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Economics is a strange beast. We treat it like a hard science, expecting precise predictions, but it often feels more like math stirred together with psychology, constantly trying to explain the past rather than foreseeing the future. If economists could reliably predict market crashes or booms, wouldn’t they all be relaxing on private islands by now?

When most people talk about success, they’re usually referring to the accumulation of money, power, or material possessions. A bigger house, a fancier car, an advanced degree from a prestigious university, a high-paying job with an impressive title. Maybe you’re so successful that you’ve retired from your day job and now you spend your time doing high-profile non-profit work, partly to impress your friends.

You’ve heard the phrase “less is more,” but have you ever considered its mischievous cousin: “more is worse”? It’s the same idea, just with a sharper edge. My favourite example? Restaurant menus. The worst restaurants always seem to have the most options. When I go out to eat, I want the chef to present their best dish—no decisions, no stress. The chef already knows what’s good. Just put it in front of me (ideally, a steak). The ultimate luxury is when someone knows exactly what you want and simply delivers it.

I have a deep appreciation for mastery. It takes an extraordinary amount of time and effort to become truly masterful at something. It doesn’t matter so much what that thing is, whether it’s a sport, a musical instrument, a language–spoken, written, or programming computers. The path to mastery is the same: it demands time, practice, sweat, tears, trials, tribulations, and a whole lot of hard work.

I was recently banned from Rover, a specialized craigslist website for finding pet sitters and dog walkers. They didn’t specify why exactly, though I know the walker claimed my dog bit her. I find this claim suspicious since my dogs have never bitten anyone before, certainly not hard enough to break skin, and her story contained several inconsistencies.

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?

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 was sitting on the subway the other day and glanced up from my book to notice something that shouldn’t be remarkable, yet somehow was: every single person in my line of sight was staring at their phone. This wasn’t the first time I’d observed this phenomenon, but something about this particular moment struck me differently. It wasn’t just that everyone was looking at their phones—it was the mechanical thumb-scrolling and the complete disconnection from their surroundings.

I’ve been thinking a lot about boredom lately—specifically, how we’ve become so good at avoiding it. We reach for our phones at the slightest hint of downtime, filling every possible moment with scrolling, tapping, and consuming. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that being alone with our thoughts is some kind of punishment to be avoided at all costs.

I like to write, and sometimes I like to write about writing. This meta-reflection offers valuable insights into the creative process. There’s a touch of irony here—similar to artists who teach because they can’t sustain themselves solely through their art. In my case, I’m neither successful enough to earn a living from my writing nor from teaching it, but I genuinely enjoy both activities nonetheless. This practice of examining one’s craft often deepens understanding, as teaching something frequently strengthens our own grasp of it.