Not really. Not exactly. Not the way they used to.

Blogging was once a community. It used to be a place for people to express themselves—a testing grounds of sorts, a way for would-be writers to see if they had what it took to go the distance. It was a shot at sharing a big idea and seeing if it connected with anyone else. I owe a lot to this Petri dish of creative work that has sadly gone the way of the dinosaur.

I’ve been blogging since 2006. Over the years, I’ve launched a dozen different blogs, all more or less failures—except for one. This one. The biggest lesson I learned from this experience was how to listen to the Muse, that invisible force that guides our greatest inspirations. Of course, it was a lot of hard work to find her and trust what came through, but blogging helped me access something inside myself I always knew was there but wasn’t sure how to unlock.

For me it was always about figuring out what I had to say.

I never know what I want to say when I begin writing. It always starts with an idea or a phrase, sometimes just a word that gets me going in a direction. As my fingers type faster than my brain can think, I am surprised by the words that appear on the screen. Sometimes, what ends up in front of me is inspiring; other times, it’s embarrassing. But always, it's a surprise—and I like that.

Blogging taught me to tap into my own fount of creativity and trust what flowed from that mysterious source. It was how I began practicing this craft that has defined much of my life for the past decade, allowing me to become a professional writer.

Blogging helped me find my voice and connect with others around the world who resonated with what I had to say. It was a networking tool of sorts, a badge of honor we nerds and misfits proudly flashed at each other, as if to say, “I’m trying to figure this thing out, too; but I know there's something here.” It brought people together.

Blogging gave me the tools I needed to start a new life more than once—when I was working at a nonprofit and wanted to make a change, when I was going through a lot personally and was grasping at what my next big move would be, and even now as not-quite-young-anymore writer who still has a thing or two to share.

What I loved most about blogging, though, was that whatever my challenge or trial, it reminded that I was never alone. There was always someone to listen, someone to pay attention, someone to say, or perhaps more appropriately, type: “Yeah, me too.” That felt good.

I loved blogging, but it's not what it used to be. Nowhere near. And so, it is not without any ingratitude at all that I hesitantly bid farewell to my tenure as a blogger and to this blog, in particular. I appreciate everything I’ve learned from this tool, but it’s time to say goodbye. It’s probably no surprise to the reader that blogging is now a forgotten art, a now-defunct medium replaced by TikTok videos and Instagram captions and epic-long Twitter threads. For all intents and purposes, it's over.

Or is it?

I’ve stumbled across an incredible community of writers and readers recently that reminds me (and others) of the early days of blogging when it was still a frontier of online publishing. Nobody knew the rules then; or rather, we didn’t realize we were making them. It was fun. Eventually, that carefree and exciting atmosphere was replaced by influencers vying for more market share, killing the communities they were initially a part of with greed and ambition. And of course, I am talking about myself here.

Blogging, though, may not have died as much as changed addresses. I’m no fan of new technology, as it is often a lot more hype than it’s worth; but I’ve been impressed with Substack, an online newsletter service (a seemingly, a whole lot more). At first, I was a bit skeptical of yet another platform. But I was wrong.

I did a small trial run on the platform last month and was beyond impressed by what I discovered. Within 24 hours, without any promotion whatsoever, I had over 100 new readers. Then, from there, my audience just kept growing. People were reading, commenting, and sharing. In my experience, that is currently unparalleled. It feels fresh and new and worth some energy and effort.

For the past few years, writing on this blog and sending out email updates has felt like pushing a rope. I love what we've built here together, and sometimes it's simply time to move on. To start over. Every once in a while, I need a new beginning: to simplify and focus on what matters most for me. I did that with this blog almost exactly 12 years ago, transitioning from one kind of work to another. When I finally committed, everything took off.

I feel that same kind of energy these days with this new endeavor. Maybe it’s just the novelty of a new tool or the fact that I’m getting older and not that interested in sound bites and quick fixes. I’ve recently quit social media, as it just no longer works for me and hasn't for some time. It doesn’t appeal to me to figure out the fastest, most succinct way to get people to respond to a message as quickly as possible. Not anymore. I am now far more curious in deep dives: long and articulate thoughts on a particular subject that take some time to digest.

Which is why, for the foreseeable future, I’m moving all online writings over to Substack. Yes, in many ways, it’s blogging redux; but the community there (and some of the built-in tools) are incredible. I’ll soon be transitioning my email list and blog over there but will be leaving this site up for the archives. Effectively immediately, I’ll be primarily posting on Substack. It’ll be the only place to connect with me online. My goal is to go deep in my writing and share what I learn with those who want to listen.

