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The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering. - Tom Waits

about us

A Bit About Me

William J Archer is an almost-middle-aged husband, and father of two (yeah, third person, but William J Archer can be like that sometimes. He will never do it again though, he finds the level of detachment too real).

I have been honing my literary skills in secret, training in monasteries across the globe, and I am now prepared to come out of hiding and judo-chop my “target audience” into submission.

The word on the street is that I'm the bat in my own belfry, over the rainbow looking for my lost marbles, as it were. Be that as it may, I seem to find inspiration beyond the unhinged door of my mad mind, and if that's where I need to dwell to find what I seek, I'll take it.

As a writer, I could go on about myself forever, but, for once, I won't.


The services listed below are meant to give more of a general idea of the types of writing I enjoy the most. Granted, when a person does something they enjoy, and have a natural affinity for, whatever they are engaged in tends to have a certain purity about it that isn't present where enjoyment and talent are absent or struggling. That being said, The lists below are not rigid structures constructed to repel things lurking outside of my comfort zone; I enjoy challenges. And please do feel free to plunge into the blog section for more of an idea as to what types of madness I naturally indulge in.

Creative Writing

  • Fiction & Creative Non-Fiction
  • Flash Fiction, Short Stories & Biographies
  • Some Poetry - depending on how intriguing I find the project
  • Article Writing
  • I especially enjoy surrendering my mind to stream-of-consciousness free-for-alls

*I do not write Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Romance or Young Adult


  • Travel & Adventure
  • Health & Fitness
  • Opinion & Editorial Pieces
  • Sports (Hockey, F1, Footyball, Extreme Sports of all kinds, Dirt-Biking, Fishing & more).
  • Creative Writing Posts of all sorts, (just ask)

*Nothing boring please. You know what I mean; no data-plugging, finance, or other yawn-inducing forms of non-creative torture.


Ghost-writing, as defined by Wikipedia, is: literary or journalistic works, speeches, or other texts that are officially credited to another person as the author.

Pretty self-explanatory. I will write you top-notch content (please take note of some of the parameters listed in the other two sections of this page), and you pay me for the right to take all of the credit.


Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good. - Dr. Samuel Johnson, to an aspiring writer

Oats for Lucifer - A Short Story

His mother had died before he was old enough to form much of a reliable memory of her, kicked in the head by a horse she spooked early one winter morning as she was bringing it oats. His father found her face-down in the yard, halfway between the corral and the house. The rusty-red river of her life matted and freeze-drying in her cold hair, muddy snow caked on her hands and knees and a trail of blood painted garishly onto the frozen ground behind her as it disappeared around the corner of the barn like a marker leading to the the scene of a crime. Her name had been Marion.

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Fatal Fugazi - A Short Story

The following account doesn’t have a hero really, and there are no car-chases, motorcycle stunts, horse-races, airplanes, or explosions, but I don’t believe there’s a need to spice this narrative up with such things. The following story contains only the elements that made the situation memorable in the first place, and I believe that what follows will be sufficient in making it memorable for you, the reader

It was one of those experiences a body has only once, if ever, and it would certainly be the only one like it I would ever have.

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Quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur

A Frightful Mess

His thoughts were connecting like dots, synaptic cosmic robots, zipping through his head like shots. Little laser beams, they take off like rockets and careen through the heavens like drunken freaks on roller skates. It was fine until they...

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Feelin' February

Icy, electric tentacles reaching down from the sky, filling heads with the fire of ideas. Synapses, sonically booming in the silence of thought. As the conductors of this symphony of self, we organize chaos into expression.

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A Different Window

It’s been awhile since anything new erupted from the tips of these fingers. All re-writing, editing and polishing of turds that have dropped over the many previous months. Angry, pessimistic bombs from the bowels of a poisoned mind...

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