Substack Post: What's this all about?

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.

Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'

***

A. Preamble

I have been precious about writing.

Every thought, every idea, is filed away as content for future projects. Each experience is earmarked, labeled, given tags, and then sent to take a nap with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to return when the time is right. While this is a commitment made in good faith, inevitably, as life continues to continue in the way that it is ought to do and more and more experiences are had, everything just gets sent to bed.

Later.

Later.

Later when I have more.

Later when I make sense of these things.

Later when I can package these things into something pretty and clean and ready for consumption.

And as a result, nothing gets written. And I get frustrated.

Why am I not writing?

Well, because I have made the threshold of what is worth writing about and how I must write about things unreasonable. Everything has to be publish-worthy. Otherwise, I am wasting my words and my time. Which is a real dumb way to go about making space for the things in your life you find meaningful.

***

I. It’s about meaning

As I near my later 30s, I find myself called to revisit work that I thought I had successfully completed decade(s) ago (which I am recognizing was made with a great deal of adolescent hubris)—what’s the point of my life?

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