One of the useful and unexpected side-effects of creating art every day and sticking it to the wall is that it slows down time. The days can blend together—a day becomes a week, a week becomes a month. When you have evidence of your existence every day, that happens a little less.

If I spin on my chair by 90 degrees, I’m faced with half of a (small) wall covered in art that I’ve made. It reminds me that for each of those days, I made something. I did something small for myself. Something I’m proud of. Some of them take 10 minutes, but that doesn’t matter.

A year from now, they won’t all fit on the wall. They won’t fit across all of the walls in my small office. I’ll have a stack of art that I won’t know what to do with. A small mountain of things that I made, just because. I feel a strange sense of pride and energy just thinking about it.

When time feels like it’s slipping by too quickly, I’ll walk into my office and look at the walls. I’ll remind myself that each piece marks a day that I existed—that I did more than exist, actually. I made a mark—figuratively and literally—on my own small part of the universe.

I’ve lived with my brain for a few decades at this point, and it’s served me reasonably well. I sort of take it for granted though—don’t you? Lately I’ve been getting to know it better, and I wish I’d done it sooner.

You have but one brain (as most or all of us do) and it has to last your entire life. If you’re lucky, that life will be long, and if you’re even luckier your mind will stick around and serve you right until the very end.

It’s easy to think your brain just “works how it works”, but we could say the same for our eyes—and I know many people who wear glasses (myself included). We never tell folks to be “optically tougher.”

When it comes to our mind though, we often do the equivalent. We throw some negative self-talk at it and expect it to simply improve.

“Just suck it up.”

“Be mentally tougher.”

“Power through it again.”

“Stop being so weak; stupid etc.”

I saw a post on Threads recently that summed up this sentiment pretty well (and whilst it was a joke, it seemed to resonate with a lot of folks—me included). In case that link dies, the post read:

Me, to my nervous system: “Regulate you fucking fuck.”

Sometimes, we really do just try to will it to be. We get mad that our mind isn’t working the way we want it to, and then we get mad because we’re mad. You might be thinking that there must be a better way.

It turns out that there is, and it starts by taking your mind seriously and then being serious about your mind. Your specific journey is your own to embark on, but I can fully endorse embarking on it.

We have but one brain, and we deserve it to be in the best condition that it can be. To serve us as best it can. To treat it as best we can. I’ll write more about my journey some day, but I’m glad that I started it.

In the midst of thinking that something would go wrong recently (I’d name the thing, but it happens a lot), a thought struck me that’s stayed with me since: I only think this about the small stuff, really.

I’m purely reflecting on my own experience here, but—with that caveat in place—I rarely think with any sort of regularity that the really big things will go wrong. Some things that I assume to be true:

1. I’ll wake up tomorrow (and the next day)
2. Earth will be inhabitable for my lifetime
3. I won’t be directly affected by civil unrest
4. I won’t get terminally ill any time soon
5. My wife will love me for the rest of my life

I think those things (and more), I suppose, because life would be pretty difficult to lead if I was constantly thinking about them, or if I assumed that any of them would be (at least imminently) false.

When it comes to the day to day things, though, I’m somewhat regularly plagued by something akin to self doubt, or otherwise assume that things could (and will) go wrong. A few examples:

1. I won’t be able to solve this hard problem
2. I’m sure that I offended [basically everyone]
3. I’ll probably give up on [this idea I have]
4. I’m going to sound dumb when I express [thought]
5. I’m not prepared for [thing I want/need to do]

Of course, it can be healthy to have some of those thoughts, but it can be unhealthy to have all of them, or to have them too often. On the flip side, it can be good to assume some of the first list is false.

Because I (and presumably others) rarely need a nudge to think of the worst outcome though, this is a reminder to myself that I should borrow my assumptions about the first list for the second list.

1. I have solved hard problems and can solve this
2. I likely didn’t offend but I can ask and clarify
3. I’ve accomplished many things and can do this
4. People aren’t thinking about all the stuff I say
5. I’m prepared, and it doesn’t need to be perfect

At this point I realize that I’m simply giving myself therapy-via-blog-post, but it’s a thought I had and one that I wanted to articulate. One that I want to remember. To re-read a few days from now.

If you needed the reminder, then here it is. Most of us, I believe, move through life assuming that so many things will work out for us tomorrow. Let’s all borrow that energy for the stuff we doubt.

I’ve written about some of the places I’ve moved to, but I haven’t really written about the place I moved from. The place where I grew up.

I was born in the City of Worcester, England, in a hospital that’s long since been demolished. I lived all around the city growing up, in 10 different homes across just as many neighborhoods.

It’s called the “City” of Worcester, but it feels much more like a town. In England, there’s such a thing as a Cathedral City, and Worcester is one of them (that is, you were a city so long as you had a cathedral). That cathedral played a curiously big role in my life.

The town is exactly what you might expect when you think of England. Cobbled streets, Victorian buildings, surrounded by rolling hills and farmland. It’s got a rich history of royalty, battle and trade. You can almost hear the stories that it holds as you walk the old streets.

In all, it was a wonderful place to grow up. It’s full of artists and craftspeople and—most importantly—kind people. I remember the people from my town as creative, gentle and down to earth.

I live in California now, and when people ask where I’m from and I’m invariably faced with a blank stare, I say “it’s where the sauce comes from—Worcestershire Sauce.” If I’ve got the right audience, I might add “the place that Donkey can’t pronounce in Shrek Forever After.”

After leaving my hometown, I was contractually obligated to hate it just a little bit (as you might be of your hometown, and anyone else of theirs). With some distance and time though, I can view it through a more neutral lens. To me, now, I remember it with some fondness.

I learned to ride my bike in Gheluvelt Park and would spend summers splashing around in the pool there. I made fierce friends after my initial shyness, several of whom I’m still connected with and love today. I climbed the nearby Malvern Hills over and over, frequented the cathedral for non-religious reasons, and walked beside or boated along the River Severn more times than I can count.

Worcester is where I had my first romances and break-ups. It’s where I learned all of my early lessons. It’s where I learned to be brave and resilient, and where I failed to be either of those things so many times. Some of the lessons I cling to today, others I try hard to unlearn.

I could write forever about my hometown, simply because I experienced so much of my life there. I’m sure that I will write more about it someday, but for now I simply wanted Worcester to have a small post alongside London and Brooklyn. I wanted to start writing something that I’ll likely never stop writing. To revisit just a few memories.

I’ll end though, for now, by saying that I’m glad I grew up in that place. I’m glad that I was surrounded by art and by artists. I’m glad that I was surrounded by history and artifacts. I’m glad to have experienced beauty and slowness and kindness so frequently.

I might have left, and I’m almost certain to never permanently return, but I’m glad that it’s where this funny little life started.

A few weeks ago on a public holiday, I drove 2 hours from my home in Oakland to Point Reyes Lighthouse. I was going there to record the sound of the ocean. I needed to record the ocean here specifically, as close to the lighthouse as possible, on a perfect California summer’s day.

You can’t access the coast from the lighthouse, and you can’t record the ocean from way up high. You’d lose all of the detail and capture all of the wind—and oh boy is there wind. The kind of wind that chills your bones. The kind of wind that makes it difficult to breathe.

Instead, I had to drive to the South Beach car park and walk to the lighthouse along the beach. The walk takes (or took me) a good couple of hours. Why wouldn’t I just record the sound of the ocean from near the car park, you might wonder. I wondered the same, briefly.

The sand was difficult to walk on, even close to the water. The strong gusts of wind battered me just as the strong sun beat down on me. When the dunes dropped away the wind picked up, pelting my skin with sand. Too hot already, I pulled on a sweater to stop the pain.

Aside from a few folks near the car park taking quick snaps before jumping back in their car, I didn’t see another living soul the entire time. The long grass moved with the wind, the Pacific crashed with a force, and my body slumped and stumbled across the loose sand.

The end of the beach—underneath the lighthouse—felt as though it wasn’t getting any closer until suddenly it was right in front of me. I let out an involuntary laugh, and maybe a little whoop. My legs trembled slightly from the uneven ground, but I’d made it.

After drinking some of the water that I should have drank more of along the way, I climbed across the rocks until I found a space that looked comfortable enough to spend a while, and was sheltered enough from the coastal winds to make for a good recording.

When I found my spot, I got comfortable (or, as comfortable as you can get on a jagged rock), popped the binaural microphones into my ears, hit record, and closed my eyes. I stayed like this for 45 minutes, not daring to move in case the mics picked it up.

I heard the ocean like I’d never heard it before. I really heard it. In some ways it felt like the same song repeated hundreds of times. In other ways it felt like listening to an entire album, with no 2 waves sounding the exact same way. It was beautiful. Meditative.

When I opened my eyes, the world felt different to me. I felt different. I felt more connected to the earth and to the ocean and—more than anything—to myself. I’d gone there to capture the sound of the ocean, but I’d received much more than I’d bargained for.

This small adventure is part of my love letter to California. A slow, multi-year project that will weave together sounds, scenes and observations about this beautiful place. I’m starting with Point Reyes Lighthouse because it makes me feel things.

This place, where the land meets the sea, is like paradise to me. It fills me up with the feelings I want more of and rids me, for a moment, of the feelings I’d be happy to let go of. It’s the quality of light, the landscape, and the sound of that wonderful ocean.

A love letter—and indeed, love—requires effort. That’s why I didn’t record the sound of any old ocean. That’s why I didn’t record near the car park. That’s why I walked the ~5 hour out-and-back to sit here, on a rock by the ocean, right underneath the lighthouse.

If you’d like to hear what I heard that day, you can do so in Apple Podcasts and most other popular players. You can also listen on the web. It’s best listened to through headphones and—in my humble opinion—best enjoyed sitting quietly, with your eyes closed, in the sun.

In my morning pages recently, I started questioning some of the things I’ve been doing (as in, genuinely questioning, not necessarily doubting). The phrase I repeated over and over was “…to what end.”

I’m making art every day, but to what end.

I’m starting to run again, but to what end.

I’m writing every day, but to what end.

It only struck me after writing several of these that I was assuming that there needed to be an end, which is something I don’t do for the most worthwhile things in life. The most human things.

I’m showing my wife that I love her, but to what end.

I’m acting kindly towards others, but to what end.

I’m helping someone I care for, but to what end.

It sounds absurd to write those last three, but we so often ask it about the things that we do for ourselves. I like to believe that we’d ask it less if those things felt truly aligned with who we are.

For me, writing and art-making and storytelling feel that way, which is why I had such a visceral reaction to my own questions. What do you mean, to what end? Because I have air in my lungs!

There are some things that can feel as essential as breathing, and those things can be very specific to us. They don’t need an end because we don’t plan on stopping, and we don’t need a reason to start.

As soon as I recognized that, it felt as though a weight had lifted off of me. There’s no pressure to do these things that we feel drawn to. We don’t need external validation to continue doing them.

