Journal

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.