In Memory of Grammy Marvin

My paternal grandmother passed away on Friday, November 8.

I am privileged to have had the most incredible grandparents, and like each of them, Grammy Marvin was the best. Her spirit cannot be captured in words, and while her body is gone, she lives on in the countless lives she touched, no matter how briefly.

I am sure that, even on the day she died, she made someone’s day with her charm, smile, and laughter.

I will always hear my grandmother’s voice in my head and remember how loving, joyful, and radiant she was to the very end. She deserves the most wonderful eternity, and I am so happy knowing she’s there, dancing the night away.

Love you, Grammy.


Crush on Radio, S2E13: Hornographic

If it's been a while since you checked out Crush on Radio, my music podcast with Richard J. Anderson and Matt Keeley, I recommend our latest. We discuss new albums by Franz Ferdinand and John Mayer, plus X-Ray Spex and much more:

This week, a long discussion on separating art and artists, vis-à-vis John Mayer and Kanye West. Also, discussion of our fall concert schedules, the upcoming Long Winters show in NYC, big concert lineups, Adult Album Alternative radio, what is and isn’t “country”, punk vocals, and not much else in this jam-packed episode.

You might just discover your new favorite song. Give it a listen.

Butterick's Practical Typography

Matthew Butterick has unveiled his new web book, Practical Typography:

This is a bold claim, but I stand be­hind it: if you learn and fol­low these five ty­pog­ra­phy rules, you will be a bet­ter ty­pog­ra­ph­er than 95% of pro­fes­sion­al writ­ers and 70% of pro­fes­sion­al de­sign­ers. (The rest of this book will raise you to the 99th per­centile in both categories.)

All it takes is ten min­utes—five min­utes to read these rules once, then five min­utes to read them again.

It's an astounding piece of work: a comprehensive, no-nonsense, gorgeous handbook for anyone interested in typography. I took my first peek at it the other night and didn't go to sleep for about two hours.

The book is free to read and thus relies solely on reader support, of which there are many options.

The Road to Extraordinary

It's paved with problems.

The first is that it takes a long time and a lot of hard work. Call it the 10,000-hour rule, the ten-year rule, whatever. We can't expect to become groundbreaking creative successes overnight.

Ray Bradbury:

The first year I made nothing, the second year I made nothing, the third year I made 10 dollars, the fourth year I made 40 dollars. I remember these. I got these indelibly stamped in there. The fifth year I made 80. The sixth year I made 200. The seventh year I made 800. Eighth year, 1,200. Ninth year, 2,000. Tenth year, 4,000. Eleventh year, 8,000...

Stephen King:

When I got my rejection slip… I pounded a nail into the wall above the Webcor [phonograph]… and poked [the rejection slip] onto to the nail… By the time I was fourteen (and shaving twice a week whether I needed to or not) the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it. I replaced the nail with a spike and went on writing. By the time I was sixteen I’d begun to get rejection slips with handwritten notes a little more encouraging.

Ten years later, he sold his first novel.

A long time and a lot of hard work, to say nothing of talent or actual skill.

In my style of martial arts, a fifth degree black belt is considered a Master. I've been a fourth degree for two years. Generally speaking, the number of degrees equates to the minimum number of years before you can be promoted. E.g., first to second degree takes two years, second to third takes three years, and so on.

But the jump from fourth to fifth degree is different. You can't just put in the time and make the cut. To be considered a Master, one must demonstrate mastery in every area—not just katas and combinations, but animal techniques, club techniques, knife and gun defense, chin na, grappling, and more. And mastery isn't a quantifiable thing; it's not how many leopard techniques you know, but how you move when you execute them. This means a martial artist can spend a long time at fourth degree. Being promoted to Master is arguably more difficult than achieving the black belt itself.

To attain such expertise, to become extraordinary, one must work very hard for a very long time and become very good.

Fine. That makes sense. If being extraordinary was easy, everyone would do it.

But there is a prerequisite question that must be answered before we can start putting in our 10,000 hours: What do I want to be extraordinary at?

This question leads to the second problem, which is the paradox of choice.

