Reader,

I started writing in earnest when I was sixteen.

Up to that point, I'd always written because I had to. Book reports in second grade. A research paper on Canada Geese when I was ten. Essays assigned as part of my Great Books tutorial when I reached high school—most of which never got written, despite my best intentions. (Sorry, Mom, if you're just finding that out now.)

It's not that I disliked writing. I just didn't have a reason to write unless some authority figure commanded it.

Then I stumbled across Annie Dillard. Through her I discovered that some people wrote just because. To them, writing was a natural response; a way of carving out their space in the world; a way of staying grounded, lest the weight of the world tear them free from gravity's safe grasp and send them hurtling into the suffocating emptiness of outer space.

And so, I began to write.

* * *

Over the last three years, I've written more than the rest of my life combined—and yes, that includes all those papers from college. I've written websites, I've written articles, I've written and/or rewritten books, and it's honestly been a dream come true. If you'd told me five years ago that I'd one day make a living helping people write books, I'd have laughed you off without a second thought.

Has every book been the book of my dreams? No. But the people I've met and worked with have made it all worthwhile. There's nothing like walking with another person through the Valley of the Shadow of a Book Project. It almost doesn't matter what's on the other side. The ups and downs of that journey are what shape you; they're the reason I keep saying yes to new projects.

That said, it has been getting harder and harder to write for myself. To channel the pure spirit of that sixteen-year-old who faithful plunked out words every afternoon, just because.

Even this newsletter has been something written with someone else's goals in mind. I don't say that to disparage anything I've published here. I'm grateful for the ways this newsletter has let me practice the art of knowing what I think by seeing what I say. But too often, I feel guilty, wishing that this newsletter measured up to the collective wisdom about what newsletters ought to be and ought to accomplish.

It's that guilt I wish to banish.

I often think of David the unknown shepherd preparing to face Goliath the unbeatable giant. My favorite part of that story is when all the king's soldiers and all the king's men shove that innocent boy into the king's finest armor. They mean well: they're trying to honor the collective wisdom and do anything to raise the chances of his survival. And yet, as David clearly sees, their wisdom is the surest path to a slow and painful death. Which is why he throws off the armor and goes to find some smooth stones.

I can't tell you how often I feel like that, both as a writer and as a freelancer who's busting his butt to build a sustainable business.

Which is why I'm hitting the reset button on this newsletter.

* * *

Have you ever stopped to think how many times you're hit with a call to action every day? Don't bother trying. Most of you can't handle that calculation, and those of you that can will likely be driven insane when you have to reckon the results.

Suffice to say, a lot of people want us to act on a lot of things:

• They want us to tap the heart at the bottom of their Instagram post
• They want us to click on a link and sign up for their newsletter
• They want us to attend next Thursday's class parent social
• They want us to vote for their favorite party
• ​They want us to wear the red ribbon​

ENOUGH. (Right?)

Meanwhile, I call this little ol' newsletter Action Words, which begs the question: what do I want you to do?

Allow me to start with an explanation of what I intend to do here going forward. One of my favorite Audenisms is his contrast between "poetry" and "propaganda." He describes the former as "the most intimate of dialogues"; the latter, on the other hand, is "a monologue which seeks not a response but an echo."

Take note: "poetry" and "propaganda" are not genres. He's not talking about sections you'll find in a library or a bookstore. You can write prose that embodies the spirit of poetry, just like you can write poetry that reeks of propaganda. (Auden knew this firsthand, having done both himself.)

A lot could be said about those definitions. More than enough to fill a book. Here, I want to throw out just one thing: good conversations, the kind that qualify as "intimate dialogues," always start with good questions.

I think it's fair to say that we often approach writing with the question, "What do I have to say?" But as another writer suggested to me last week, a better question to ask is, "What do our readers need to hear?" Now, that could quickly spiral into a self-absorbed, propagandist mindset. If we want to preserve the poetic approach, if we want to avoid being yet another pompous voice demanding echoes, then we have to follow up that "hearing" question with an awful lot of listening. After all, if I don't take the time to listen to you or to the world around me, how can I possibly know what you need to hear?

That's the kind of action I want to take as a writer. And I hope that my words spur you, dear readers, to the same kind of response. I don't have anything profound to say. Most of the time I hope to simply share stories and wonder aloud about mundane things. Yet, if we can listen to one another and listen together, I imagine we'll discover an awful lot of good things to talk about.

* * *

I'll close with this oft-told, possibly apocryphal anecdote about the time Dan Rather interviewed Mother Teresa. They're talking about prayer, but I think their comments apply just as much to the act of writing, regardless of your faith:

Keep listening.

And keep your stick on the ice.

Frank.

​

PS Thanks for reading this far. Going forward, look for my emails on Fridays. I may not send one every week, but if I do, that'll be the day.

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PPS I reserve the right to send extra emails when I've got something new and exciting to share. I don't plan to use this list to sell or pitch anything. But I'm going to assume that, if you're here, you want to know when I'm publishing new things. If not, feel free to unsubscribe below.