I had a lot of fun when I wrote spontaneously, without too many expectations. The painful beginnings were just that—painful. It’s a bit like learning to ride a bike or learning a new language: I have legs, and I know how to use them to walk, but pushing on the pedals and trying not to fall is challenging, frustrating, and sometimes, you even smash your face. Then, slowly, I got going, smoothly. And do you know why I was doing well? Because I didn’t care about what I was writing. The important thing was to make use of those minutes stolen from life, often at night to have a creative moment all to myself. The second hurdle was publishing it online. Fears, doubts. What if I write nonsense? What if I offend someone? What if I make a fool of myself? I think I had the chance to answer all these questions and more simply by continuing to publish. Once I got going, I began to reflect on what I wrote. What had I written? Would I ever be interested in reading it again in the future? When I acquired the good habit of writing every day, I began to wish for a direction, a common thread. This brought up the first doubts. The daily cadence, if not prepared with significant efforts, is peremptory and inexorable. There’s no room for iteration or incubation. You have to write in half an hour and publish, which takes another half hour.

After about 400 articles, I completely grounded to a halt. It had become a burden, a weight. Having to organize the day with the constant thought of writing something was unbearable. And the more I suffered from the pressure, the less satisfied I was with what I wrote. Until, without warning, and unfortunately with relief, I simply stopped. Every so often, I felt the itch in my meninges and fingertips. I have a billion thoughts in constant flow and at least three or four (hundred) times a day it seems I have that idea, that insight, that connection that deserves to be captured. But life flows on. The scroll refreshes the feed, and it all vanishes in a few minutes like a fantastic dream in which you can no longer outline the blurred contours.

Change of medium: I tried podcasting. Ambitious, eager to plan, to embrace, once again, all human knowledge, I forced a group of poor friends to go on video with me. It was a nice experiment, I learned a lot. I had only one goal, to make 10 episodes. I did them. Good boy. And now?

Too much work, too demanding. Let’s see what happens after a short break. The break still lasts. Let’s go back to the newsletter then. The first of the year, a magical day: I will write a new edition of my newsletter every week. I will experiment with AI, in ideation, revision, and illustration. Great initial fun. Not much conviction. But I kept up the pace. The goal was to make at least 10 editions before screaming to the world. Indeed, I didn’t promote it at all, maybe just a link on X. And then, on yet another Saturday night with the newsletter deadline the next day, I put something together quickly and sloppily, annoyed, and unsatisfied. It never came out. It made no sense. I wasn’t convinced.

And this brings us to today. I recognize defeat. This is not the way I love to cultivate my creativity, it does not belong to me, and I do not recognize myself in it. Ironically, one of these newsletters was spontaneously linked on social media. Think about it, the first share after five years of publishing online. What a mocking fate.

So what now? Two weeks of daily reflection led me to completely reconsider my way of writing, but most importantly, that of publishing. I interrupted the weekly publication cadence. So be it. It’s okay. It was useful, once again, to stop and reflect.

Out of respect for those who read me, although a bit late, I thought to share these spontaneous thoughts. And this makes me feel better. I promise to update you as soon as I have clearer ideas.

In the meantime, just reply to this message to contact me.

Thank you for your time.

Max