I’ve called my new newsletter “The Ghost,” because I've made my living these recent years as a ghostwriter. It also speaks to that feeling I had when I started writing here over a decade ago. These was some compulsion, some seemingly hidden force calling me to a new work; and eventually, I had to relent. I’ve been feeling that same tug for a while now, and it’s time to listen. It’s only appropriate, then, that I would make this transition around Christmastime in an Dickensian sort of revelation. The ghosts of writing past have visited once again and are calling me into the future.

Blogging is dead. Long live blogging. See you in the next life.

Or did they?

We cannot write what we do not know. It has to come from somewhere—or so the popular thinking goes. If you ask any creative writer, however, where their words come from, the best of them do not know. The most intelligible answer they can offer is some vague response about the ether or a muse or some confusing theory on the origin of myths.

It all sounds like, well… magic.

What they are saying, I think, is that nobody knows where these things originate. They seem to arrive from out of nowhere. But really, it seems obvious to me: it all comes from you. And don’t be surprised if what you find surprises you. That's how deep you go.

Every book we writers face, every word we dare to type, each sentence we dream up—these are all invitations to an inward journey.

It may be a trip to reconnect with your own childlike wonder that was lost long ago. Or maybe it’s an adventure that makes you laugh or cry. Perhaps, you learn something you didn’t know that you knew, some secret wisdom that would benefit the world or just your neighborhood.

No matter how we slice it, no matter what comes out, each act of creation is a trip. And by the end of it, like any good journey, we are changed. Transformed. Something a little different from what we once were. Our friends or partners may notice a new spark in us, something they didn’t see before. Because it wasn’t there before, at least not in any conscious state. It feels brand new because it is.

Writing, for me, is therapy. It’s a meditation, a chance to see what I am refusing to acknowledge in my outer world—an opportunity to witness on plain paper what I think.

Even these words surprise me as they come out. Are they true? They are no more (or less) true than a band of furry-footed creatures attempting to take down the greatest source of evil in the world. They are equivalent in their veracity to a boy with a stick standing up to the man who killed his parents. These words are the best I can do right now, and each of them teaches me something about myself.

I don’t know that we write what we know as much as we write to experience what we could know. Stories are a dance with what could be, with what might have been in another place, at another time. Ideas are approximations of the truth. We write to teach—first ourselves, and then the world.

At least, that’s what I think for now.

Over the years, I've grown more contemplative as I’ve gotten more experienced as a writer. All these words of mine have taught me things about myself, and the greatest lesson is this: “Pay attention.”

Of course, that’s easier said than done. I used to say that I wrote because I loved writing. Now, I would say that I write because I love life, and that writing down my thoughts and observations is a way of teaching myself a new lesson on the art of living.

If you don’t know what you think about something, write it down. Test it. See how it looks on the page. Feel what comes up as your own thoughts glare back at you. Do you want to hit the delete button, backspacing a few dashes towards the truth? Or do you want to keep going? This is the gift of any creative act. What we make reveals our deepest thoughts and beliefs, allowing us to hold them up to the light. Only then can we actually see.

This, then, is how we “live” what we write. We can feel the truth of our own expressions. If you attempt to say something in the world that you aren’t willing to face in your own life, you will feel the lack of integrity in your body. It’ll be like a little revolt in your nervous system. You might shake, feel nauseous, or even throw up.

Of course, you can ignore these signs and signals. You can force yourself to write something you know that your soul disagrees with. But who wants to live like that? Write what's true. For now. As far as you can tell. That's all you can do; that would change everything if you let it.

The heat is harsh this week and still somehow wonderful, like a blanket you don’t need but filled with memories you can’t let go. I go for a walk for no particular reason at no particular time, and it is transcendent. A woman passes with her baby in a stroller, and we both nod in recognition as if to say: “This was a bad idea.” We smile at the absurdity of our poor planning, then resume this silly game of pretending that life is anything other than perfect, always.

I go on a business trip and it‘s cooler in this new place, but the sun still shines. I feel tired and miss my bed and window with the sun rays. I eat too much and drink more than I should, watching my belly droop over the waistline each morning while feeling new aches in odd places. This, I think, is what getting older must be like.

My body remembers high school and taunts from older boys whom I foolishly mistook for wise; a familiar shiver of shame shakes through me, bringing attention to the parts that no longer feel young. I walk to get ice cream and forget my troubles, noticing that I am still here, smiling as the wind caresses my face, unperturbed by my tiny melodramas. A tightness in my body releases without prompting, and with it, an exhale I didn’t know I was holding.