I’m going to replace the phrase I kept using with a better one. To assume that I’ll do them for as long as I’m able and interested in doing so. Not “to what end”, but “because it fulfills me.”

I’m making art every day, because it fulfills me.

I’m starting to run again, because it fulfills me.

I’m writing every day, because it fulfills me.

I’ve been to India and France and Italy and Ireland and Spain and Germany and Mexico and England and Japan and Qatar and Cyprus and Scotland and Canada and The Czech Republic and Portugal and The United States and Wales and The Netherlands and Greece and Thailand.

And I think my favorite place.

Is wherever my wife is.

Because that’s home.

One of the surprising things that comes from journaling (or whatever) every day is that you can read posts from weeks or months (sometimes days) ago and not recall writing a single word of what you’re reading.

Whenever this happens (i.e. almost every time that I read an old entry) I wonder what I must have been thinking, feeling, or doing that day to make me write what I had. I think of it as getting to know myself.

Sometimes, I’ll learn something new about myself—often because of just how much I’ve written about something. I might have written for months about something I wanted to do (and often hadn’t). It could also be something that I enjoyed, found funny, or was worried about.

It feels a little bit weird, to be honest.

It can also feel kind of cool though.

I enjoy writing morning pages for the act of writing them. The act of doing it that day specifically. Increasingly, I think about the idea that I’m writing for future me, who might be a totally different person. I’m helping to teach future me about what they might like (or not like anymore).

I hadn’t really thought about this part of journaling. In fact, I’d toyed with the idea of deleting each entry as soon as I’d written it. I still think about doing that, but the thought is a little bit harder these days.

If you haven’t already, I’d encourage you to write something down every day. It doesn’t have to be long. It could be a thought, an idea, or how you’re feeling. A few weeks from now, it might teach you something.

Something I struggle with (although less now than earlier in my life) is separating the act of making from the act of judging. This might say more about my brain than humans in general, but the act of judging work too early just kills it. It kills the work and the motivation to do the work.

These days, I try to simply enjoy the act of making for the act itself. For the process, or the movement, or the collaboration. I try to withhold judgement until after I’ve made the thing. Sometimes until days, weeks or months after I’ve made the thing. Not every time, but I try.

The result is that I can look at work I shared weeks ago and think “that isn’t to my taste at all” and just feel sort of fine about that. Less “why would I make that” and more “oh, that’s interesting”. It’s good to learn about your taste through your own work without being hard on yourself.

I can make work that isn’t to my taste and still enjoy the act of making it. I can share the work with others knowing that it’s not to my taste, because I’m not committing to anything by sharing it. There’s no value judgement attached to it. I simply like to share what I make.

It almost feels meditative to me, and I try to quiet the critical voice and turn up the volume on the curious one. If I don’t like the work, I can try to observe it and really consider why. If I like the work, I can do the same thing (and it’s helped me to study the work I like more deeply).

It’s something I’m still working on honestly, but I’m trying to do it more, and it’s helped me to build confidence in the work I’m making. To enjoy the act of making more. To loosen up, lighten up, and just feel the work come through me. Slightly more body, slightly less brain.

In conversation with Tim Ferris, Elizabeth Gilbert recalled a framing device that she learned in IFS (internal family systems):

How do you feel about yourself vs. toward yourself.

It’s such a simple reframing, but one that—if you really sit with it for a moment—can completely change the tone of your self-talk.

That’s it. That’s the whole post. It’s been a day where I needed to try it, and maybe it’s been a day where you should try it too.

Try to be as kind to yourself as you would be to others.

I recently started a daily art making practice, and when I first thought of it my mind started racing with all of the things that I could do and all of the materials that I could use. It was exciting to think about!

Oil or acrylic? Or maybe pastel? Oil stick? All of them?

I’ll start on paper. Wait no, canvas? Panel? Wood?

Big paintings make me feel things, I should go big. Or…

I’ll do portraits, or landscapes, or objects, or anything!

I could feel that familiar voice starting to creep in that reminds me (too often) that I’ll probably never start. Recalls every time that I have started, but haven’t finished. I didn’t want that to happen.

I created some simple rules for myself so that I could focus on what was important to me. Right now, that’s exploring materials and using them for long enough that I use them in different ways.

The same 5x7in Stonehenge White.

Sennelier Oil pastels in 10 colors.

Every piece framed by a circle.

Nothing that has to be observed.

No piece takes longer than 30 mins.

Reset any rule only after 30 days.

These rules have helped me to just sit down and make, every single day since starting. I simply start by making a mark to create a situation, and keep responding to the situation presented to me.

We all know constraints can help us to get started, and even to arrive at novel ideas that we might not have done otherwise. I need to remind myself constantly though, and this is my reminder to you.

I was listening to Craig Mod’s Things Become Other Things podcast from the book tour. In the Beacon NY episode, Sam Anderson (who Craig was in conversation with), recalled the question that he’d asked during a Jeffersonian dinner on one of Craig and Kevin’s (Kelly) Walk & Talks.

So the question was my favorite conversation starter, which is very simple: what is your very first memory in your entire life?

I tried to recall my first memory (single) but I can never pick it out of the memories (plural) that all seem to clump together at that time—the very first time I remember being a living human in the world. Instead, I’ll have to write several and just hope that one of them is the first.

• I had a stuffed bear called Red Ted (yes he was red—I was very imaginative). One Christmas, sitting on the rug in the living room of our Maple Avenue house, I painted his paws with nail varnish.
• I remember my father having lots of DIY equipment, but my favorite was the large spirit level. My sisters and I thought it would be funny to turn it into a see-saw. My father thought it was less funny.
• My sister’s Teddy Ruxpin had a scarf that I was jealous of, so I took it off and tied it around my neck. It turned out that whilst my neck was small, his was smaller. Panic ensued. Fine in the end.
• We’d play in the front yard in the summer, and the best moments that I remember include the Pop Man arriving on our street on warm days. Limeade, dandelion and burdock, lemonade. Bliss.
• I remember so clearly the joy of Boxing Day. Bounding down the stairs to eat Christmas Day leftovers (mostly cake and mince pies to be honest) was so exciting to me. Sugar for breakfast!
• My first day of nursery at Gorse Hill. I hated the idea of being separated from my parents so much that I was trying to wriggle out of their grasp and run for it. Didn’t work. Was fine, actually.
• My bed looked like a race car, but at some point it broke. My father turned the wooden wheels into little tables for me and my sisters that we could eat at. I had a front wheel (smaller), I think.

I want AI to help me write, not to write for me. Recently I scripted a GitHub action that generates a new Moth-style story prompt for me each day. Here’s one below, and I’ll respond to it today.

Tell a story about a pivotal choice you faced at a metaphorical crossroads in your life. What were the options before you, and what factors weighed heavily on your heart and mind as you made your decision? Reflect on the path you chose, the path you left behind, and how this moment shaped your identity and future. Consider the unforeseen outcomes, challenges, and wisdom gained along this chosen journey.

My wife and I decided that we’d move to California on our very first date. Then again, many things are said on first dates—I’m not sure that even we were convinced that we’d actually do it one day.

We were still living in our hometowns at the time: her in Birmingham, me in Worcester—both of us with a Tinder radius that you could describe as “too wide”, but actually was “just right”.

Not too long into our relationship, we moved to London—a city that I’d wanted to live in since I was a kid. A city that my wife wasn’t totally sure about living in at the time, but one that she came to love.

A few years into our life in that wonderful city, and we were ready to buy a house together. We’d built up some savings, we’d found somewhere that we really loved, and we were ready to make an offer.

On that same day (let’s say that very same day, for the sake of the story) I got notice of my green card interview. We knew that it would be coming eventually of course, but you know… eventually.

We had a decision to make: should we commit—right now—to this huge (huge) thing, or should we stay in London? We couldn’t sit on it. We’d miss our window. We’d have to start all over again.

We loved London so much. Our relationship had grown there. I proposed there. She said yes there. We got married there. We loved the city and the food and the people. We loved our friends.

We could stay in this city, buy a house, turn it into our home, and keep our wonderful, comfortable routine. We could keep saving, stay close to our friends, and keep building a community.

Or we could not do that.

We could take the adventure. We could step into uncertainty. We could spend all of our savings moving thousands of miles. We could leave our friends and families. We could just say yes.

If you’ve been reading along, you’ll know that we did the latter. It hasn’t been easy, and at times it’s even been hard, but we don’t regret it. We’d do it again. We’d vote for adventure; for the unknown.

I’d never before had such a big decision, nor one that felt easier to make. It only felt easy (for me) because I know what adventure feels like with my wife. I know that any adventure with her is worth taking.

Today’s post is more of a question right now than something I’ve properly ruminated on, but I think I’ll come back to write about this again, and again. Maybe I’ll never stop coming back to this.

I only wrote about Elizabeth Gilbert a couple of days back, but it turns out that she has many thoughts that get you, well… thinking. This time, it’s the idea of “purpose anxiety” (self explanatory).

The story that most of us were taught was some variation of: each of you was born with one unique offering, special spark that is only yours and only you can deliver on that. It is your job. It is your job to find out what that thing is that only you can do.

But Elizabeth goes on to wonder if it’s simpler than that, or perhaps less knowable. What if your purpose, for example, was to help that one elderly neighbour get home safely, or to let someone skip ahead of you.

We worry so much about purpose and legacy, but for all we know we might have fulfilled our purpose, or at least a purpose. Perhaps we can fulfill many. Perhaps there’s no single purpose for you.

I saw a guy standing on top of a ladder painting the awning of his storefront. I instantly saw that the ladder wasn’t steady. I had nowhere else to be. I was the perfect person for the job to cross the street and just hold the ladder. I probably held it for 45 minutes. He never saw me, but I felt better because I was like: I’m just going to make sure this guy doesn’t fall today.

Perhaps that was her purpose, Elizabeth wondered. Perhaps all this time she’d been waiting for this moment. Maybe, she thought, she’d become a writer so that she would end up in Los Angeles—here; now.

Having a single purpose can be a daunting idea. Even if it’s helpful, or makes you feel good, perhaps you have more than one. Maybe you have a big purpose and a million other smaller ones.

I think about purpose a lot, but hearing this story from Elizabeth (it was on her July 2025 interview with Tim Ferris) helped me to reframe it, and to look at my past actions in a whole new light.

In The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, one of the characters (Bill Gorton) asks another character (Mike Campbell) a question.

“How did you go bankrupt,” Bill asks.

“Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually, and then suddenly.”

A lot of things are like that. Slowly at first, and then all at once. Creative work, fulfillment and success can be like that.

If you write (something like) 250 words a day for a year, you’ll have written enough words to fill a novel, and amongst all of the things you’ve written about likely tens of ideas for the novel you could write.

If you’re learning photography, taking a single photograph per day could barely sound worthwhile—but in a few months you’ll have a body of work, and likely have made incredible progress along the way.

