioned in this piece — House of Tunage, The Howlin’ Inkwell, and even Memoirs of Madness itself — are all very real. And yes, they’re all still works in progress. Like most things I love, they’re messy, unfinished, and somehow always expanding when I should probably be sleeping instead.

So if you click something and it’s half-built, half-broken, or wildly under construction… welcome to the Mangus Khan Universe.
We’re getting there. Slowly. Beautifully.
Eventually.

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The MKU is under construction. But the lights are already on.