To determine at which profession we wish to excel, we consult our various identities. For me: English professor, yoga teacher, martial arts instructor, bass player, writer. For you: Crossfit trainer, accountant, parent, student affairs professional, recreation director, painter, and so on. We are privileged to be such eclectic individuals, but we are also paralyzed by the diversity of our passions and interests.

I feel that if I want to be the greatest writer I can possibly be, if I want to make a living as a writer, I need to immerse myself completely in my craft. I need to write every day. I need to publish constantly. I need to read other writers. I need to hire an editor. I need to hustle. I need to eat, sleep, and breathe writing. I need to dedicate myself to nothing else for years. And then—maybe—one day, I'll make ten dollars.

I feel that if I want to be the greatest bass player I can possibly be, if I want to make a living as a musician, I need to immerse myself completely in my craft. I need to play every day. I need to seek out other musicians to play with. I need to learn how to read music. I need to write and record songs and put them out there for people to hear. I need to hustle. I need to eat, sleep, and breathe music. I need to dedicate myself to nothing else for years. And then—maybe—one day, I'll make ten dollars.

The problem is that I fear having to give up other aspects of my identity in the hopes of becoming extraordinary at one of them. I love being a bass player just as much as I love writing, and I love doing yoga just as much as I love doing martial arts. There isn't one that I'm willing to give up all the others for.

Yes, of course no one (besides me) is saying I have to give everything else up. Successful extraordinary people have interests other than what they're known for. But when you're trying to break into an industry, when you're on mile one of that 10,000-mile road, I don't see how you can get away with not dedicating yourself almost entirely to your craft.

Beyond this inner conflict lies a third problem, one of practicality: how can I dedicate myself to my art and still afford to eat? No one is going to pay me to be a writer who's trying really hard. No one is going to pay me to be a bass player sitting in the woodshed.

So we get crumby part-time jobs, and if we're lucky, their soul-crushing nature drives us even further to power through that long road to extraordinary. Or, they sap our strength to the point where the dream seems even more impossible.

When you're in college, your full-time job is to be a college student. Your job is to go to class, to learn, to absorb, to meet people, to figure out who you are and what you want to do with rest of your life. This is why college is so great. No one expects anything of you other than that you do what a college student is supposed to do: explore.

Some college students are lucky in that they go to school to get a degree in a certain field, which grants them a job, and they set off on a career. I think mainly of business majors. They get a degree in marketing or accounting or business administration, and they get hired. An entry-level accountant gets paid while they learn how to be a next-level accountant. They achieve a respectable level of success for their age, which allows them to live comfortably, going to work during the day, and using nights and weekends to pursue hobbies, interests, and relationships.

Sometimes, I'm envious.

Now, maybe those people genuinely love marketing, or accounting, or business administration. Maybe there are people out there who eat, sleep, and breathe this stuff. I'm sure there is someone out there who is dedicating himself to being an extraordinary accountant, to making it his life's work.

But for those of us in the arts or creative fields, the road to extraordinary is not so smooth. For those of us who want our creative interests and financial living to be one in the same, we must figure out how to do it on our own. We must ask, "What am I going to love doing every day for the rest of my life that other people will pay me to do?" And if and when we can answer that enormous question, we must ask, "How am I going to survive while I put in the seemingly insane amount of time and effort creating that extraordinary life requires?"

A Word About QLE's RSS Feed

Hello, friends.

You may know that Google is shutting down Google Reader on Monday.

If you're subscribed to this site via Google Reader, you'll need to explore alternative solutions.

For my part, I suggest making sure you're using QLE's direct RSS feed URL to read the site so that your subscription continues unabated.

Speaking of which, my thanks to all of you who continue to endure QLE's virtual dormancy while my professorial career is still in its infancy. Please know that I think about the site every day and have no intention of ever permanently deleting it. Subscribing is still the best way to keep up with me and my various endeavors.

Thank you for being here.


