loving the slog

practical joy

Miyoko Ito, Bird in Sunset - 1962

Marylebone village is charming with its bookstores and long oak galleries, delicatessens, leather slippers, chiffon blouses. In the mornings I run in Hyde Park by the swans. I work from 3pm-2am with time difference and I sleep deeply.

I’ve been working hard, and by working I mean, in totality, keeping my life precariously perched on top of professional and personal obligations. It’s weird having a job in venture and writing daily about… multimodal AI applications and non-clinical healthcare workflows, and then turning around and writing on here about my deepest feelings and relationships. Over coffee this morning I told A that the distance between the two personas is driving me a little mad. There’s Nix. There’s Nicole. The answer being, of course, that I need to bring the two worlds closer together.

Anyways, the slog feels good up to a certain point. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m the type of person that enjoys some form of intensity — without it I’d feel too bored. I’m always itching to research something or making something. It used to be canvases, then stickers, then the other day I thought you know what might be fun? Starting a makeshift art gallery. Tell me there are other people who feel this way?

When I complain about the difficulty balancing the two parts of my life, I remind myself often: this was what I wanted. The professional route I dreamed of and the mental stimulation I craved. I wanted to be in venture, and I wanted to write freely, unencumbered. Then when the chance falls into my lap, I feel saddled with doubt and anxiety around both. Am I improving fast enough? How can I tune my methods to become more effective? Sometimes you get what you want, and yet you remain afraid of living up to it.

We’d all benefit from a bit of gratitude for the slog. The slog means you’re working toward something past your visibility or horizon. The slog means I deleted 3 posts before writing this one because nothing felt real. I couldn’t hear my voice in the writing, it was lifeless with no music or loveliness or fever or song. It wouldn’t be worth it to write and pretend to know something I don’t because I see writing as truthfulness, writing as release from restriction and writing as an entry point to the real world.

It’s related to a way of seeing things I call practical joy. Practical joy is diligence and routine — asking for the magic to show up again and again, knowing it can’t find you unless you sit at the desk and pay attention to the movements of your mind. Practical joy is finding peace in the long haul of things, in eking it out day after day. I find practical joy in the mundanity of daily life. I like the walks by the water and the lull of the waves. I like putting chrysanthemum buds in boiling water and fixing the TV and seeing the same 5 friends regularly. I get to write at night and I show up to the office and research and think and meet interesting people building companies. Maybe someone might think my life is boring or mundane, but when I write it simply and plainly like that it all just sounds like a dream to me.

PS: Thank you for reading - if you do feel inclined; please like and share this post. Your support helps me reach more readers like you and build this community

PPS: An unedited piece today! I’ve decided to post more and have more fun with my substack — more experiments to come.