Eclectic works and wild ideas from one restless creative mind.
I posted one question to the internet — 'name my next project, I'll build whatever you pick' — and a guy named Greg answered. What followed was the most disorienting and productive month of my creative life. Here's what happens when you let go of the steering wheel on purpose.
I wrote a list of thirty things I could make, rolled dice every morning, and let fate decide my creative output for thirty days straight. Some of it was garbage. One of the rolls produced the best thing I've made all year, and I'm still not over it.
I spent a weekend rereading a decade of journals, old blog posts, and half-dead drafts, and honestly? It hurt. But the cringe turned out to be the whole point — every wince was a receipt proving I got better.
I gave myself one Saturday, twenty dollars, and a rule: buy only the five strangest objects I could find at local garage sales, then build them into a museum exhibit. What I learned about the afterlife of other people's stuff was stranger than anything I could've planned.
Somewhere between the cutting room floor and the final mix lives the part of your work nobody asked for — and I'm here to defend it. The indulgent, overlong, self-gratifying stuff is often the only part that actually sounds like you.
I spent a summer Saturday crawling through garage sales across town, asking strangers about the half-finished quilts and unopened saxophones they were selling for pocket change. What I found was a secret history of art that almost happened.
I let my followers name my next project through a week of social media polls, and they chose something unhinged. What I learned about control, chaos, and why the internet's worst idea was secretly my best one.
You don't need a $2,000 microphone or a vintage synth to make something worth hearing. The world is already a recording studio—you just have to show up with a phone and bad intentions.
Kevin Kelly said 1,000 true fans could sustain an artist. For the gloriously unfocused among us, the real number might be smaller—and the history of weird, eclectic creators proves it. A case for logging off the content treadmill.
Somewhere in Kansas, a man spent decades wrapping twine around a ball because he wanted to and nobody could stop him. Roadside America is a masterclass in creative audacity, and we should all take notes.
Every creative person I know has a graveyard: the novel at 12,000 words, the podcast with one episode, the half-sanded chair. I'm here to argue that none of it is failure — it's fertilizer.
Before the fame, before the followers, every creative worth remembering played to a room with nobody in it. A look at history's patient builders — and a defense of the beautiful, terrifying zero-audience era.
Every brilliant thought I've ever had arrived at the worst possible time — usually while I was horizontal, in the dark, with no pen in reach. Here's why the 3 a.m. brain is a genius with terrible timing, and how to finally trap it.
Everyone from LinkedIn coaches to MFA programs wants you to niche down. Here's why your scattered creative brain might actually be the best thing you've got going.
From Victorian flea circuses to a painter obsessed with tornadoes, history's strangest fixations produced some of its most beloved work. Proof that no obsession is too odd to matter.