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I recently got banned from Rover, a website for finding pet sitters and dog walkers. Rover didn’t provide me with a specific reason for the ban, except I know that the walker alleges my dog bit her. I find the story a bit fishy, but I can’t prove it didn’t happen. My dogs have never bitten anyone in the past, certainly not enough to break skin, and the whole story she (the walker) provided seems a bit odd.

Yesterday, I took a walk to the Brooklyn Bridge, a notorious tourist trap but also a beautiful and marvelous feat of engineering. I wanted to photograph it (a cliché, I know) so I can make a print for someone as a gift. Hours passed in what felt like minutes. This experience, this immersion in creation for its own sake, is what makes me call myself an artist. So when a friend of mine–who reads this blog–made an off-hand comment critical of the fact that I call myself an artist, I wasn’t offended, but it did get me thinking about: who is an artist? What makes someone an artist? Is it enough to just make art? Do you have to show it? Sell it? Call yourself an artist on your LinkedIn profile?

I was sitting on the subway yesterday when I glanced up from my book and noticed something striking: every single person in my line of sight was absorbed in their phone, beautifully lined up in a picture-perfect row of devices. While this scene has become commonplace, something about this particular moment stopped me. It wasn’t just the ubiquity of screens but what this tableau revealed about our evolving relationship with attention itself. Frustratingly, I didn’t have my camera with me.

The year is 2025. I’m turning 40 soon, sitting in a cramped 450-square-foot apartment with thin walls, $50,000 in credit card debt, and a credit score of 646. My financial worth: $100 in liquid assets. My net worth: deeply negative. Five years ago, I was worth over $7 million. This isn’t a story about market crashes or economic downturns. This is a story about human fallibility—specifically, mine. If you’re looking for a cautionary tale about greed, overconfidence, and the psychological pitfalls of sudden wealth, welcome. I’ve lived it all so you don’t have to.

I’ve been contemplating the nature of cognitive space—specifically, how our contemporary patterns of engagement have transformed our relationship with unstructured thinking time. Many of us instinctively reach for our devices at the first hint of unoccupied moments, filling potential mental openness with scrolling, consumption, and external stimulation. This pattern suggests a collective shift in how we perceive the value of simply being alone with our thoughts.

Writing about the process of writing offers a valuable form of meta-reflection—similar to the artist who pauses to teach and examine their craft. This recursive exploration creates opportunities for insight that might otherwise remain elusive in the forward momentum of creative production. The Value of Creative Self-Examination # Any creative pursuit benefits from periodic reflection on both process and purpose. These moments of examination invite important questions: What motivates this work? How effectively am I executing it? Does my approach align with my authentic intentions? Does the work represent my genuine vision or a compromised version of something else? Am I creating primarily for personal expression or external reception? What ultimate purpose does this creative activity serve in my life and potentially for others?

Reflecting on the landscape of my past mistakes, I’ve noticed a consistent pattern: moments when my ego seized the controls and steered me off course. The abstract concept of “staying humble” sounds straightforward until we’re faced with real-world situations that challenge our self-image. Only when something valuable slips away do we fully grasp what humility might have preserved.

The Spectrum of Motivation # Human behavior springs from a fascinating spectrum of motivations. At one end lie our intrinsic drives—actions we undertake simply because they resonate with our authentic desires and values. I listen to certain music because the melodies and rhythms genuinely move me. At the opposite end are extrinsic necessities—things we do because external circumstances require them. I complete certain work tasks not because they bring me joy, but because they represent necessary contributions to larger endeavors I’ve committed to.

Although I have written about this idea before, I believe it deserves further exploration. In our era of immediate gratification, many of us experience a persistent sense of being underwhelmed by our experiences. This feeling often stems not from the experiences themselves, but from the expectations we bring to them. There exists an elegantly simple approach to this challenge: calibrating our expectations to align more closely with reality. While this might initially sound like compromising on standards, I’d like to offer a different perspective on why this approach actually enhances our quality of life.

Winter has never been my preferred season. Despite growing up in a region characterized by significant cold weather, I haven’t developed any particular resilience to winter’s challenges compared to others. Yet I’ve come to recognize the value in the complete seasonal cycle and make deliberate efforts to find meaningful engagement with winter’s unique qualities, even while acknowledging my natural preference for warmer months.