Who knew a life so simple could be so sweet?

I come home. It rains here but only for a minute. A meal is made by my hands on a new grill that sits on the patio. It is served with care and love, and before bed, the whole neighborhood stops by for s’mores. The kids want to see their mother and I agree to make a stop the next day.

When we meet, they hug and cry and say goodbye, and I watch from the driveway. The return trip home is filled with golden moments of sunset reflecting off green Tennessee hills in miraculous and unforgettable splendor. And yet, in a moment, I forget it all, because more room must be made for the following moment.

My life feels smaller these days, but richer… There’s not a thing I would change, because I can find nothing wrong with any of it.

The night wraps its cool arms around the car as it barrels down country roads, stopping at the corner station for snacks before pulling into the cul-de-sac. We are Here. Everything is as it should be, in spite of dwindling bank accounts and children who accuse in one breath and gleefully squeal the next—and a father who doesn’t know what to do with any of it. All is well.

My life feels smaller these days, but richer. I imagine there are pieces of my story that some may pity, details others would want to change. But it is my life, and I love it all, even the parts I don’t understand. There’s not a thing I would change, because I can find nothing wrong with any of it.

I am loved by a woman whose affection I cherish and whose honor I protect. There is a dog in our care whom the doctors say is dying. They’ve been saying this for months, though; and in this moment, he chases stuffed toys thrown deep into a dying lawn. It is ten p.m. He returns the bedraggled ball of fluff after each throw as street lamps illumine our view, offering a spotlight to adult conversation.

There was a time when I wanted fantastical exploits and over-the-top experiences, a life lived to the full. Now, I can find no part of me who desires such things. I have no room for anything larger than this. It is all I could ever want, filled with more than enough wonder. And yet, there’s always more. To be tuned in like this, to be here for all of it, feels like heaven. And for all I know, it is.

If I could offer some sliver of observation, something that approximates advice, it would be this: What fills your life is you. No success can give you any sense of satisfaction you don’t already possess. A little life can contain an entire universe when you know what to look for—and learning to look is what it’s all about.

Every grand achievement I’ve ever encountered ultimately disappointed me in some way, leaving my soul in a state of greater confusion. When the glitter of accomplishment faded, what remained was the life I was trying to get away from, the one that kept staring back at me. Eventually, I had to face it, and what a wonderful face it had.

In spite of what the self-help cliches assert, you don’t actually get to choose your life. Try as you might, you can’t control what happens. What each of us can do is learn to live—to be in this life, all the way, for as much as possible.

When we do that, we discover that the little stuff is larger than we thought. We start to see that it’s all here, right now—a fireworks display of majesty in every single breath. And we realize that the life we were waiting for was actually waiting for us.

Listen to the podcast episode that accompanies this post here.

I’m reminded of a mantra I learned back in 2020 when life seemed to slow to a halt and every day still felt like a slog. I was in a men’s group at the time, and one of our guest facilitators shared it with us. As a midwesterner who has pridefully pulled himself up by his metaphorical bootstraps for most of his life, the simple phrase offended me:

Let it be easy.

The way she said it sounded like a child squealing to her parents on Christmas morning to get out of bed: “Let it be… easy!” It seemed too hard to believe. The solution to my problems, the secret relief to all my stressors, was to simply let it be… easy? That couldn’t be. Growing up middle class in the farmlands of rural Illinois, I had been trained to work hard my whole life, to push myself to the max. If there was no pain, there was no gain. No progress without struggle.

But over time, that started to feel exhausting. Did I really have to kill myself to live the life I wanted? Didn’t that defeat the purpose? What good is a life you strive to create if you can’t even enjoy it? The whole pursuit started to lose its significance—all this hustling, and for what? It really did seem like chasing after the wind. It couldn’t really be easy. Could it?

But what if? What if I at least tried to let life be something other than a banal exercise in pain and disappointment? That sounds dramatic, to be sure, but for most of my life I was so distracted by what I wanted that I was blind to what I had. And all that was starting to wear on me. So I decided to try, to let life be easier than I was making it.

I began to allow things to happen and listen to my intuition, paying attention to the little voice inside when it said, “I don’t want to do that” or “That sounds like fun!” The voice didn’t always get exactly what it wanted, because sometimes it sounded like a child asking for candy, but I gave it the space and attention it needed, honoring its (and, I soon learned, my) desires.