If you persist for long enough, you might be lucky enough for someone to ask how you became so creatively fulfilled or successful. How you ever managed to complete your most wonderful works.

“How did you get here,” they might ask.

“Two ways,” you might say. “Gradually, and then suddenly.”

I’m building a daily art-making practice, starting with oil pastel on paper. Yesterday, I made a mark that created a new situation, and when I responded to that situation, I felt something shift inside of me.

It felt like the frequency I’d been tuning into the days prior wasn’t quite right. Maybe I’d almost got it and it was simply too noisy, or maybe it was the wrong station altogether. The wrong music.

That’s what making art (or anything) can feel like though: tuning a radio until you find what it is that you need in that moment (for whatever reason you need it). Something to dance to, or maybe to cry to.

When you find the right station, it doesn’t mean that the next song is going to last forever, nor that they’ll keep playing this kind of music (or even stay on air)—but for now, in this moment, it can be right.

One of my more spiritual/cosmic thoughts is that there’s always some figurative music being played for you specifically, and you can choose to listen to it or not. You can respond to it or not.

The only way that you know if it’s right though, I think, is by actually responding. Trying to dance. Squeezing out a tear. Stepping away from the metaphor briefly, that means actually making something.

If you keep tuning, and you keep making, I think that you’ll find some frequency where things just feel right, and where the thing you’re making feels like the exact thing you should be in that moment.

I watched The Roses in the theatre yesterday (if you’re in Oakland it was the Rialto, a delightful neighborhood cinema), and it made me feel a little homesick for England, despite the fact that it was mostly set in California.

There was one word in particular—used several times throughout by Olivia Colman—that made me feel particularly fond of the country I was raised in. A word that I absolutely can’t use in the same way in California.

In England, this word is used as a term of affection at least as often as it’s used as an insult. A word that you can precede with “oh, you cheeky…” and cause no issues whatsoever. It’s funny, endearing and warm.

Language is a funny thing, and the things we hold close to us can be very strange. I didn’t anticipate that I’d miss using this word out of love toward friends, nor how hearing it would feel… comforting?

I love things like this. Small things, familiar only to a few people that you might know or bump into when you live thousands of miles from where you were born. Things that bond people in the strangest of ways.

Anyway, watch the movie. It’s a good movie. It has a wonderful cast. It’s worth watching for Olivia Colman’s performance alone. It’s funny, and emotional, and familiar (to some) and I’m so thankful it was made.

In a TED Talk from 2009, Elizabeth Gilbert—author of Eat, Pray, Love—talked about the idea of having a genius vs. being a genius.

The Romans called that sort of disembodied creative spirit a “genius”—which is great, because the Romans did not actually think that a genius was a particularly clever individual. They believed that a genius was this sort of magical, divine entity who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist’s studio—kind of like Dobby the house elf—and who would come out and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work, and would shape the outcome of that work.

It’s common these days to refer to a “particularly clever individual” as a genius, but what pressure! What judgement we cast when they produce something a genius would not! I know of no one across history who would have been called a genius for every thought or work they put out there.

What if instead of being a genius, they simply had a genius—just for that moment in time. To help them with that work we so admired.

For me, and I assume for others, that’s actually closer to how it feels. We all, I believe, have experienced that moment where a flash of inspiration came to us from some place we can’t explain.

Sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it’s not.

Thinking of it this way can take the pressure off, too. You can keep showing up and hope that you have a genius to collaborate with. You can stay open to the collaboration and you can work even when you feel it isn’t there. Elizabeth made this idea feel light; playful.

I lifted my face from the manuscript and directed my comments to an empty corner of the room. I said aloud: listen, you… thing… you and I both know that if this book isn’t brilliant that’s not entirely my fault, right, because you can see that I’m putting everything I have into this. I don’t have any more than this. If you want it to be better, you’ve got to show up and do your part of the deal—but if you don’t, you know what, the hell with it, I’m going to keep writing anyway because that’s my job.

Many others have spoken and written about this idea, but this talk really resonated with me. It added humor to an idea that can be heavy; to a topic that can feel personal and sensitive. More people would make more creative work, I think, if they were less concerned with being a genius than with opening themselves up to having a genius.

1. I’ll start tomorrow
2. I’ll start next week
3. I’ll start this weekend
4. I’ll start when I get a day to myself
5. I’ll start when I feel better
6. I’ll start when work is less crazy
7. I’ll start when I’m less tired
8. I’ll start right after this
9. I’ll start when I’m good enough
10. I’ll start after I choose a name
11. I’ll start after I buy a domain
12. I’ll start after I’ve built the website
13. I’ll start when I’m inspired
14. I’ll start when I quit my job
15. I’ll start when I take a sabbatical
16. I’ll start a few years from now
17. I’ll start once I’m settled at my new job
18. I’ll start when I feel confident
19. I’ll start when someone gives me permission
20. I’ll start when I find a collaborator
21. I’ll start once I’ve finished this next thing
22. I’ll start once I’ve practiced enough
23. I’ll start at the beginning of the month
24. I’ll start at the beginning of the year
25. I promise I’ll start

I used to keep a tidy desk. I wanted it to look like those desks that people fawn over and write blog posts about. Calm, beautiful, and sparse.

These days, I aim for roughly the opposite. I want a pile of books, scraps of paper, and things that I can use to make marks. I want them in my field of view and within arms reach so that I’m compelled to make.

I’d call this “mise en place”, but I don’t think I could do so with a straight face. Mise en place feels organized and calculated to me, but my system is more… chaotic. Let’s call it… “mess en place”.

On my desk right now is a Time Timer, a desk fan, my AirPods, 2 sketchbooks, a pile of pencils and wax pastels, a Ricoh GRIII and (dead) battery, some washi tape, 5 books, a copy of The Paris Review, some incense, a pile of Post-It Notes, 2 notebooks and… more (in addition to my keyboard, trackpad, audio interface, headphones, mic and Mac Mini).

There’s barely any desk to see, and I love it.

I’m building a daily art practice, and my current tools are inches away from my hand. I immediately take a photo to share it with others and my camera is right there. I like to start my day by reading a poem, and Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems is 3 books down in the pile.

I want to be surrounded by things that inspire me and enable me to make. I want to put as little friction as possible between my body and the work I want to consume or create. I want mess… en place.

Unless I have a daily practice, I find it difficult to stick with things. If I told myself that I’d publish a blog post each week, I’d probably publish four and then stop posting for three years. If I told myself I’d paint one large painting every month, I’d… well… I’d never paint anything.

I used to hate this about myself. I don’t exactly love it now, but I have come to accept it, and even found some peace in embracing it. If my brain doesn’t want to paint something big once a month, maybe I can paint something small every day. Maybe I can change how I paint.

There’s something nice about embracing your brain in its most annoying state. There’s value in figuring out how to align your work with your mind. You can probably turn five years of daily blog posts into a book, even if you don’t think that you could sit down and… write a book.

I used to fight my brain on this; to make it change—because I do believe that it can change. I rarely stopped to consider if I could be just as happy (or happier) by changing my actions though. It turns out that I probably can. It turns out that you can accept yourself for who you are.

I started doing that with these daily blog posts. I have days where I don’t really write much at all, and other days where I write (I know, meta) about just showing up. I’m starting to do it with art. I’ll start to do it with exercise. A little bit, every day, until I’ve accrued a lot.

Starting something new can be scary. It’s easy for me to think myself out of it. Over the years, though, I’ve come to realize that I could think myself out of anything if I just keep thinking and don’t start doing.

Recently, I found great inspiration from artist and writer Etel Adnan in her wonderful interview for the Paris Review. When asked “with what element she begins a painting,” she responded:

At first, since I had these little ends of pastels, I’d start with a red square. And this red square called for the gestures that followed. That’s how it is. You make a mark, and the mark creates a situation, and this situation calls for other gestures. And it comes along, and you learn as you go.

How beautifully said: you make a mark, and the mark creates a situation. Much of life is like that. First, you must act. Thought follows action. Once you’re moving, you’ll keep moving, and the world will be changed.

Don’t think about the perfect painting—make a mark and respond. Don’t think about the perfect photograph—take a photo, adjust, and take another. The perfect pot follows a hundred less-perfect pots.

As I sat down to write this blog post, I thought I’d be spoiled for choice. When I tried to grab one of the many ideas I knew were waiting for me, however, I couldn’t bring a single one into focus.

I sat in silence, just waiting. I got dangerously close to a couple of them before they scattered like sand in a strong gust of wind. I continued to sit, brain buzzing, until it started to quiet.

When the ideas stopped moving around, I didn’t want to write about any of them. I just wanted to write this. Sometimes it’s good to just let your brain be quiet for a moment. The ideas can wait.

Before I started writing I titled the post placeholder, simply so that I could see something on screen when my Jekyll instance built locally. Now that I’ve written it, I’m leaving the title alone.

When I have an idea that’s exciting enough (to me at least) that I could actually imagine acting on it, I quickly come up with some sort of name and buy a related domain for one year.

That’s one year until you have to decide whether it’s still interesting enough. One year to decide if you’ll recommit. One year where at least some small part of the idea is real.

I used to think that this was bad. That the renewal reminder email was judgment; shame. Now though, I just see it as a small vote for an idea, and the renewal reminder as reflection.

You can’t commit to every idea you’ll have. Sometimes you might even forget that you had an idea (and bought a domain… or five). A small vote is still a vote though, and knowing that past-you found something interesting enough to cast this vote is useful information.

Sometimes it turns out to be the wrong time.

Other times a more interesting idea comes along.

Rarely you simply re-think, and think the idea is bad.

Come renewal, you can decide to:

1. commit to the idea fully now
2. cast your vote for another year
3. add it back to the domain pool
4. renew, but gift to someone else

Purchasing a domain is almost-guaranteed reflection a year later. It’s an opportunity to see how your interests have changed, or to consider whether a friend has something more to say on this idea.

Sometimes it’s a goofy domain like proudlypathetic.club, and sometimes it’s simply your name. Whatever it is, feel good about it, and keep casting your votes. There are no rules other than your own.

Frank O’Hara wrote many of the works in Lunch Poems whilst literally taking a lunch break during his day job at the MoMA in New York. These collected works are wonderful. They’re joyful. Relatable.

It’s so easy to convince ourselves that we’d make all of those things that we want to make if only we found the perfect time. If only we could take a sabbatical, or quit our day job. Even just a solid week.

Instead of scrolling my phone (or similar) during a recent lunch break, I pulled out some art supplies and sketched a tiny piece of art. Nothing special, or unique—but it existed. I made it.

It took less than 10 minutes to make that sketch. What could I have done with another 10, or 30? What could I make every day if I only ever had 10 minutes? A whole, small thing? A piece of a bigger thing?

There are no perfect times. There are no perfect conditions, or environments, or states of mind. There’s the time we have, the place we are, and the mood we’re in. We can still make things.

