Journal

Hackney. London Fields. One of the benches lining the pedestrian path. A gaggle of friends walking back from an early dinner on Broadway Market; commuting home from Shoreditch. Summer, still light outside. The occasional cyclist gliding past on their custom-painted fixed-gear. The sound of the overground as a train heads toward Hackney Central.

That was the picture that came to mind so vividly when I started to imagine the scene in which the protagonist makes their first call to a number that they know will not ring. Sat there on one of those benches with their jacket pulled around them. Just watching for a minute. Noticing. Not looking at people who pass, maybe, but looking through them.

Writing is hard, but some bits are easy. Sometimes a scene arrives fully-formed in your mind, like it needs to get out of you. Like your only purpose is to let it pass through your mind and into your fingertips and onto the page. This scene was a bit like that. I’ve sat on those benches. I’ve ridden that bike. Been in that gaggle. Heard that train; ridden it.

Narrating your own work is hard, because who really likes the sound of their own voice? Maybe some people do, but most people don’t, I think. I tried to get out of my head by using different accents and dialects. It helped a bit, actually. I could almost feel like I was listening to someone else.

Starting to write now, and it reminded me of how hard it is to actually make things for yourself. It’s like walking through treacle; like I’m a severely underpowered large language model. Eking out a few words only to judge them immediately. I know the secret is to just write a lot of crap, so that’s what I’ll do. Still, writing is hard, but isn’t that the joy of it too?

When you’re writing something melancholic for spoken performance, you realize how getting quiet can counterintuitively make the moment feel even bigger. You notice the impact that pauses—the absence of speech—have on the story; on the spoken parts. I was listening to a members-only episode of This American Life recently where they talked about scoring, and how important words sound immediately after the music stops.

Anyway, it felt good to start, even if it was painful. It’s always slightly painful making things, I think. Making things for yourself especially. There’s this gap—the one that Ira Glass is famous for talking about—between your taste and your ability to execute it. I don’t think that gap ever closes fully, to be honest. It gets smaller though, if you persevere. Most creative work requires that you at least persevere, if nothing else.

Full day. Went for a 5 mile run in the hills with a friend. Tried to think of names for our nascent run club. The No Pros Club? The East Bay Slumpers? Talked about how Tracksmith celebrate the word (and the state of being) “amateur”—the root of which simply means “to love” (as in, to do something for the love of it). That’s why we run: for the love of it.

Home, shower, and then right back out for a hike in the hills with more friends. We all brought our dogs along, and they were so great together. First time these friends had all met each other, and it made my heart full to witness amazing, kind folks connecting for the first time, and even more full when I turned to see the dogs frolicking together in nature.

After all of that, endless sobbing as we rewatched Ted Lasso, naps on the couch, good Thai food, and just enjoying hanging out with Aneesah and Cacio. Some days I feel like I take all that the day had to offer, and today felt like one of those days. Family, friends, adventure, exercise, food, sleep and relentless crying caused by great (really, the best) storytelling.

Within the Wires by Night Vale Presents. Can’t get enough. Exactly what I’ve been searching for: folks making interesting, high-quality, single-narrator, naturally-performed audio stories. Listened on the dog walk. Listened whilst doing chores. Would be listening right now if I wasn’t typing. What an exceptional thing they’ve made, that tiny team.

Riffing on a sad story because I like sad stories. There have been numerous times (probably too many) where I’ve searched for something close to “stories that make you cry” or “podcasts that make you cry.” Sometimes you just need this weird permission or vehicle to take you there. I think that can be a gift, albeit a sort of strange one.

Anyway, it’s something like “loved one passes unexpectedly, protagonist calls to listen to voicemail message, and then… keeps going.” They’d keep calling, and talking, and working through things in voicemail messages that will never be heard—or at least, that’s what they think. In the end, the number is reassigned. Loss. Grief. Closure (eventually).

