Flurries

On why we make anything at all / Issue 1,202

Oh, hi friends!

There are flurries outside. I didn't write this newsletter yesterday because yesterday was a busy day, and when I got home my brain screamed: Sleep sleep sleep. I stared at my phone instead of sleeping, or writing, but that's okay. I woke up to flurries outside.

The flurries aren't sticking, and could probably be classified as rain-adjacent, but "flurries" is a more interesting word. Over the last week, I was paying closer attention to words, because I was writing a song with my friend Kris.

I haven’t written a song in a long time — a year, I think? The first draft, well, the first draft led to a second draft and a third and a fourth. One draft made me sulk, another made me cry, another made me ask a friend, "Why do we do this?" Kris and I stopped at the seventh draft, not because it was "done" but because we had to bring it into our workshop and eventually you have to stop futzing and print out the score. 

The song is only 242 words, by the way.

I was nervous to hit print, nervous to receive feedback in front of my peers (and Richard Maltby!) again, so nervous, nerves nerves nerves.

And then, of course, you do it anyway.

Leap, my brother Eric texted me yesterday.

And it's so funny. Because when you're not making something, you're wondering when you can get back to that place again. But when you are making something, you're wondering why you're doing it.

Why choose this word and not that one? 

A satisfying click happens when you find the right word or press submit or upload that episode or gather the strangers or whatever feels just out of your reach.

A friend told me yesterday about an opportunity. She wants to apply. She texted, I'm fully an impostor lol. But I know she's going to apply anyway. Because she can. And it's sitting right there, waiting for somebody.

She can be that somebody.

There are flurries outside. This feels like the day that comes after you reach just beyond your grasp. Nothing's sticking to the ground, but that's not the point. You pull back your hand and see you've caught something. 

What a gift. That we’re here, and we’re able to keep reaching.