I want AI to help me write, not to write for me. Recently I scripted a GitHub action that generates a new Moth-style story prompt for me each day. Here’s one below, and I’ll respond to it today.

Share a story about a conversation that never happened—a moment when important words went unsaid. What held you back, and how did this silence shape your relationships or personal journey? Reflect on the potential impact those lost words might have had and how this experience has influenced your approach to communication and connection.

My maternal grandfather passed away just after I started high school. I knew that people passed away, of course. I knew that I’d pass, at some point. I knew of people who had passed already.

Until this day, though, I hadn’t really considered it.

Most of the things I know about my grandfather come second-hand. A few of them make me happy, a lot of them make me sad, and a couple of them make me laugh, but in a conflicted sort of way.

I barely remember a thing he said to me.

I don’t remember anything I said to him.

What I most remember is sitting on the ground next to him whilst he relaxed in “his” chair. I remember the bottle of cream soda he’d keep next to him, and how he’d let me sneak as much as I wanted to. I remember his rough voice and strong vocal fry from decades of smoking, and his laugh of the type that people referred to as a “dirty laugh”.

Now that I’m older, I have so many questions I want to ask him. I want to ask him about his life—the good bits and the bad. I want to ask him about my mother. About growing up when he did. About the places in the world that he most loved. About his love for cream soda.

A cane hung on the wall of his living room, covered in thin metal badges intended for just this purpose. They described the places that he’d visited, and I was enthralled by the idea that someone could have collected so many. I never asked him about any of them.

When I was younger I didn’t think about death. Now that I’m older I find it incredibly difficult to do so. I didn’t really consider that people would simply cease to exist. People that you love.

I didn’t consider that the questions you’re saving up for later might be left unanswered. That all of the things you’re wondering about, you might simply have to wonder about forever.

I didn’t say many words to my grandfather, and he didn’t say all that many to me. We shared a lot of cream soda, though, and I’ll forever try to explore as many places as he had badges for.

I love the Moth Club. I love storytelling. I love stories. I love hearing stories form ordinary folks about ordinary and extraordinary things.

I want to hear everyone’s story. I want to hear your story. I want to gather all of my friends and tell our stories to one another.

Something I’d love to start doing (and I’d love to see others start doing) is hosting my own Mini Moth Club—a small gathering of new and old friends with a single prompt, a bottle of wine and a dim lamp.

The Moth Story Slam event publishes their prompt online for the folks who want to give it a try on the night. Here’s the next one coming up at The Moth San Francisco, titled “Gumption”:

Prepare a five-minute story about go-getting. Moments of courage and the peaks and pratfalls of a daring spirit. Scaling mountains or admitting to mistakes. Nerves of steel or jelly legs. Tell us about your gutsiest gambles and the mettle that forged them. You’ve got moxie, kid!

Who wouldn’t want to hear all of their friends tell that story? Hopefully you’d be excited to tell that story yourself! Sometimes a simple prompt can unearth a story you’d almost forgotten, or help you to reflect on one that you think about all the time.

I scripted a GitHub action that generates me a new Moth-style story prompt every day, so that (even if I don’t write about it or tell anyone the story) I get to dig into my memory and see what’s there.

I responded to one of those prompts yesterday, and it was so wonderful to recount that moment in writing. It really made me feel things. Happy, sad, and a few things in between.

If you start your own Mini Moth, tell me about it, and tell me the story that you told! I’d love to hear it, however you choose to tell it.

I want AI to help me write, not to write for me. Recently I scripted a GitHub action that generates a new Moth-style story prompt for me each day. Here’s one below, and I’ll respond to it today.

Think of a time when a small, unassuming moment changed you in a big way. It might not have seemed significant at the time, but in hindsight, it sparked a transformation in your life. What was the moment, and how did it alter your path or perspective?

I was around 5 years old and had recently started at a new school—Northwick Manor in Worcester, UK. I wasn’t a very confident kid, and I don’t think I believed that I was capable of much. I’d come to this school from Gorse Hill, where the only friend I remember was the lunch lady.

I joined Northwick Manor starting with Reception, taught by the wonderfully kind Miss Scott. I didn’t have many friends yet, but I was glad to have another kind adult in my life. I didn’t feel much more confident yet, but Miss Scott would help me with that.

The one moment that’s always stuck with me was incredibly small and simple. I’d just changed back into my school shirt following P.E. class, and I was having a hard time doing the top button up. I’d struggled at my desk for what felt like forever, but I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t capable.

I walked over to Miss Scott’s desk and asked her if she could help. I told her that I’d tried, but that I just couldn’t do it myself. It was too hard. Impossible. I needed her to do it for me.

She said that she’d absolutely help, but that she had a funny feeling it was going to solve itself. She believed in magic, she said, and thought that if she closed her eyes and counted to ten, the button would somehow be done up once she opened her eyes.

With a small, warm smile, she closed her eyes and started counting (slowly) to ten. I realized of course that the button wouldn’t do itself up, so I’d better go about making it happen. I wasn’t going to be the one standing in the way of her belief in magic.

My small fingers wrestled with the button, the stiff collar getting in the way and making it even harder. I got so close a couple of times before the button slipped from my fingers. With a second to go, success! The button popped into place with a tiny, satisfying thunk.

When Miss Scott opened her eyes, she’d have seen me, beaming; almost vibrating with excitement and anxiety. I’d just pulled off magic, for goodness sake! In only ten (very long) seconds! She couldn’t believe it—she was overjoyed at the apparent sorcery that existed in the world.

After a few seconds of shared astonishment (mine because I’d done it, hers because—presumably—magic had happened), she sent me back to my desk, and I realized that in this one small way, I was capable. In this one small way, I didn’t need help. I could do it all by myself.

I’ve thought about this moment hundreds—maybe thousands—of times over the years. Whenever I think that I can’t do something, I pause and wonder what magic I might conjure. Even better, of course, I remember that it doesn’t take magic at all. It just takes belief.

If I ever—god forbid—ask “what do you do”, I’ll really mean it. I’ll be looking for verbs, not a noun. Your occupations, that is, not your job.

Something that I’ve done unintentionally and would love to do more intentionally: read the same book (or watch the same film, or listen to the same album) once every year or so, and see how the work has changed.

Of course, it won’t have changed at all, but you might perceive it differently, and in the end that might feel like roughly the same thing.

I’ve fallen into the trap many times of sticking with an opinion that I might have formed long ago and never questioned again.

“I don’t like it.”

“It wasn’t to my taste.”

“It’s one of the best; worst, etc.”

Unless you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met, though, your taste is not static. Your interests are not fixed. You’ve had new experiences that evolved and shaped the person that you are now.

From time to time, I find myself wanting some sort of yardstick for my taste (or aspects of it). I wonder if a book that I liked, hated or felt indifferent about 10 years ago would feel the same to me now. I wonder if my life experiences would make something resonate more (or less).

One of my favorite movies is Good Will Hunting (for reasons that I can’t entirely explain), and one of my favorite scenes includes the speech from Robin Williams whilst sitting on the bench with Will.

I’d ask you about love, you’d probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes that the terms “visiting hours” don’t apply to you.

I’ve watched that scene tens of times, and each time it’s different. Each time I’m different. I watched that scene before I met my wife, and I watched it afterwards. I watched it when Robin Williams was alive, and I watched it after he passed. When I was immature and… less immature.

The scene didn’t change, but with every rewatching I felt something different. I lingered a little longer. It’s just one example of many, but one of my favorites. It’s one that I’ll rewatch again, and again.

It’s hard to notice yourself changing day-to-day, but revisiting something familiar can hold up a mirror. It shows you the ways you’ve grown, shifted, or softened in unexpected ways.

There’s something wonderful—and rare—about discovering new parts of yourself through familiar work. The next time you return to a book, film, or album, pay attention: what’s different now?

Some of the most heartfelt, life-altering discussions I’ve had with my wife happened whilst we were walking together, slowly, in nature.

Some of my more meaningful and impactful 1:1 conversations with colleagues took place whilst strolling the grounds of the Barbican.

Some of my most profound personal reflections and realizations occurred whilst hiking in total silence, alone, for hours.

I like running, and over the years I’ve ran a lot—on, and then off, and then really off. Over the past few years, I haven’t ran much at all.

Today I went for a run—and it was truly pathetic.

I should clarify: that’s a compliment! One of my favorite things to do is take labels often used to chastise (usually myself) and turn them into something positive. A badge that I’d proudly wear: Proudly Pathetic.

In running and in almost everything else, I used to think that I needed to start on day zero with a massive plan. Grand ambitions. Something that people would notice. I wanted to get all of the satisfaction and glory as soon as possible, even if it was painful.

The problem is that most of those things never worked out, because I’d hate how it actually felt. I’d run until I was hurt and exhausted and never want to do it again. I’d sit down to plan out a massive project and immediately feel the weight of it, so I’d abandon it.

Over the years, I’ve found so much more fulfillment, enthusiasm and joy from trying to make things as small as possible when starting out. So small that I feel sort of embarrassed to even do it.

You’re running a block, not a marathon.

You’re reading a page, not a book.

Jumping rope for 30 seconds.

Drawing a single letter.

You could go smaller than all of those (and I do, all the time), and it’s still forward progress. One block is more than none. The next page is eventually the last page. Many single letters make the alphabet.

My run today had a single goal: for the whole run to be an actual run, which meant (for me, right now) the pace had to be absolutely pathetic—and I felt great about it. I didn’t hunch over with a stitch, my breath wasn’t ragged, and I didn’t constantly think about when it would (please) end.

Instead, I just ran. A Proudly Pathetic run.

It turns out that pacing yourself and listening to your body (including your brain) is the simple secret to sustaining something that you care about, and that you want to actually enjoy.

It’s one of those truths that we all know about already, but that we willfully and regularly ignore. It doesn’t mean that we don’t push ourselves, and it doesn’t mean that we don’t show up on race day—it just means that running ourselves ragged isn’t the default.

I’m still learning this lesson, and there are so many things that I want to do with my life that I still find myself wishing that I could skip ahead, but the only things that I keep doing are the ones where I start small.

Join my club. The Proudly Pathetic club.

If you look back through my previous posts, you’ll likely notice a compulsive habit of mine: unless I really force myself not to, I “need” paragraphs to be the same length.

I don’t know when it started, but I know that it’s been years. I know that I’ve thought about it for years; been pained by it for years. I’m doing it right now, in fact—right this minute.

The problem is that some peculiar part of my brain thinks it must be beautiful for every paragraph to be the same length.

In truth, the opposite is true.

When you vary sentence and paragraph length, and have the shape of the words match their natural rhythm, that’s beautiful.

You can already start to see it here, I think.

I’m really forcing myself to break my compulsive habit. To make it secondary to the writing and to stop centering my compulsion. I tried to do it in another post, too, and to me it looks much more beautiful.

