It Was Never About The Shark π¦
This weekend I closed my laptop and completely devoured a book called Shark Heart. The premise is that a man is diagnosed with a rare condition that causes him to gradually transform into a great white shark. π¦ Which sounds completely absurd when you say it out loud. But somewhere along the way you stop trying to explain why this mutation could never happen to someone. Because the book isn't about a shark. It's about love. It's about grief. It's about watching someone you love change into someone you no longer recognize. It's about caregiving and loss and the reality that everyone we care about eventually leaves us, one way or another. The shark is just the vehicle. When I finished the book, I was honestly a little pissed, because I wanted more, I felt like there was still more story to tell. I sat at the kitchen table and read through the acknowledgements trying to understand how the hell someone comes up with a story like that. And what surprised me was that the author didn't start with grief. She didn't start with loss. She didn't start with some grand plan to write a profound book about mortality and the human condition. She became interested in another authors books about sharks. And somehow an entire novel about love, grief, loss, and moving on emerged from that curiosity. And I found that deeply comforting. Because if I'm being honest, one of the things that quietly terrifies me is the idea that one day I'll run out of things to write to you about. And man, do I love writing to you every Wednesday. Every week people send me emails telling me they love this newsletter. Some people tell me it's the only newsletter they read. Others tell me it's their favorite email of the week. And every single time I'm grateful. And every single time a tiny voice in the back of my head says: βWhat happens when you run out of things to write?" βWhat happens when there are no more stories? No more observations. No more lessons. No more things worth saying.β The funny thing is, if you've been reading this newsletter for a while, you know most of these newsletters don't start out looking like lessons or strategies. A red ball floating in a stream became a lesson about impressions. A kitten became a lesson about thriving. A stranger drinking bourbon at a crowded bar became a lesson about networking. A book about a shark became a lesson about creativity. None of those things arrived in my life carrying a blinking neon sign that said "NEWSLETTER IDEA." They were just things I noticed. And maybe that's the lesson. Maybe the people we think of as creative don't have access to more ideas than everyone else. Maybe they're just paying attention. Maybe they stay curious a little longer. Maybe they ask one more question. Maybe they follow one more thread. And when that happens, a shark becomes a story about grief. A random conversation becomes a story about connection. A red ball becomes Pennywise because apparently my brain is permanently affected by horror movies. The point is, the world is constantly handing us raw material, most of us are just moving too fast to notice. So maybe I've been worrying about the wrong thing all these years. Maybe the goal isn't to have an endless supply of ideas, maybe the goal is to stay curious. Because as long as you're curious, you'll keep noticing. And as long as you keep noticing, you'll never run out of stories. The world is far too weird and wonderful for that. Cheers,
P.S. If you like my work and want to support it, here are 3 ways! 1) Forward this newsletter to a friend and let them know they can subscribe here.β 2) Buy my bookβ 3) Bring me into your company to speak. (Either in person or virtual.) |