And guess what? Life started to feel easier. The burden was lighter, the yoke not so heavy. I wondered if maybe all of life could be like this. Perhaps I didn’t have to overextend myself to achieve things only to wonder what it was all for. Maybe I could just enjoy this experience as much as possible, tasting each morsel of life as it’s presented to me, one bite at a time.

Maybe.

These days, when I find myself up against the wall with all these things I “have to do,” I start to get suspicious. Is it true? Is it absolutely right that all these things must be done right now, or is this just an old program running in my mind, demanding that I stay busy and productive so that I can demonstrate my worth to the world? Now, don’t get me wrong. Things need to get done on occasion. But, in my experience, far less than we assume is actually necessary.

Today, I’ve got a workshop to prepare for, a manuscript to deliver to a publisher for a ghostwriting client, and some friends to see. I choose to let it be easy, to be surprised by what unfolds, and do my best with how I respond to the inevitable surprises.

Career-wise, I continue to want to share ideas that interest me with others. I love the catharsis of coming across a concept and sharing my take on it, in writing or in audio, then seeing the reaction of an audience to it.

That’s the magic of what blogging used to be, and still, there’s nothing quite like it. I hope to continue being able to do that, in whatever format makes sense, expressing my voice in a way that resonates with others and helps me clarify my own thinking.

I struggle to find the right time to fit it all in, though, while honoring my professional and personal commitments. I want to be creative and do good work and make a decent living while taking care of my family and myself. And there’s never quite enough time to do it all; or rather, there’s always exactly enough time and not a minute more.

So, my friend, let us let it be easy together. I admit that such a challenge at times sounds, well, difficult. Isn’t that ironic? I suppose, then, that’s the work facing us. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so hard. Maybe it all can feel a little lighter, a little more effortless. Maybe it can be easy.

I’m willing to try—and in some cases, to stop. Are you?

One of the most interesting parts of my journey as a human has been these past few years of re-contextualizing my understanding of reality. Which is a fancy way of saying I had a mid-life crisis. But what’s so bad about a crisis?

Doesn’t every great story begin with some dramatic moment, an “inciting incident”? I heard it said once that every moment of crisis is an invitation to greater awakening, deeper awareness. I liked that. After all, what good is life, or anything for that matter, if you’re missing it?

It seems that the artist is especially sensitive to such reckonings. Anne Lamott once wrote that “this business of becoming conscious, of being a writer, is ultimately about asking yourself, ‘How alive am I willing to be?’” I never fully understood that until recently.

If our job is to build new worlds and imagine alternative realities, then awareness, I should think, is a vocational requirement. We have to be so tapped into life to even be capable of inviting others into deeper experiences of it. We would have to be more in tune with the way things are if we wanted to be true to our craft and calling.

And that, my friend, is exactly why I think so many artists go crazy—truly. Because life starts to feel a little shaky when you are weaving in and out of dream states. You start to realize that everything, maybe even you are an idea, a projection of the imagination.

Or, as Morpheus says in The Matrix: “What is real? How do you define ‘real’? If you’re talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then ‘real’ is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.”

What we call life is often not as real as we might think.

Ever rushed through your day and failed to notice the clouds?

Ever met someone for coffee and struggled to look them in the eyes because you were so nervous or distracted?

Ever driven down the road and seen something for the first time that was probably always there?

As humans, we are often discovering deeper ways of being, sometimes without even knowing that’s what is happening. As artists, we have an opportunity to guide others into this exploration of themselves. At least, that’s how I think of what we do.

This week on the podcast, Kelton and I talk about his tattoo and explore the tale of the “Ten Bulls,” a series of short poems in Zen Buddhism. We also discuss Pedro Calderon de la Barca's classic “Life is a Dream,” the seemingly subjective nature of reality, and what all this has to do with creativity. Listen in here:

If you’ve ever wondered what all of this is really about or had a nagging suspicion that there was more to life than meets the eye (and not be content with simple explanations), then you’ll probably enjoy this one. It’s one of my favorite subjects because it is immensely practical.

If life is a little less serious than we thought, then there is a lot more room to play, to have fun, to explore who and what we are. And if art is anything, shouldn’t it at the very least, and essentially, be fun? I’ll let you decide for yourself. I could be completely wrong about that.

Then again, maybe you’re just dreaming.

Don’t forget to check out the latest podcast and be sure to leave a review if you’re enjoying the show!

It is no surprise to anyone who knows me that I love coffee, that I see the very act of coffee-making as a careful and subtle art, one worth our attention and respect. And this love for something bitter but life-giving has taught me more than a few lessons about the magic of making things.