When there’s variation and rhythm and—almost but not actually—randomness in writing, it feels like jazz to me.

There’s beauty to it, I think.

It starts too feel alive; to dance across the page.

I’m pulled into it, and then through it.

I’m obviously forcing myself to do the opposite now. To force a rhythm that maybe doesn’t even make sense—but sometimes I have to over-index to really see the difference it makes.

It’s difficult to write about this. There’s a certain amount of shame attached to it. To compulsively doing something that is in conflict with my own taste and judgement (and then to tell people about it).

My hope, though, is that by admitting it to myself and talking about it openly, I can catch myself and try to avoid doing it.

The funny thing is, of course, that this isn’t the printed page. We’re here on the web! You could be on a different device or have a different viewport width! I have no idea how you’ll really see it!

Rational thought rarely affects compulsive behaviors.

I could simply try to stop thinking about it. To write how I write, and to accept it. I consider myself the primary reader of my writing though—and whilst my writer-self thinks equal paragraphs are beautiful, my reader-self does not. My reader-self wants jazz.

I love writing, but I really love reading. I want to read what I write and feel joy; to feel proud of what I’ve written.

Here’s post number one to help create that feeling.

I didn’t decide to live where I was born (though it’s a wonderful place to have been born), and whilst I really decided to live in London, it came together pretty easily in the grand scheme of things.

Now, I’m living in California. I really decided to live here. It took effort, money, and lots of time. It meant selling most of my possessions and moving a few thousand miles (and then a few thousand more).

Now that I’m here, in this idyllic place, I find myself wanting to document it. To observe it well enough to capture it authentically. To share it with others in a way that makes them feel something.

My wonderful wife gifted me two things to help: A Ricoh GRIII and an OM System LS-P5. Two wonderful, tiny tools that I can take anywhere in my pocket(s). I added to that the Soundman OKM binaural mics.

My plan was (and is) to capture the most beautiful places in Northern California as they are. That is, as they actually are, not how I wish they were. I’m starting with one of my favorites: Point Reyes Lighthouse.

I’ll write more about that someday, but I’m going to take a detour here, because whilst the intention of these tools was for a single, specific purpose, the mere fact of their existence and presence has changed me.

A quote often attributed to Marshall McLuhan (unsure of actual source) goes: “we shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us.” We might make (or buy) a tool for one purpose, but the tools change us.

When I walk my dog (Cacio), I often now throw my camera strap around my neck before heading out the door. Every time I do, I notice things (new and old) that I simply don’t seem to notice sans-camera.

When I know that my recorder is in my pocket, I find myself listening more intently during a lull in conversation or when I’m having a quiet moment—just in case there’s something interesting to capture.

Simply knowing that I have these tools—and knowing what they’re capable of—makes me more observant; more mindful. I notice—acutely—the difference between when I do have them and when I don’t.

Tools are just… tools, but the right tool can help you think differently. Can you make you notice. Can make you pay more attention, or more care. The tools don’t need to be fancy, they just need a purpose.

We shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us. If you’re looking to encourage something in yourself, it’s worth thinking about the tools that might help you get there and investing in them.

I was living back in my hometown after spending a pretty random year living with a friend in Cardiff, and I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. It was difficult to figure out what I did want to do, so I thought I’d start by figuring out what I didn’t want to do.

If I thought of something that mildly interested me, I’d just try it. This led me to all sorts of strange places, like trying to make the perfect leather belt, pitching “imaginary friends” to a large U.K. charity, having a trial day as a dental technician, and pitching articles to newspapers.

I’ll write about those some day, suffice to say that I was casting a wide net. Next, I started drawing, and then I drew some more, and suddenly I had stacks of sketchbooks. I emailed a university professor and asked if I could study art. After a cup of tea on campus, they said yes.

For the first year, I studied both art and design. I did reportage drawing in the rafters of a cathedral. I made expressive sketches of the naked form in charcoal. I etched, screen printed, painted and more. It was wonderful. It filled me up and gave me a new community.

At the same time, I started to tinker with computers again. I’d always loved computers—they created a world to which I could escape when I needed to. They let me learn things, make things, and meet people. I started to wonder if I should be making things on the computer.

From my second year at university, I started majoring in design, with art taking more of a back seat. I started making things on the computer, but it wasn’t fulfilling me in the ways that I’d hoped. I was making things on the computer, but I wasn’t making things for the computer.

If I was to make things destined for the physical world, I wanted to make them with physical media. I could do that in art class, so more and more I made things for the computer (by which I mean: software). If the computer was the tool, software was the medium.

I quickly realized that the medium wasn’t a picture of software though, it was the software itself. That could mean many things, but for me it at least meant “code”. I started to teach myself programming using books from the library, and turned every assignment into software.

That stuck, and in the years since I’ve helped to design and build lots of software. If you’d asked me what I wanted to at the beginning, I don’t think that “designing and building software” would have rolled off the tongue. I had no real archetypes demonstrating that it was possible.

So often, the things that resonate with us are a complete mystery. You can think long and hard about it, but it’s really difficult to think about whether you might enjoy something that you can’t yet fully imagine—let alone something you haven’t actually experienced.

Sometimes, you just have to start. You simply have to start doing, start making. You have to make something, anything, and it might lead to the next thing, and the next. We try so hard to think about the actions that we should take, but sometimes we should simply act.

I say this as I sit here, quite content making software, but suddenly wanting to make more art. I started writing here every day for that exact reason: to begin exploring my art. I’m writing about something, anything and seeing where it leads. Maybe more writing, maybe much more.

Life isn’t linear. The pace doesn’t have to stay the same. You don’t have to do only one thing. You can do many things. The one thing that’s still true for me though: you just have to start.

Sometimes it’s okay to show up briefly. To give yourself a rest day. I think that’s true in any area of life, but here I’m talking about this very post.

For me, it’s more important to show up every day—even if it’s just a little—rather than hope you’ll show up in a really big way every so often.

This post brought to you as I type directly into GitHub, flopped on the couch, with my dog next to me. Taking it easy today, but showing up.

Sent from my iPhone.

One of the most useful concepts I took from The War of Art by Steven Pressfield is that of Resistance: the insidious force which attempts to steer you away from the work you’re meant to do.

I’ll write about Resistance some other day maybe, but I’m writing this to reflect on a strategy to counter Resistance: Little Successes. A quote from Steven’s conversation with Tim Ferris:

Resistance with a capital R—that force of self-sabotage—will try to stop you, as a writer, or an artist, or anybody, from achieving your best work; from following your calling. It will try to distract you, undermine your self-confidence, make you procrastinate, make you quit, make you give into fear—or, on the other hand, make you such a perfectionist that you spend all day on one paragraph and you accomplish nothing. The concept of little successes, or of a routine, is to help you overcome that Resistance.

The concept of Little Successes was shared with Steven by his friend Randy (Randall Wallace, writer of Braveheart), and is basically this: before you sit down to do The Work, count all of the small wins that you accumulate along the way—and they can be tiny.

Made the bed? That’s a Little Success.

Showered and brushed your teeth? A couple more.

Brewed a cup of coffee and read a page or two? Count both of ‘em.

By the time you sit down, you’ve already accomplished so much. You’re not sitting there staring down a big, immovable task—you’re just doing the next thing, accumulating more successes.

Every morning, I sit down and write out a little Analog task card by Ugmonk. On the front I write my tasks for the day (work and personal), and on the back I write down the habits I’d like to keep up: jump rope, shower, make coffee, write morning pages (and so on).

I knock a couple of those out before I get started with The Work, and it warms me up for the day. I already feel accomplished, just from making coffee. You could make them even smaller (and I probably should)—you could accumulate 10 Little Successes before you start The Work.

At first it feels a bit silly, but the older I get the more I’m convinced that the primary obstacle to success is that of “feeling cringe”. Push past it, and you’ll start to feel good (or at least, I did).

You accomplish so many Little Successes every day. Count them.

When I wrote (half-jokingly) about being a good boy, I left out my commentary, which is: for me, in the way that it manifests in me specifically¹, it’s generally not a good thing to indulge in.

Unless I’m unique in this, the temptation to be seen as a good boy is so very strong, but only ever seems to result in compromise and crappy work. Doing things quickly almost always makes you a good boy, for example, even if you make total shit.

Being stubborn, by contrast, is almost always seen as bad, or annoying, or disobedient. What are we to do if we have strong conviction though? A good boy would roll over and accept the belly rub. It’s a trap, don’t accept every belly rub.

If your role in life (and especially at work) was simply to make people like you, this would obviously be a perfectly reasonable thing to do. If your goal was to make people happy, it might seem like the right thing to do. Rarely are either of those your role though—or anyone’s role.

I’d argue that a seemingly-similar but actually-quite-different approach is simply to try hard. Not be seen as a try-hard maybe, but to actually, properly try hard—to really try, very hard.

They sound similar because a try-hard often tries to make people like them, or tries to make people superficially and usually-temporarily happy. To actually try hard though means to try doing the right thing, and to be stubborn in your resolve to actually do it.

Sometimes trying hard doesn’t work out. Some cultures celebrate the good boy and the try-hard. Sometimes they actively resent those trying hard. I think that it’s worth trying even harder in these cases, but perhaps at some place that actually wants you to. In some places, trying hard is celebrated, and not only in hindsight.

Whenever I feel the pull to be a good boy, I try to ask myself whether I want to try hard or if I’m just being a try-hard. For me at least, it takes consistent effort to avoid simply being a good boy for the belly rubs, but it’s worth the effort.

Making good work sometimes requires being stubborn, having conviction, and (frankly) just being a bit of a nause.

Being a good boy requires no such resolve.

Nothing to do with the movie.

This is the 28th post, which—considering I post every day—means it’s the 28th day since I committed to a practice of publishing online.

Over the years, I’ve started and almost-started so many projects, but eventually abandoned them when I couldn’t find the elusive perfect time to work on them; to fit them into or around my life.

It turns out (for me at least) it doesn’t really work like that. The perfect time never presents itself (because it doesn’t exist). The beautifully uninterrupted hours, days or weeks where you can simply commit “enough” time never quite come together.

Something that I’ve started to realize (more slowly than I’d like) is that I didn’t need a project, but a practice. A project feels big—you have to start and end it, and there’s a big scary stretch in the middle that only seems to get wider; the end further away.

A practice, however, is just something you show up for (in my interpretation at least). It doesn’t have a real beginning and certainly doesn’t have an end. To the extent it has a middle, it’s unbounded, but not in the same way as the long stretch of a project. It goes on forever because it’s actually supposed to.

Publishing every day isn’t a project for me, it’s a practice.

So far, my practice has existed for 28 days, and my plan is for it to continue forever. This is an important milestone because—subjectively; symbolically—it proves I can commit. If I can do it for 28 days (4 weeks) I can do it for 3 months, then for 12, and beyond.

