When Michael Santos handed me a blank notebook in federal prison, I thought it was a symbolic gesture. It wasn’t. It was the most useful tool I had during my sentence.
He told me not to write anything for the court. Not for the probation officer. Just start by writing for myself. In time we could share the work. Track the days. Write what I saw. Describe what I avoided. That notebook helped me make sense of what prison really is—a mirror.
Years later, I read Montaigne again through Sarah Bakewell’s How to Live: Or A Life of Montaigne. Her account of his work reminded me of many of the lessons Michael taught me. Montaigne didn’t write for an audience. He wrote to stay aware. He wrote to make sure he wasn’t sleeping through his own life.
Too many people in federal prison are asleep.
Writing Isn’t a Journal Entry. It’s Proof You Were Paying Attention
Bakewell explains that Montaigne didn’t polish his reflections. He didn’t write to present. He wrote to ask, “What happened here?” That’s the same reason I tell people in federal prison to write.
Not to impress a judge. Not to package a narrative. But to show that they didn’t coast. That they saw the time for what it was—an opportunity to observe who they were without a title, a schedule, or a performance to maintain.
Writing doesn’t have to be good. It has to be consistent. It has to be clear. It has to belong to you.
Patrick Haydel began writing a few days after his surrender to Oakdale federal prison camp. He tracked what he read, what he was learning. He was proving worthy of the love and support of his family.
Writing Separates the Performers from the Observers
Every federal prisoner will say they’ve changed. Few can explain how. Fewer can show it.
Bakewell shows how Montaigne built trust by admitting where he was inconsistent. Where he contradicted himself. Where he lost focus. That’s what makes someone worth listening to.
People ask me what to write about. I tell them: describe the moment you avoided work detail. Write about the look you gave someone during count. Note how many hours you spent reading and how much of it you actually understood.
Don’t summarize. Don’t summarize anything. Describe it. Then read it back.
What you notice is what builds insight. That’s what Montaigne believed. That’s what federal prison gives you if you use it.
No One Will Tell You to Write. That’s What Makes It Powerful
Probation officers won’t request your notes. Case managers won’t evaluate your journal. The BOP doesn’t track your observations.
That’s why your writing holds weight. It’s not staged. It’s not requested. It’s voluntary.
When you write daily, even briefly, you build a pattern. That pattern tells a story about how you think, what you prioritize, and whether you’re consistent.
Most people in federal prison avoid anything that forces them to reflect. They rely on external programs. They say they’ll figure things out later. When they leave, they have nothing to show for their time except compliance.
Judges and probation officers don’t reward you for doing the required amount of work. They need proof that you’ve been paying attention and are doing the work to build a record you can defend with evidence.
Bakewell Makes It Clear: Montaigne Didn’t Write to Reach a Goal. He Wrote to Stay Awake
That’s the only goal you need in federal prison.
You will get through your sentence. That’s not the issue. The issue is what you will know about yourself by the time you’re released. What will you be able to show?
If someone asked for one month of writing to explain how you’ve changed, could you send it without editing it down to a few rehearsed statements?
If not, now is the time to begin.
Start today. Write what happened. Write what you saw. Write what you didn’t do—and why. And keep going.
If you want help turning your daily writing into something others will take seriously, schedule a call. I’ll show you how people used the quietest work they did in prison to set themself up for success after prison.
Justin Paperny
