I just had the thought that I miss writing. Which is a funny thought to have, considering how much time I spend every day tweeting, and how I’ve been working on an ebook for years now. But I guess what I mean is that I miss writing for fun, for no reason, with no purpose. I feel like I’ve unintentionally ended up being subjugated by a sense of purpose, and the result is a tightness, a tension. I’ve gotten stuck, the ink runs dry, the strokes get scratchy. It’s time to reorient.

It’s funny to think about, considering how many people are troubled – besieged, even – by a perceived lack of purpose. But both things are true. The dry heat of the arid desert of purposelessness can be oppressive, and the thick, wet humidity of purpose can be stifling in an entirely different way.

I’m not even anywhere near as successful as I intend to be – with all the burdensome responsibility that comes with it – and yet already I periodically find myself missing the innocent, naive, silly clown I used to be. I find myself wondering if there’s a part of me that’s been deliberately slowing the rest of me down because of a fear of change. It seems more likely than not. Change is unsettling. 

What I’d like to remind myself in this moment is that I love words. I’ve always loved words and I will always love words. Everything else might change, but I think this will always stay with me. It’s been decades, it’s been millions of words and I look forward to millions more.

I‘ve been thinking lately about sports teams and nations and where people get their sense of belonging. I’ve been thinking about the Amish, and villagers in India, and anxious old Singaporean Chinese men who use words like genocide when talking about immigration. It will be a while before I’m able to say anything clever about these things, but maybe for now I would revisit the fact that I always got my sense of belonging in libraries, in bookstores, in words.

And I’ve been thinking about how much time I’ve been spending on Twitter, and how I’ve been blessed with an audience – people who hear me, not just passive readers but fellow writers too. And how much joy I’ve shared with them, how delightful, how nourishing our kinship has been for me. And how I feel like I may have spent too much time on this wonderful thing.

I’m listening to Inordinary by Hayley Williams, and I’m thinking of Anthony Bourdain’s writing, and how he in turn wished he could write like Joan Didion, and I find myself thinking that these people are my family, the great circle of invisible friends that Borges talked about. Books are proof that humans can work magic, said Carl Sagan.

 It’s 7:15am. I had trouble sleeping last night. I’m thinking of having a coffee and a cigarette, showering and getting back in bed. 

I’ve been playing the Mass Effect trilogy. I almost forgot how much these games meant to me when I was 17-22. There’s a lot of beautiful writing in the games, particularly in the little stories that are affected by the bigger story. Everything has consequences.

I feel a little self-conscious about reusing material– some of the stuff in this piece are bits from tweets and things I’ve said elsewhere. But comedians do this all the time. After all, if it works, why not reuse it? Most people are too busy to remember every last detail of everything you’ve said, and they’ll appreciate the repetition. I know this to be true even for myself, when I revisit my old writing, my old work.

I’m really happy about the last interintellect salon I did a couple of days ago, about long games.