If you’ve tried this before and felt like you were just transcribing your own thoughts, I get it — that’s not a failure. It’s data.

I do mine at my kitchen table, after I’ve already done a small grounding thing — three slow breaths, hands on the counter, maybe naming three objects I can see. I don’t ask for a “message” in a dramatic way. I just say, “Okay, whatever’s here, show me,” and start writing.

At first I get junk. “The moon is...” “I need to call mom...” “Why is this chair uncomfortable?” That’s normal. I don’t delete it. I keep going until the voice changes, gets more specific, less defensive. That shift feels like the difference between my inner editor and something less organized.

Because I came from molecular biology, my first instinct is to be skeptical: “Is this just pattern recognition? Is this Jung archetypes talking? Is this my anxiety wearing a robe?” Probably all of the above. And honestly, that’s okay. Automatic writing isn’t a purity test.

What helps me is treating it like tarot. Not “read this card and obey,” but “what is this image asking me to notice?” If I write “a locked door,” I don’t jump to prophecy. I ask what in my life feels closed, what I’m avoiding, what I’m trying to keep safe. That keeps it grounded without killing the weirdness.

For new folks, I’d say: use a pen, not a laptop. Paper feels slower and more honest. Don’t force it. If nothing comes, write the silence. “I’m scared this is me.” That can be the most useful line.

Also, don’t trust the first flash. Automatic writing can sound very confident, like it knows everything. But I’ve learned to read it with the same care I’d give a tarot spread: context, repetition, emotional tone, and my own life. If it keeps saying “you’re fine” when I’m clearly not, I take a note, not a command.

It’s a practice, not a proof. Some nights it’s just me talking to myself. Other nights it feels like the table got a little wider, and something else sat down.