I’ll aim for an episode per month maybe? Twelve episodes in total? For now though, I just need to think about the pilot. I need to do some writing, record some foley, and just start sketching with sound. I need to play it for people and see what they think (but I’ll make what I want to make). I think I can make this. I’m feeling good about it. Almost confident.

Good run this morning. Only just getting started, but it’s already getting easier. Covered more miles, and in less time. Someone once said something like “it doesn’t get easier, you just go faster” and it’s so true. We keep pushing ourselves. Striving. I like people who always strive. After all, isn’t that what it means to be alive? I think so, anyway.

Was going to run, but jumped rope instead. I really wanted to enjoy jumping rope more than I do, but it’s just more boring than I’d anticipated. Better when mixed with other things, but sometimes you just want to enter a state of determined nothingness. It’s hard to beat running for that.

Popped by Letterform Archive to see James Edmondson of OH no Type Company talk about his book, and was delighted to witness a presentation that felt like a celebration not of artifact, but of family, friends, and being out for your own fun. I’ve been following James’ work since 2011-ish when he was drawing type for Lost Type Co-op and I was living in a small flat in my hometown of Worcester, UK. It was lovely to be in the same room as so many folks that have been inspired by his work.

In a case of perfect timing considering my goal to actually start riffing on audio and video ideas, Apple released their Creator Studio yesterday, which includes Logic Pro and Final Cut Pro. I could have bought them before, but spending a few hundred bucks is just another reason to delay something, and now I don’t have much of an excuse. I immediately downloaded Logic Pro and started sketching ideas with sound.

More inspiration along the way—I stumbled on Within the Wires by Night Vale. Season after season of wonderful stories narrated by (mostly?) one person, but in different formats. Imagine a story told through voicemail, for example, or through found tape. The great thing about finding the sort of stories you’ve been seeking is that it becomes easier to find more. It’s such a joy and a privilege to hear stories well-told.

Went for a run this morning. Getting back into running, and it feels great. I’m going to run with a new friend every week in the hills, because who doesn’t want insanely beautiful views whilst they’re huffing and puffing? Anyway, I need to get back into a regular rhythm, and I forgot how good it feels to move your body before work—it’s really grounding.

Stumbled on another podcast—I can’t even remember how—called Gone, by Sunny Moraine. I’ve spent so long seeking out audio stories (not audiobooks, or at least “not audiobooks the way they’re often narrated”) that work well with a solo narrator, and there are so few examples. Gone is an exceptional example. Truly hooked. Unreasonably gripping.

In the creators own words, it was made “with a cheap mic and Audacity” (the free editing software, but it takes some lowercase-a audacity to make something this good on a shoestring). Like many folks, I tie myself in knots thinking about the equipment and software I use, and here’s Sunny absolutely nailing it with basic stuff. Humbling.

It also helped me to realize that I can just make sketches (of audio stories) about anything, or just something I’m sort-of interested in, or something I’d enjoy recording foley for. For some reason I’m weirdly into lighthouses and the life of a lighthouse keeper right now. There’s probably something here? I should just start. I can almost hear it already.

There’s a podcast from Apple Fitness called Time to Walk, and it’s basically “notable people walking and talking alone.” I’d actually listened to it before, but sort of forgotten about it. When I set out on the dog walk this evening the sound of Jason Segel’s voice entered my mind and reminded me that the show (if that’s what you’d call it) existed.

You know that feeling when you can almost find what you’re looking for, but not quite? When you find ten or twenty or one hundred things that are almost what you’re looking for? At some point, the thing that you want exists perfectly in your mind, a blend of the not-quite-right things. You can see or hear or feel the thing in your mind as if it’s real.

In this research phase (let’s call it) that’s one of my favorite things. In one way you want to find an example of exactly what it is you’re looking to make, but in a much bigger way (ultimately) that’s the last thing you want, because you need your thing to be singular in some way. You want to be the person who brings it into the world for the first time.

Anyway, this show—Time to Walk—has something. It’s people just… talking, but people who are good at talking. It’s not performed, but it’s not not performed, you know? It’s often spoken by performers—and hey, who could resist a little performance when you know that what you say will end up on a podcast from a small computer company.

