Writer, maker, and keeper of half-finished ideas
I dumped eleven years of half-finished drafts, dead project folders, and embarrassing notes into an AI tool and asked it to be brutally honest about what I was avoiding. It didn't tell me to write more. It told me I keep quitting at the exact moment a project starts needing another human being, a price tag, or an actual audience.
I gave five small creative experiments exactly one hour each and actually finished them. The zine, the patch, the voice memo, the poem, and the printable taught me more about why my big ideas stall than another year of planning ever could.
I asked twelve people—friends, clients, and two brave strangers—to describe my work from memory without opening my website. Then I read my About page out loud and had to sit down. Here's what the gap taught me about writing copy that sounds less like a committee and more like a person.
I can hit a client deadline with the focus of a raccoon in a bakery, then let my own projects sit in a folder called Almost for years. This is me digging into why paid work gets my best effort and personal work gets my leftover minutes — plus the weird little experiments that have actually helped.
I have a shelf of work that is done—edited, printed, mixed, packaged—and has never been shown to anyone. This is a tour of that back room, and an honest look at why finished work can feel more dangerous than the abandoned stuff.
For one week, my newsletter subscribers voted on everything: when I wrote, what I worked on, and when I was legally required (by me, publicly) to stop. Turns out a bunch of people who've never met me understood my work habits better than I do.
I handed naming rights to my Instagram followers for 30 days — drafts, projects, even my newsletter. Here's what happened when strangers got the keys to my creative kingdom.
Accepting a compliment, saying a number out loud, and explaining my job to a stranger at a barbecue — somehow these are the hardest parts of my creative career. Here's what I've learned about the social awkwardness nobody puts in the job description, plus the scripts I now use to survive it.
For one month, I put my real rates and anonymized invoices on my website — a move roughly zero freelancers are comfortable making. Here's the full ledger, what strangers said, and why American creatives are so weird about money in the first place.
Before I make any big creative decision — taking on a project, quitting one, charging more, charging less — I run it past a board of directors that technically does not exist. Here's who's on it and exactly what they say.
My drafts folder is a graveyard of almost-pitches, half-written apologies, and one email to myself from 2016 that still stings. I went digging through the unsent messages and found out what they have in common. Spoiler: it's never the timing.
Portfolios are highlight reels, and mine is no exception. Here's the messy, invisible infrastructure — the unpaid pitches, the fellowship rejections, the 2 a.m. group texts — that actually built my creative career.
I logged every project, submission, and invoice for a full year, then compared the numbers to what I *thought* I'd accomplished. The gap between feeling productive and being productive was humbling — here's the framework so you can run the same audit on yourself.
From a cinder-block dorm desk to a kitchen table that doubled as a mailing station, every workspace I've had tells a story about how much I believed I was allowed to be creative. Here's the tour, clutter and all.
Not every shelved project is a failure. Here are the five half-finished ideas I've carried the longest, what each one taught me about my own creative wiring, and the three-question test I use to decide what deserves another look.
The novel at 12,000 words. The podcast that got exactly one episode. The Etsy shop that lived for three glorious weeks. I'm giving my creative graveyard the tour it deserves — no shame, no lessons, just affection.
Leuchtturm notebooks, a $400 course, a subscription I forgot to cancel for two years — I've bought it all in pursuit of feeling like a Legitimate Writer. Here's my honest accounting, plus the free stuff that actually moved the needle.
I opened the box of abandoned notebooks I've been avoiding for years, and honestly? It was like a museum tour of every version of myself. Here's why I've stopped being embarrassed by the things I didn't finish.
After a decade of unfinished everything, I completed one (1) entire project. These are the five things that actually made the difference — no hustle-culture nonsense, I promise.