issue #54: snapshots
November 26, 2025: Day before Thanksgiving
6am. I blink in the dark and begin extracting myself from the heavy softness of weighted blanket and down duvet.
In the kitchen, I brew my coffee while the cat looks on, groggy and perplexed. It is too early for both of us, and eventually he abandons me for bed.
I roll out my yoga mat, because there has to be something between waking and working, and settle in at my desk. I have a goal today, and I will not be deterred:
I’m going to create and schedule all of my Instagram content for the month of December, and I’m going to do it in four hours or less.
November 30, 2025
I’m in the passenger seat on my way to my in-laws’ house, furiously typing note after note in my phone—ideas for future emails:
The relationship between editor and writer
Why content calendars never worked for me
Pluribus as an allegory for AI
A quote from Pete Buttigieg about social media feeds
Where does creativity come from, inside or outside?
I’m on fire. Firing on all synapses. You can’t start a fire without a spark. Fire in the hole! Fire at will!
The ideas bubble up and they don’t stop. They spurt forth like a geyser that’s been plugged by a boulder, fast and hot and unstoppable.
January 28, 2026
A text lights up my phone. It's from my oldest friend, the other half of high school Sam:
Omg I’m slammed at work but saw on my facebook feed that Chris Polisena died.
Chris’ locker was right next to mine, from the first day of 8th grade through the last day of senior year. Our friendship existed in a bubble—divorced from classes and cliques, transcending the hookups and the parties and the gossip.
We covered for each other. We jostled elbows and gave each other shit. Two lockers down, Brandon Perrin and Nicole Pearlman were in love.
February 2, 2026
I want to write to you about creativity. About that dark morning in November when I let everything else fall away in service of a single creative pursuit, and how a block of do-not-disturb focus resulted in an eruption of brand-new ideas and inspiration.
I want to tell you that yes, inspiration can come from going out and interacting with the world, exposing yourself to new people and situations—but it can also come from deep within your own psyche, if you sit still and stay quiet for long enough.
I want to tell you that content calendars don’t work for me because the thing I need more than an idea, more than inspiration even, is time. With enough time and stillness, creativity kindles itself to life in the darkness.
I want to tell you that yes, Pluribus is absolutely an allegory for AI, but I also want to teach you what an allegory is and how it can function in the writer/reader relationship.
I want to write a list of all the things I remember about Chris, then reflect on how little I actually knew about his life since I last saw him. I want to know if you think your teenage self was like a Reader prototype—a truer, uncorrupted kernel of Who You Really Are.
I want to know if you miss them, if you love them, if you ever tried to go back in time and beat someone up for them.
More than anything, I want to arrive in your inbox with weight and honesty and emotion, with words that make you feel sort of… raw. Peeled away.
Today
There are days when the work matters so much. When it’s flowing and vibing and buzzing and alive.
And then there are days when it hangs like a heavy pair of earrings that look too good to take off: beautiful, cool, admired by all—but damn, do they hurt.
I am currently in the dark hollows of a creative cocoon. I’ve been quietly offering 1-1 writing coaching to a few select clients, and so far, it’s pretty beautiful. I am not posting about this on the socials because the socials chip away more than they add.
Instead I’m doubling down on AI searchability, shedding the algorithm, and diving into long-form content like an oasis in the desert.
I haven’t gone anywhere.
I’m germinating.