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I’m at a point again where I’m trying to figure out what I want to write here. Part of me wants to archive everything and start fresh. I’m feeling a pull again towards morning pages. I think that I want to publish some more substantial things publicly. An essay I’m proud of. A deep dive on something.

I’m feeling pretty indebted to this place though. It’s helped me to build community, to build discipline, to express something that I hadn’t been, and to work on something I love. It still seems absolutely mad that a goofy blog could do all of that, but it has. Surely, surely I should carry on.

I’m listening to a podcast in the background while I write this called Strangers on a Bench, and it occurs to me again how powerful words are. How powerful story is, and especially the personal stories of regular folks. I want to tell more of those stories. I want to tell more audio stories. I really just feel so much from audio. I love writing and reading, but man.

One thing I want to stop writing is all of this meta, or perhaps to write about it so seriously that I come out the other side. The power of morning pages is boring or annoying yourself into action, so maybe I could do that here too. On that note though, signing off and coming back with something more interesting—whether that something is meta or not.

I totally didn’t come back the next day, huh. I just got pulled into the other project I wanted to work on, which feels like a totally great reason. My only rule is to make something every day and share it. I did that. I do that. I rarely don’t do that at all. I do love writing though, and I love writing here. Anyway, enough of the meta. The meta is boring, right?

I was struck by a thought this week that made me feel a sort of way: I always assume I’m going to do a bad job, and I mostly think that I’ve done a bad job, even if evidence points to the contrary. I should probably speak to a therapist about that rather than write about it on the internet, but what’s that internet meme again? I approve of therapy, to be clear. I spent months in therapy. I think most people probably should.

The small project I kicked off felt pretty good immediately, though. I felt like I was doing a pretty good job. I didn’t totally hate the results. Maybe because it’s new. Maybe because I made the stakes intentionally low. I wonder how I could feel like that about everything? I think I’ve felt that way before. Maybe I’m just going through a moment. I should note that it’s not a very dramatic moment. Too familiar for that.

This is a bit of an experiment I think of writing morning-pages style stuff here. I didn’t plan to write what I’m writing. I’m not sure why I’m still typing, other than inertia. It feels good-bad, but maybe I’ll carry on. Today I felt like this, tomorrow I might feel elated. Such is the human experience (I think). I’ll wrap it up here. Good enough for now.

It’s pretty obvious from the past few weeks that I’ve fallen out of the habit of writing here every day. I’m trying to decide whether I should be trying to bring it back. I have another daily practice right now, but not one that makes much sense to write down here. I used to juggle multiple daily practices, but it never felt great—as if I was cheating on one with the other.

Writing, like reading, can be a lumpy sort of practice. Every day, then nothing for weeks. Months on end, then nothing for a year. I really do notice when I’m not writing though. My brain fills up with everything I haven’t written down. I’m missing morning pages again, actually. There’s something about having a truly private, feral practice of writing anything.

Maybe this will morph into something else, as it’s morphed before. Perhaps I’ll write my morning pages here, and let the internet see how completely nonsensical I can be. I could go the other way, too, by choosing to be something specific; someone specific. That’s the least interesting to me, personally. Who wants to be anyone but themselves? I mean… huh.

I’m lay on the couch, and Cacio has her head flopped in my lap. Aneesah is on the other end of the couch having a nap. The setting sun is blinding me a little—it’s at that angle where it just goes straight into your eyeballs. There’s the sound of the BART, and then a firework, and then barking dogs. I’m ordering a pizza because… well… I want pizza. It’s Indian pizza though, which is a thing. It’s an actual, delicious thing.

I’m starting to write about wedging clay. I know something about it. I don’t know a lot about it. That’s why I’m writing about it. I need to order some clay and wedge it. I’m not one for writing fiction, but even if you do write fiction I think that you should try to get as close to the real thing as possible. Maybe don’t commit too many crimes if you want to write about crime, but… clay? You can wedge some clay, surely.

On that note, I have to go. I’ve got to pick up pizza. It won’t be long, and I like to drive to pick it up. It feels strange getting things delivered when you have a car. I didn’t have a car before we lived in California. I couldn’t drive until we lived in the country. I didn’t think I’d ever drive, at one point, and now I drive all the time. Mixed feelings about that, actually, but at least I’m rewarded with the destinations.

Feeling kind of flat today. Didn’t get enough sleep, probably. Rarely do. What is enough? I’m not sure I’ve ever felt truly rested, but I guess I wouldn’t know. Maybe the best I’ve felt is as good as it gets. I had a conversation that ended up giving me a bunch of energy though, and I always find it so wonderful and insane how the right conversation can do that. You could do that for someone else. That’s amazing, isn’t it?

I’ve spent a lot of the day with clay on my mind for reasons that will become clear at some point. Types of clay, types of wedging, tools. The things you make with clay end up so, so different to the material you start with. A lump of mud can turns into something strong, architectural. I thought about how meditative it can be to wedge clay. How satisfying it can feel to pull the wire through it and see that it’s so smooth.

I’ve also had story on my mind a lot. Writing stories. Speaking stories aloud. Telling a story to bring people along, or to give yourself some sort of energy. How many stories do we tell ourselves to even get out of bed in the morning? Which ones do we tell ourselves that lead us to fall in love? Which do we tell others to help them fall in love with us? Life is stories all the way down; all sorts of stories, all the time.

I’ve been trying to get up a little earlier to spend the beginning of my day in the garden, in the daylight. Yesterday it was gloriously sunny, but this morning was overcast and on the cooler side. Still, I wandered out there with my coffee and a blueberry muffin because I had a plan to keep.

I’ve been thinking about the audio stories I want to make, and I really think I’m starting to land on something good. I’m going to let it cook for a while before I say much about it, but I’m feeling good about it. I can see it in a way that I couldn’t see my other stories, and I’m excited to get started.

You know you’re onto something when you can’t stop thinking about it. Like, if there was any lull in my day—and there weren’t many today—my mind immediately filled up with ideas and excitement for this thing. When I finished work for the day, it came roaring back too. It felt good; feels good.

I felt a switch flip in me over the past couple of days. I don’t know if it’s out of inspiration or irritation, but I’m done procrastinating on the projects that I’ve been kicking around forever. I told myself that this project was just “intentionally slow” but in the end I think that was just an excuse.

One thing I will say is that a big part of this whole thing is about the art of noticing—of paying attention, and being curious, and following that curiosity. A life and livelihood built around following your curiosity and paying attention would be a life well spent, I think. I’ll try to spend it that way.

If I don’t do something every day, I struggle to do it at all. I haven’t written here in a few days because I haven’t written here in a few days. I’ve also been thinking about what it is I want to write here. I had a bunch of ideas, which I’ll spare you, but landed right back on something like a journal—but maybe with a small change: write them to someone, like a letter.

I like reading letters, and I like the idea of writing to someone familiar. Not to the entire internet, and not only to myself. To someone I know, and care for. A proxy for myself maybe, or my family, or all of my friends (or all of the above). An audience that wouldn’t humor excessive navel-gazing and who I wouldn’t want to burden with too much moping around.

I’ll start from tomorrow, but I came back today to draw a new line in the sand. To say that I’m here, to state why I’m here, and to articulate to myself what that means to me; for me. I don’t know if anyone reads this, and to the extent that anyone does I’m not sure if I know you, but I hope that you—whoever you are—receive these letters and feel a little something.