It’s helped me to see past projects through a new lens. If I were to build them around a practice, what might have happened? If I commit to a practice related to my other interests, where might that lead?

Here’s to finding out, and to the next 28 days.

In an interview with Rachel Martin on the podcast Wild Card (and you should listen, it’s great), Ira Glass answers the question “what truth guides your life more than any other” with the following (edited):

I don’t know the best way to put this, but it’s like I’m trying to be, like, a good boy. Like I’m trying to be… I’m just trying to show… I really am trying my hardest all the time to those around me. I’m going to show you how good I am—but not good like you’ll be impressed, just you’ll think like “oh, look, you were good”, like with a dog, like “good boy”. Like “you really tried, good boy.”

At first I found it funny, and then I found it… maybe one of the most accurate descriptions of how most people act most of the time (including me). Like, even if it’s just for myself, I just want to be a good boy.

Some things are irritatingly effective. Controlled breathing is one of those things. What do you mean I just have to “breathe”.

Feeling stressed? Breathe.

Can’t get to sleep? Breathe.

Mind racing? Yeah, breathe.

Super annoying.

When there are too many thoughts, ideas or worries rattling around in my head, I’ll stand outside in the sun and breathe for a minute. In through the nose, hold it, and then out through the mouth.

It almost always totally changes my state of mind.

When I can’t get to sleep, I’ll do it for a couple of minutes longer. I’ll hold it for a couple more seconds. I’ll inhale and exhale more slowly. In through the nose, hold it, and then out through the mouth.

After a couple of minutes, I often fall right asleep.

It’s the worst (obviously it’s the best).

You’d hear about their arrival before you even saw them. A neighborhood kid would excitedly announce to the street that they were coming. Heads would pop up over fences; peek out of front doors; appear between net curtains. It was true, they were on our street: the Pop Man.

They’d have everything: cola, lemonade, limeade, and my favorite: dandelion and burdock. The sweetness of much refined sugar with the slightly medicinal, savory quality of the ingredients that flavor it. I’d run out into the street with a quid and come back with a 2-liter bottle.

The pop man brought joy to a summer’s day (or any other).

I loved pop. Pop felt like one of the biggest treats I could imagine. A bottle of pop to myself seemed audacious. Who was I—the Queen of England? I wasn’t even sure my body could hold 2 liters of pop. I’d never try to find out though. I’d sip it; savor it—like Charlie Bucket.

The Pop Man seems like such an odd idea today: a stranger (sort of) driving around in a modified transit van, stacked high with soda and candy. A van literally designed to encourage children to sprint towards it, loose change grasped in their clammy little hands.

In 1990’s England, though, it was one of the best parts of summer for me, followed closely by the ice cream truck. The Pop Man was different though. No jingle, rarely a nice little menu affixed—just word of mouth and the promise of your favorite bottle of pop.

When I’m busy or stressed, I can fall into a routine where I’m not taking very good care of myself. It might start with skipping a workout (and then two, and then…), but progress to include things like:

1. Not drinking enough water
2. Skipping or eating a bad lunch
3. Avoiding plans and structure
4. Neglecting friends and family
5. Poor sleep and nighttime routine

I rarely deprioritize work—as if I must pick one or the other—but it’s not actually a tradeoff. Take better care of yourself, and you tend to do better work (or at least that’s true for me)—but it can be hard to remember.

Today, I took the time to eat a proper lunch, make a coffee, and sit in the garden at lunch time. Whilst I was out there, I wrote my morning pages, reflecting on self-care (how meta) and creative environments.

It was such a small act, but it completely reset my day. I started to feel more relaxed; more creative. My headache eased and then disappeared. I felt as though I was starting the day all over again from a better place.

Before I headed inside, I did a three minute guided meditation. Three minutes! You can spend longer getting distracted by your phone when you just wanted to grab a two-factor authentication code.

Those three minutes were so powerful. They allowed me to—just for a moment—pull my mind away from all the stuff and start afresh when I opened my eyes. Another tiny act of self-care that didn’t cost much.

I’m writing this as a reminder to future-me (and any of you) that small acts of self-care are important; that you do better work and become a better friend, partner etc. by first taking care of yourself.

I’ve always wanted to make and share more over the years. More art, more writing, more software, more… everything. I’ve often struggled to do so, at least in part because I’m a perfectionist (or… something), and there’s nothing forcing me to ship.

I’ve been writing morning pages for a while now, and I realized that I have no problem doing that every day. Of course, no one else gets to see those, but that’s not typically what I’m worried about. When I say I’m a perfectionist, it’s my own bar I need to hit.

The thing that makes it easy for me, I think, is simply that I do it every single day—no excuses. I don’t write because I have something to say, I write because it’s tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if I write total garbage or if I write something near-perfect. I’ll be back tomorrow.

That thought reminded me of something that Seth Godin once said:

I made a decision, one time, to write every day, and so I don’t have to revisit that decision. I don’t post a blog post because I feel like it, and I don’t post a blog post because it’s perfect—I post a blog post because it’s tomorrow… and that idea helps the work move forward.

So a few weeks back, I decided I’d do the same, and I stuck a Post-it note on my computer display to remind me. Most of the things I post are half-thoughts. They’re not written particularly well. Most of the time, they’re not even related in any meaningful way.

The quality that they do share, though? They exist.

It’s so easy to find an excuse not to make something, and especially easy to find an excuse not to share it. You’re tired. It’s not good enough. It’s not relevant. Someone has made something just like it.

It’s difficult to share things when that’s the bar.

For me, though, the act of committing to making and sharing something every day regardless makes it all feel lighter. All of a sudden, my goal isn’t to share something great, or novel, or unique. It’s just to make something—anything—and put it out there.

Walking my dog (Cacio) this evening, I listened to the very first episode of This American Life. It’s actually the first time I’ve ever listened to it. I’ve heard snippets before, but hadn’t heard the first act at all.

Kevin Kelly (of Wired and more) tells the story of a deeply personal experience that he lived through as a young adult—the central idea being that he started to live his life as if he’d die in six months.

And I wouldn’t say it was a voice, but there was an idea that came into my mind that just would not go away, and that was that I should live as if I would die in six months, that I should really, truly live. And that I could not tell for certain whether I would really die, but that either way, I should live as if I was going to die. And so that was the assignment.

I’ll leave you to listen to the story yourself, but (regardless of the rest of it) this idea really stuck with me. I started to wonder whether I’d still do what I’m doing right now if I was going to die in six months.

I’m pretty terrified of mortality (to the extent that I use the term mortality instead of death because the latter just feels more visceral to me), so I already think about this idea a lot, but not so concretely.

That is, I try to “live as if I’ll die” (because I believe that it’s easy to fall into the trap off living as if you won’t), but I convince myself that it’s still a ways off. In reality, of course, there are no such guarantees.

Six months is long enough to not immediately fall into a pit of despair, but not long enough that you wouldn’t dramatically evaluate how you spend your waking hours. Not long enough to change nothing.

If you were going to die in six months, would you follow through with all of your current plans? Would you do the work you’re about to do? Would you hold that grudge, make that apology, read that book?

You don’t have to upturn your life or run into the hills, but I think asking some version of this question is a useful reset. A way to say no to those things that you really don’t want to do (and yes to the ones you do).

I love large language models. I love building tools with them. I love using them for research. I love meandering chats about nothing much at all.

Occasionally, I’ll ask one (or more) to give me some ideas for blog posts based on previous writing of mine (including all of my morning pages). Every time, it makes me just a little bit sad.

I’m not saying that large language models can’t come up with interesting ideas to write about (or interesting writing of their own for that matter), but it always feels like they lack a bit of… soul?

You could say it’s a skill issue on my part. It probably is.

I’ve been trying to make sense of why it makes me feel this way, and the thing I’ve landed on so far is roughly: when you spend the time to look through your past writing; to sit there and slowly, painfully think of ideas, you’re not just thinking—you’re feeling.

You don’t only feel something when you finally land on what you believe is a good idea, either. You feel something as you get close to an idea. You feel it as an idea slips through your fingers whilst you try to grasp it, before you realize there wasn’t much there at all.

It’s a feeling (or a combination of feelings) that’s just completely missing when you craft the perfect prompt. When you sit there waiting for a tool to think on your behalf. When it trots out a long list of decidedly mid ideas that apparently reflect all of your own thoughts.

It took me a while to pin this down, but when I did, I found a new sense of appreciation for those feelings. For the struggle. For the almost-idea. For the break-throughs and for the many ideas that never would be.

After a busy few weeks at work, a tiring few hours of driving, and a long day in the sun, I was feeling a little cranky and couldn’t shake it.

We were driving through the redwoods in Humboldt County, headed back to camp, and I hadnt spoken for a while—just driven onward quietly.

Suddenly, I heard my wife’s voice (softly) next to me: “I love California so much”. With a few simple words, my perspective immediately shifted.

My field of view broadened, I took a long, deep breath, and the feeling I’d been trying to shake for a while immediately and completely dissipated.

I was in one of the most beautiful places on earth, with my favorite person in the whole world, on one of the most glorious, unexpectedly sunny days.

A few simple words spoken by someone you love, about some place you love, can change everything. Sometimes, your bad mood lasts as long as you let it.

I rarely look back at my morning pages, but today I looked back at the very first entry and found a passage relevant here, as I start to publish something every day:

One interesting thing about writing morning pages is that you want to write everything you’ll ever write, today. I want to write all of the things that will propel me into the future, all of the posts that I’d like to publish, all of the memories that I’d like to sit with. I can’t do that, but I find solace in the idea that if I stick with it, I’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. If I really stick with it, I’ll have written at least 365 things within a year, and even at a conservative estimate of 10% turning into other writing, I could have 36 posts, essays, pitches, or whatever else might come of writing every day.

It’s popular in some circles to claim that a single person can’t possibly be expected to both (for example) design software and build software. It must only be possible to do one or the other.

Almost nobody (that I know of) upon hearing that someone is relatively good at cooking, however, exclaims “how is that even remotely possible when you’re also a competent driver?”

Humans are good at so many things; you can be good at so many things. Maybe not everything all at once, but most things eventually. If you assume that you can, you probably can (and vice versa).

For some reason, when I was very young, boiled potatoes (unseasoned, if I remember correctly) featured heavily in my diet.

I wasn’t very fond of boiled potatoes—or at least the sheer volume and regularity of them—so I would (increasingly) hide the ones that I didn’t want to eat around the house.

Occasionally, one of my parents would find such rogue potatoes—behind the bath caddy, a bedroom curtain, or occasionally on the flat roof below the bedroom window.

Mystery potatoes.

When I got older, I learned that boiled potatoes are much better with an ungodly amount of butter (which happens to be the same ingredient that makes everything delicious).

Most lies are bad, a few lies are good, and some fall in-between.

I was sitting in the garden of our home in Perdiswell, Worcester (I must have been around 6 years old) when my sister ran excitedly towards me: “my pet bee gave me some honey!”