Honestly, I’m procrastiworking a bit. I need to sit down and write, but writing is kind of hard. Writing what you want to write is hard, at least. I could call it Resistance (of the Pressfield variety) and I don’t doubt that’s what it is. Starting a new thing fills me with self-doubt, and it only stops when I truly, properly start—so I guess it’s time to start.

Just got back from a friend’s house where we watched Pedro the Lion perform to a small group of people in their living room. Great show, incredible house, irreversibly altered my standards for what a show can be. It’s such a wild and beautiful feeling to experience wonderful musicians perform feet away whilst relaxing on a friend’s comfortable couch.

I don’t have much more to say, because I sort of want this moment to linger. I couldn’t stop smiling. It’s such a gift to share moments like this with a small group of people who all really want to be there. To look around and witness everyone feeling what you’re feeling. A quiet contentment. The knowledge that it’s a special moment, in a special place.

One last thing though: I want to collaborate more, on more things with more folks. Most of my making is pretty solo, and I’m craving that feeling where you’re just vibing with someone on a shared thing, uncertain where your contribution ends and theirs begins. There’s an awkwardness to it, until there isn’t (or maybe that’s just me… I’m pretty awkward).

This will sound sort of obsessive or something, but I’ve been trying to find the perfect voice to tell a story in. I’ve listened to podcasts and audiobooks and book readings and old radio shows and sleep stories and guided meditations and I’ve read story after story in different ways trying to find the moment when it clicks. It’s difficult. There are so few examples that are close to perfect. Too many stories are performed, not told.

It struck me today that stories meant for audio are worse at this than those meant for screen. Audio stories are often being spoken to no-one, or everyone. They’re recorded in tiny, barren rooms for an audiobook or performed on stage to the crowd. They’re so rarely told to one person. One pair of ears, perhaps whilst looking into one pair of eyes—and of course that changes how we tell a story. We rarely perform for one person.

Stories for screen are often being told to a person, or people. They’re often in the same room. They know exactly who they’re speaking to. In the best examples they embody the character and all of their flaws and their mannerisms and their worries—the worries that all of us have; that I have and I bet you have—and they bring it all out in how they tell the story. When they do that, the stories feel real. They don’t feel performed.

It’s funny, a couple days back I almost said the opposite based on the movie I was watching, but I think it was just the movie I was watching. I watched monologue after monologue today, and then more scenes; more moments. Time and again I felt something move in me. Sometimes the moments felt so real that I felt as though I was eavesdropping. I almost felt like I should apologize. That’s how I want audio stories to feel.

Anyway, I guess I know where I’ll be looking for inspiration. I’m getting close to the kind of stories I want to make. I already know (sort of) the story I want to tell, but I’m getting closer to how I want to tell it. I sometimes wonder why I’m so obsessed with finding the one right way, but it seems like the kind of thing that you shouldn’t try to overthink. If you feel compelled to make something, I think you should make that thing.

Went for a run with a friend today on a trail in the Berkeley Hills. Our mid-way point had this incredible view across the bay—a panoramic that included the East Bay, Bay Bridge, San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County. It’s impossible to look at that view and not feel awe.

A little later, headed into San Francisco in an attempt to join a few folks completing the Double Cross Trail. We didn’t manage to sync up in the end, but it was great to walk part of the trail anyway. We passed through so many beautiful neighborhoods, and walking towards Fort Funston felt like being called by the ocean (and responding).

It’s days like today that make me feel so grateful to live in this place. Surrounded by beauty and kindness, and finally building a local community. It felt harder to do that in New York, and honestly felt harder in London—which surprised me, but it’s also likely that I just wasn’t trying as hard. Anyway, I’m glad to be doing it now, and very glad to be here.

Cacio is stretched out on the couch now. Usually at this time of night she decides that it’s time for one final round of chaos, but not today. She loves the beach, and tired herself out showing everyone just how very fast she is, and just how completely uncoordinated her limbs are.