What is it about coffee that makes life worth living? Maybe you think I am given to hyperbole, but that is only because you must still be a member of the uninitiated, so allow me the privilege of enlightening you. Of educating you.

A cup of coffee is never just a cup of coffee. It is a beautiful pause, a way to say to yourself and to the rest of the day: “Before we do anything, we will take a moment to connect to ourselves and our senses. We will stop the frenzy that is our lives and smell, sip, and sit with what it means to be here, right now, in this wonder we call life.”

Okay, maybe I am being a little dramatic here, but my coffee-making is a ritual. It is important to me, and something I do every day without thinking about it. Yes, I could pop a Keurig cup or go to a coffee shop, but I refuse to rob myself of the important act that allows my day to begin with a little art. Making coffee is a wonderful invitation that life is constantly offering us: take a moment and create something beautiful… and then enjoy your creation.

How do you make a great cup of coffee, you might be wondering? Well, I am glad you asked.

It begins with the beans, with the raw source material that comes straight from the earth. A coffee bean is, in fact, a seed—which means it contains the primary material for making other things. It is pure potential, a fruit from a bush that can grow other bushes and create other things just like it. An entire oak tree is contained in the tininess of an acorn, after all; and all of life that is worth living can be found in the miniature latency of a coffee bean.

Good beans are whole and intact—they’re not grounds. To make great coffee, you’ve got to start with the bean, with something whole and atomic that you can crush into fine powder and turn into something consumable. So your day begins with an act of alchemy, with turning one thing into another thing. And all of life, in a way, is like this. We are always taking raw stuff and turning it into something else: whether that’s a bad day into a good one, an acquaintance into a friend, or an idea into an email. It is our own version of transforming water into wine; and in this way, we can each be children of God, little creators dancing with the creation that is us.

Good beans are not too old, because life tends to grow stale when it sits on a shelf for too long. You want something fresh, not older than a couple of weeks. Most coffee follows the rule of fifteens, which is to say green beans tend to last fifteen months, whereas roasted beans only last fifteen days, and ground coffee lasts a mere fifteen minutes before it starts to lose flavor.

Coffee is a reminder that life is evanescent, as are our best ideas. We must seize the day before it’s over lest the opportunity be lost forever. You cannot hold on to a moment anymore than you can let a cup of coffee sit all day and still expect it to taste as good as it did the minute it was brewed. Enjoy what you can while it’s here is what coffee is trying to tell us. For tomorrow we die. 

Which brings us to the next step: preparation. Surprisingly, the least important part of making coffee is how you actually brew it. If you are in the mountains of Peru and use a stone to grind some freshly roasted beans that a few peasants picked only a day before (side note: you actually want beans that were roasted a few days ago for optimal flavor, because things take time to mature and there is only a small window between maturity and staleness and we are always trying to maintain that balance, aren’t we?), then pour some hot water over those grounds, and strain it in a T-shirt, well, that will likely be pretty good coffee. 

But I digress, albeit only a little.

Whether you use an espresso machine, or an Aeropress, or a Chemex, or a Kinto cup miniature pour-over, or a French press (all of which are devices in my possession), what matters most is that you make the coffee. Not that you do pretty latte art or impress your friends with a fancy machine from Switzerland you don’t know how to appreciate. What matters is you get up tomorrow and dare to taste the morning. That you endeavor to make something worth consuming, something infused with love and art. Something that just might satiate a soul.

Finally, just as important as the beans themselves, is the timing of the whole thing. You need to make your coffee quickly and enjoy it without dragging out the process. Yes, I love a good sit on a balcony with a hot cup of liquid love, but if I am drinking so slowly that I have to microwave the mug, then I am in trouble. I am not carpe-ing the diem. Life is always changing, and fortune favors the bold. So I must drink.

You must make your coffee today. You must pull from the best sources you can find, using whatever tools available. And you cannot sip slowly. Embrace what you’ve created, and let it be just as it is. Of course, you made choices that on another day would be different. Of course, you could have done it differently, and maybe next time you will. But it’s not next time; it’s now. And now, you’re here: with your cup, and your life, and all you can do is imbibe it all.

And of course, we’re not talking about coffee anymore. And be sure to tune in to this podcast where I riff on the art of coffee-making and what this has to do with creativity. Enjoy!

“When I think of life as struggle with the Daimon who would ever set us to the hardest work among those not impossible, I understand why there is a deep enmity between a man and his destiny, and why a man loves nothing but his destiny.” —W.B. Yeats