I was amazed, and had so many questions: firstly, you can actually have a pet bee? Where does it live? How long have you had it? Where do you get the honey from? What does it mean to “give” it to you?

All of those questions became immediately unimportant with a single question from her: “would you like to try it?”

Yes! Absolutely I would!

It tasted incredible: sweet, sticky, and almost familiar—although I was quite confident I hadn’t tried honey before.

I couldn’t get enough, and my sister was only too happy to keep going back for more. I licked spoon after spoon clean before I returned to my questions, and the answers came thick and fast.

• “Yes little brother, of course you can have a pet bee”
• “It lives in these small holes above the back door”
• “Oh, a few months, but I only just got the honey”

Satisfied, I licked my final spoon clean and went back inside to drop it in the sink. I had learned so much about the world! So much about bees! What a kindness—the honey and the facts.

As I walked through the kitchen and dropped my spoon in the sink, a can on the counter caught my eye: Lyle’s Golden Syrup.

Funny, I thought, I like golden syrup.

I carry a little card around in my wallet on which I’ve scrawled a few facets of my character that I’d like to be known for. I’d like to be a great partner, for example, and a great explorer, friend, maker, athlete (of the Nike variety—if you have a body…).

From time to time I’ll pull it out of my wallet and wonder for a moment: which of these is playing more or less of a role right now, and is that what I’d hope for? I sometimes surprise myself with the answer, and it gives me a little nudge towards action.

On the other side of the card, I’ve written a few single-word directives—words like confidence, compassion, curiosity, and agency. They exist so that I can ask the question: what would it look like for the character to play with more compassion (curiosity; agency).

It’s such a small act and a simple question, but on many occasions it’s caused me to act in a totally different way than I’d originally been thinking about. It takes me out of myself for just a moment and lets me consider how I actually want to act.

About to present something you’ve made? What would it look like if you played it with 10x as much confidence? What would the athlete do with 10x more conviction? What would the partner do with 10x more compassion, or understanding, or care?

Increasingly, I find more joy in small, simple ideas repeated often than in big or complex ideas. I see it when I take the same walk and notice something I’d missed, or re-read a book and learn something new—not because the book changed, but because I have.

These simple questions for me often have pretty profound implications. I’m sometimes a few words and a simple thought away from doing something that moves me closer to the person I want to be, or—almost imperceptibly—a little further away.

I was listening to Craig Mod on a couple of podcasts recently, and he mentioned a text file that he keeps on his computer titled “you’re not a piece of shit”. Fortunately or unfortunately for me, it really resonated.

This thought is brought to you today after spending a few hours feeling like a piece of shit, and then writing my (belated) morning pages and snapping myself out of it. I don’t claim to be special in not-so-occasionally feeling like a piece of shit—I’m sure many people do. Over the years I have felt it with annoying regularity, though.

In lieu of a specific (hopefully append-only) file, today’s morning pages entry was essentially a big brag file with a lot of swear words (perhaps influenced by my copy of “Do the Fucking Work” by GFDA sat on my desk). I started my morning pages feeling like a piece of shit, and ended feeling almost good about myself.

I’ll keep my brag file private for now, but it really drove home for me how powerful it can be to have one. I’m constantly hard on myself about the things that I haven’t yet done (and I do want to keep some of that energy), and rarely celebrate the things I’ve accomplished so far.

I’m sure that my speaking about morning pages will eventually bore people to death, but they do give me a chance to reflect on things like this every day. Having said that, I rarely remember what I wrote in the early haze of morning a few days later, and I almost found myself wanting to open a single file that reminded me: “hey, you’re not a piece of shit.”

If you’re feeling like a piece of shit, I strongly encourage you to write down all of the reasons that you’re not. You shouldn’t need to do that. It’s very likely that you’re not a piece of shit even without very specific counter-examples. For me though (and for the aforementioned Craig, though I’m sure it isn’t just a Craig thing), it can help.

So, at risk of swearing a couple too many times in this post: I’m not a piece of shit, and you’re not a piece of shit either. Be kind to yourself.

“You’re getting a bit twitchy”, my wife says quietly, “is everything okay?”

I’ve started to write about life recently. Actually, I started writing about life not-so-recently, but I started publishing writing about life recently. For months I’ve written about life every morning in my morning pages (in one way or another). It’s hard not to, because life is the thing that I’m doing all the time, so it provides pretty good material.

Writing about life makes life better, I think.

When I wrote about controlling your destiny, I was thinking about writing. The writing comes right after the thinking. Sometimes, it feels like it’s happening at the same time as the thinking (sometimes it seems to happen before the thinking, but I’ve got to think about that some more). I’ve already said that writing about life has changed my life, but I think I’d write about life even if it didn’t.

Something that I didn’t realize that I enjoyed until recently (not because I only just started doing it, but because I only just realized I particularly enjoy it) is reading memoirs. Specifically, I love reading memoirs from regular people. People who I could imagine being friends with. People who I’ve met; everyone I’ve met. If I could read your memoir (if you wrote or have written a memoir) I would.

On a flight from Atlanta to San Francisco yesterday, I read Heating and Cooling by Beth Ann Fennelly cover to cover. It’s a collection of 52 “micro-memoirs”, and I loved every one of them. Here’s an example titled Married Love, III:

As we lower onto the December-cold pleather seats of our minivan, we knock hands: both of us reaching to turn on the other’s seat warmer first.

In just a sentence or two you can convey so much about a moment. So much about your character and your life and your relationship. So many of your values. It doesn’t need to be for anyone else, even. Just writing it down can be a reminder of who you are, what you remember, and what you cherish (or maybe something you feel less good about).

Writing about life has made me notice more of it. A simple overheard comment that I would have otherwise forgotten about in minutes suddenly feels like something sort of special. I sit with it for a moment longer. Sometimes I type it out on my phone. On that same flight I typed out the below after the moment made me smile:

Heads, shoulder knees and toesss (drawn out, like a broadway musical), the steward sings, pushing the food cart down the aisle. I smile and mind all of them.

It’s a normal little moment, really. She probably does it every time she pushes the cart down the aisle. It wasn’t typical though—not for me. An instruction that’s probably been repeated thousands of times could have been delivered curtly, or with a hint of exhaustion. Instead it was melodic, almost joyful (and very quiet; just loud enough).

There are so many small moments like that one, and when you start writing about life you start noticing them. Enjoying them more.

It’s not just the small moments, either. You could unearth big, important memories from your childhood. You could sit with all of the small interactions you remember from your wedding day. You could recall what it felt like when something big changed in your life; when you started viewing the world in a different way.

Everyone should be a memoirist.

We’ll forget so many moments that might seem insignificant at the time, but might mean the world to us later. I’ve forgotten more memories than I can remember, I’m sure. If I can help it, I’ll remember more from now on, because I’ll write them down.

Christmas Day, Worcester, England, 1995 (ish?). I unwrap a toy parrot that repeats everything you say. My grandfather picks it up. “Fuck off”, he says. “Fuck off”, the parrot repeats. He’s cackling now. “Fuck off” he says again, cackling louder. Now I’m cackling (giggling).

I’m reading The Book of Alchemy by Suleika Jaouad, and I’m reading it on my Kindle. I love physical books, but there’s one experience I get from a Kindle that I don’t get from physical books (even if a couple folks have scribbled in the margins): seeing which passages readers have highlighted, and exactly how many have highlighted it. An example:

But I knew that a fear-driven life was one where I never made plans, where I stopped myself from dreaming ambitiously. It meant living safe and small, always hedging against the worst-case scenario. Instead, I wanted to live boldly. I wanted to hold the best-case scenario at the forefront and have that guide my decisions and actions.

At the time of my reading, 274 people had highlighted that passage on the Kindle. 274 people who maybe felt the same way as the author. 274 people who might similarly want to guide their actions with the best-case scenario. Kindle highlights are aspirational. They’re little nuggets you can collect to validate who you are or who you want to be.

When I was a young kid growing up in a small English town, there were two places that I wanted to live when I got older: London and New York City. I’ve written about why London was on that (very short) list, and the only post-rationalization I have for New York is “fancier, less accessible London”. London seemed out of reach for me back then, so New York City felt like a fantasy—one that I thought might last my whole life.

I’d search for images of New York and I’d stare at them (as soon as they loaded) imagining what it might be like to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, to look out from the top deck of the Empire State Building, and to stroll the length of Central Park. The TV we watch growing up in the UK is so often US-centric, and New York City always features as the most magical place. Home Alone, Friends, and (a guilty pleasure) Sleepless in Seattle.

When I got older, I’d replace the Google Image search with Google Maps, and especially Street View. I’d walk all around the city—panning the view left and right to memorize the buildings, to note the names of hot dog vendors, and to stare at a snapshot of Times Square. I’d explore for hours, wondering what it might feel like to really be surrounded by those huge buildings; to walk into those stores; to eat that hot dog.

Older still and you’d find me reading the poetry and prose from writers who were similarly in love with New York. I’d read Howl by Allen Ginsberg and recite it during poetry nights at college. When I got to my favorite string of words “…from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge…” I’d give it some extra zeal, punctuating the still air with the sort of energy that I thought it deserved.

I studied Design and Illustration at college, and I’d follow all of the artists and designers in New York. I’d read about the art of the subway. I’d look up artists collectives in Brooklyn. I’d imagine joining a studio near the Brooklyn Bridge where some of my favorite artists and designers worked side by side. I’d picture studying the typography of the subway, riding every line and stopping at every station until I saw it all.

At some point (as it does) life happened, and I stopped thinking about New York quite so much. I’d occasionally speak to people about how great DUMBO (probably) was and about the work of folks who lived there, but I stopped reading the poetry and walking the digital streets. I moved from my home town to London, and I was so enthralled by finally making it there that New York didn’t take up quite so much space.

Fast forward a few years and New York came up again—but this time with a question that I didn’t really think I’d ever be asking: should we stay in London, or should we move to New York. My wife’s mother grew up in California and my wife has U.S. citizenship. From the first day we met we’d talked about an American adventure one day, but it took us many more years to act on it. We were headed, we thought, for California.

When we spoke to the companies we worked for, they agreed that we could stay if we moved to the U.S.—but only on the East Coast. I hadn’t thought about the real prospect of moving to New York. I guess I’d convinced myself years ago that it was—or maybe even should be, in some pseudo-romantic sense—a dream; a fantasy. But now it became almost inevitable—we were headed to the East Coast, so… New York?

The next few months were a whirlwind. Selling most of our possessions, shipping the ones that we didn’t, saying our farewells to family and friends, and booking an Airbnb in Brooklyn—right on Fulton Street in Bedford Stuyvesant. When we finally arrived and stepped out of the cab, I was filled with all of the feelings. I don’t think I could even describe them. It was all of them, all at once—a Mega Feeling.

I lived in Brooklyn for 2 years. I’ll skip the details for now, because this post is less about New York than the idea of New York. I can tell you that I walked from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge. I strolled the length of Central Park. I walked so many of the streets. I ate the hot dogs. I’ll write more about that some other day—but somehow, I had made it to New York City.

I bought a book of “offline activities” (where you’re supposed to tear one out each week for a year). Here are a handful of my favorite ideas:

1. Look into someone’s eyes for five minutes without talking
2. Write a letter to yourself and open it a year later
3. Go to the library to solve a problem
4. Write down an overheard conversation
5. Take a new route to an old place
6. Re-read a book
7. Make someone breakfast
8. Write down a list of things you love
9. Write a letter to someone you admire
10. Plant something

The first one just because it’s weird and we should all be more weird together. The rest because they’re just genuinely good ideas.

For years I’ve tried to think about something interesting to write about, but when I started to question who I was writing for, I realized that the most common answer was: me. Every morning I sit down to write morning pages (750 words, stream-of-consciousness style) and it’s the most fun I have whilst writing. There’s no pressure, it doesn’t need to fit some theme, and I can keep trying to find my voice without judgement.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to care less about judgement—and I like to think that I’ve started to judge less, too. I’ve increasingly found joy in simple stories, and I’ve learned to disconnect the idea of “value” from “is interesting to a large number of people” and “makes money”. Maybe I was slow to do that, but once you have the world changes entirely. Everyone, it turns out, is endlessly fascinating.

I spent so long listening to the stories of folks who I find very impressive that I almost forgot about the wonderful stories that you can hear just by meeting someone—anyone—new, from some place that you’re not, from some background you don’t share. You feel it when you crack up listening to The Moth, and when you’re wiping away a tear (okay, many tears) during act three of This American Life.

It’s so easy to fill our ears and brains with the stories and thoughts of others, and easier still to make our own thoughts and our own voice more quiet—until it’s barely a whisper. What would you feel, though, if you wrote down everything that you can remember from your childhood? What heart-warming or tear-inducing story have you almost forgotten? I promise you that someone wants to hear it.

The stories that we queue up in our podcast app; that we stream back-to-back on Netflix—they’re interesting, but they’re not the only interesting stories. They’re likely not even the most interesting stories, at least not to everyone. I want to hear your story, and I hope that you’ll share it. Maybe just with yourself at first, and then maybe, slowly, with the internet—or at least with a friend.

If you write and share your story, I promise you that I’ll read it. Publish it and send me the link. Send it right to my email inbox, if you’d prefer. Speak it quietly (or loudly) to a friend, or a group of friends. Tell it how you want to tell it. Mess it up. Start over. Pause to laugh (or to cry). Even if it’s just for a day, pause the story that you were about to listen to and tell your own instead. I’d like to hear it.

We didn’t go on many vacations when I was young, but the ones that we did go on I remember fondly. We’d stay in a caravan in Wales, a tent in Cornwall, or a tent (again) in Wales (again). I liked those vacations, but the one that struck me so strongly was staying in a hotel in Paddington, London. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I was in love.

I barely remember any of the specifics, but I remember the feeling. I still get that feeling when I think about London now. Deep in my stomach, a fluttering that feels like it could make my whole body start shaking with awe and joy. A bit over the top? Maybe, but that’s how I felt as a young boy in London for the first time, and it’s how I feel today.

I decided in that moment that I’d move to London when I grew up. That I’d experience this feeling every day. I imagined a lot of things as a kid that didn’t come true though, and I don’t know if I really believed that this would happen—but I painfully wanted it to. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It felt like home more than my hometown did.

When I was old enough to afford it and to travel on my own, I’d catch the train to London by myself. I’d walk for miles, catch the tube, and ride the top deck of the bus—right at the front. I’d go everywhere, but I’d always end at the same place: Trafalgar Square. Sitting on the steps in front of the National Gallery filled me up with fluttering.

Occasionally I’d drag a friend along with me, and I’d take them to all of the same places. I’d sit with them on the steps of Trafalgar Square. I don’t know if they felt the same feeling that I did, but I like to imagine that they did. That it would be impossible not to. That this place is simply magic and casts a spell on anyone who walks into its midst.

A few months into a whirlwind romance (with the incredible woman who would somehow agree to marry me), we decided to move to London. It was finally happening. I still didn’t have any money to my name, but that didn’t matter. We were going on an adventure. We moved into a tiny room in a tiny flat right next to Hackney Central.

We stayed in that flat for about a year before the landlord decided to move back in, but that year felt like 10 wonderful years. I grew up in that one year. We grew up together. I got a new job at a startup, I grew a terrible mustache, and I plucked up the courage to propose (fortunately for me, through initially-ambiguous tears, she said yes).

In what I hope is a sign of my sheer commitment and not my poor planning, I decided that the day leading up to the proposal would be spent entirely outside. Under an overcast sky we rowed on the Serpentine, rode horseback side-by-side, and spread a wonderful picnic out on the grass—all in my favorite park in London: Hyde Park.

Fast-forward a few months and we’re living in another (slightly bigger) room in a (much bigger) house share. We moved our small bundle of belongings there in a shopping trolley from Tesco, because we moved less than 5 minutes walk up the road—near London Fields. We were saving for our wedding and turning this city into our home.

I still can’t believe this next part is actually true, but our wedding took place a few months later inside the Barbican Conservatory. One of our favorite places in this wonderful city, and soon to be the backdrop as we agreed to spend our lives together. A great huge concrete wall, covered top to bottom in the most wonderful plants you’ve ever seen.

This place—this city—that I’d dreamt about since I was a small boy sharing a hotel room with his parents and sisters, it was home. It held so many of the largest moments in my life. It filled me with that fluttering feeling every time I stepped out of the door. It cradled me and my wife and our relationship as we discovered ourselves—together.

I’ll skip the rest for now, suffice to say this wonderful place forever lives in my heart and in that deep part of my stomach. I live thousands of miles away today, but London will never stop feeling like home. I’m lucky to feel that way about a couple of places now, but London was the first. It was a literal dream come true, and I’m still in love.

I have a Post-it note stuck to my computer display that says simply:

Make something every day and share it

It’s advice for me, but it could be advice for you too, if you’d like. The best ideas (I think) are sort of simple and silly. Making something every day and sharing it isn’t a grand plan or even much of a goal, but I’m almost certain it will lead to good things eventually.

It’s hard to quote ancient wisdom without feeling like a Live Laugh Love poster, so I’ll try to share this more plainly. Over the years I’ve seen something like this shared (and attributed to lots of sources):

• Thoughts → Words
• Words → Actions
• Actions → Habits
• Habits → Character
• Character → Destiny

The point being that you can ultimately control your destiny by starting with your thoughts. Think mean things when your friends find success? You might be destined to have no friends (for example).

I won’t walk through every step, because I’m sure you could do that yourself—but I tried this recently when I realized my [uncharitable] actions weren’t aligned with my values (thoughts).

It turns out that (literally) a couple of minutes spent following a thought along to some big conclusion can have a pretty big impact on your life (hopefully for the better, but you do you).

Sometimes you only need to read 10% of a book to get 90% of the value it has to offer. The Artist’s Way is like that. The book is great (I still haven’t read it all), but there’s one idea in there—and it’s a super simple idea—that changed my life: morning pages.

Writing morning pages just means sitting down every morning and writing 750 words stream-of-consciousness. You don’t need to have a big idea (or even a small idea). You don’t need to write a diary (but you could). You just start writing and stop at 750 words.

Some mornings, my brain is so empty that I simply start writing “I have no idea what to write…” and hope that the words eventually come. Every time, they do—and all of a sudden 750 words feels like too few. I could go on for hundreds more. Thousands even.

It seems unlikely that 750 random words repeated daily could change someone’s life, but it’s changed mine. Often it works in the most fun way, too: you simply get sick of writing the same damn thing every day, so you do something about it instead of writing about it again.

I’ve had profound realizations. I’ve unearthed feelings that were buried deep. I’ve discovered ideas for creative projects that I might otherwise never have. I’ve talked shit about people (mostly just me). I’ve talked to myself about anything and everything.

I don’t show anyone my morning pages. I rarely look at any of them again. I’m sure that if I did I’d barely remember writing them. Giving myself 20 minutes every morning to write (and more importantly, to think) is just the best act of self-care I’ve ever known.

I was walking past Bushrod Park the other evening when two boys came running out through the gate. “Weren’t you supposed to be home by eight o’clock” the one boy asked. The other, without missing a beat, squeezed the side of his watch and said “Siri, change the time to eight o’clock”, and again (louder) “Siri! change the time to eight o’clock!”

I can’t tell you what I’m going to do in the future, but I can certainly tell you about the past. I was born and raised in a small city in England called Worcester. Yes, Worcestershire; yes, the sauce. My childhood was mostly great, in the way that childhoods tend to be when you’re just existing and have few prior assumptions about the world. We didn’t have much—but then again, I wasn’t very aware of folks who had more.

Growing up in a small English town (if I’m honest—it’s only a city because we had a cathedral) often means that you get to know everyone pretty well. You’d typically play with the neighborhood kids and maybe pop around for a cup of tea. I lived in 10 different houses in 10 different neighborhoods over the years though, so this wasn’t my experience. Small town community might have existed, but I wasn’t much a part of the community.

That might be a weird way to start talking about my history, but it’s part of the reason I’m writing it. Many years (and 10 more houses) later, I find myself living in Oakland, California—far away from that small town, and trying again to build community. I took a detour through Cardiff, Birmingham, London and Brooklyn, sometimes staying just long enough to almost find community. Finally, with no plans to move, it’s one of the things I now most want to do.

So how will writing help? Many of the best events in my life have been caused by transmitting some words via the internet. I figure if a handful of words can help me meet my wonderful wife, gain countless friends, find talented collaborators and enjoy the work that I do, they might help me go further still. My life is richer today than I thought possible as a small boy, and the curse of being British is the persistent whisper: “tch—haven’t you got enough”.

Truly, I’m so grateful. I’ve explored the world. I’ve learned everything about anything that I can. I’ve moved thousands of miles to a place that I love. I’ve made some cool stuff with some even cooler people. I’m lucky enough to be married to the world’s best person, and lucky too that we’ve got the world’s best dog (your dog is great too; all dogs are great). When I pause, though? I want to find my people, and I want to stick around long enough for that cup of tea.

So here I am, writing some words on the internet to start exploring community and in search of my people—but who are they? I’ll keep it pretty simple: kind and creative people. Of course, I’m lucky enough to live in an area of the world home to many kind, creative people. I’m also not planning on leaving any time soon. The best way to build a community of kind and creative folks, though? To be kind and creative yourself, of course. To make, not simply to wait.

These are the first few words and might not do much alone. They might never be read by anyone, to be honest. But they’re less for you than they are for me, right now. A small token of a big intention. If you’re a kind and creative person, do reach out. One day we might share a cup of tea.