How to Get Dumped, Change Your Life, and Become a Flawless Human Being

My first yoga experience was a men's class I took while I was working on my master's at Southern Connecticut State University. I loved it, finding the strength and flexibility training an invaluable complement to my years as a martial artist. Once the class ended, I was intrigued at the prospect of continuing at a real yoga school, but always managed to put it off.

Finally, in the face of a bad breakup, I decided to visit Newington Yoga Center, where my dad had been taking classes. It was love at first tadasana.

I'll have been practicing there two years this fall, and like starting karate or buying my first bass, taking that first class in Newington changed my life, and I can't imagine where I'd be without it.

I was privileged, near the end of my first year, to be asked if I'd like to do Teacher Training in 2013. I immediately accepted, and we've just passed the halfway mark this month. It's been an incredible experience.

About a week ago, I was asked if I'd like to write an article about Teacher Training for Elephant Journal.

I often tell my composition students that writing is a process of discovery, and writing this article helped me attain a deeper understanding of why Teacher Training and yoga in general have meant so much to me. I think you'll like it.

Special thanks to my editor, Kate, for dealing with my thoroughness.

Thoughts Upon Completing an Assessment of Composition 101 Students at Three Rivers Community College

The problem lies mostly with style, not content.

It's not that the students lack good ideas, but rather that they have not yet developed the confident writing voice with which to express them. Even an essay about school uniforms can be made entertaining by a strong, unique voice.

The process by which that skill is attained is iterative and beyond the scope of any singular semester, but I think it begins with a foundational understanding of grammar and mechanics. Dry as they may seem, these are the tools with which every great piece of writing is crafted. Grammar needs to be presented not as a stuffy, boring set of conventions, but in fact the opposite: a way to artistic freedom. In the same way that a knowledge of music theory opens doors for musicians, being well-versed in grammar enables the writer to fully express himself with authority and legitimacy.

When you have mastery over the rules, you can write anything you want—and be taken seriously.

Music Diaries

Frank Chimero has taken my musical time capsule concept to a whole new level with music diaries:

At the beginning of 2011, I started a music diary on Rdio. I’d make a new list of frequently listened-to songs each month, and ledger them into a playlist without worrying about how it all sounded together. It was a garbage plate of music.


Now, as I start the first list for 2013, it feels like I’ve stepped into a time machine when I glance over previous months and years. Sticking a song to a month and year turns it into a more spacious memory palace.

I've quickly fallen in love with several songs from his 2012 shortlist, like Beach House's "Other People" and Bat for Lashes' "Marilyn". Both artists I'd never heard of before.

I wrote about Rdio a few months ago, and the more use it, the more I like it, especially given its social features.

I'm definitely going to start making music diaries. You can subscribe to Frank's playlists via his Rdio profile. My profile is here.


I don't have a thing for feet, but I love the sound of footsteps. Perhaps it's my penchant for Pink Floyd's "On the Run".

You can tell a lot about a person from how they allow their feet to connect with the earth. Do they drag their heels or touch down softly? Do they move heavily or lightly? Can you hear them coming down the hall, or do they just seem to appear from around the corner?

Do they walk mindfully or heedlessly? Do they seem to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders or only a sense of lightness and freedom? Are they running late, or are they already where they need to be?

Perhaps we should ask ourselves the same questions.

Boys and Girls Are Dumb

Here's the thing.

There are seven billion people on the planet. Out of those seven billion, you'll meet tens of thousands. Out of those tens of thousands, you'll maintain real relationships with only one or two hundred. Out of those one or two hundred, only a handful are really worth knowing. Only a handful will know you intimately.

So when you find someone that helps you be the best possible version of yourself, someone who makes you laugh and feel loved and like you can do anything, someone who isn't nuts and doesn't want to do anything with your emotions but nurture and protect them, you hang on to that person, and you don't treat them like shit.

It's not always easy, and the timing is never perfect. But you make it work.

You respect them.

You listen to and support them—through everything.

You don't play games.

You say what you mean, and you mean what you say.

You give them what they need.

You don't give up.

You do whatever it takes.

You make it work.

A person unwilling to adhere to each of these values is not worth having in your life. Look to the next better thing.

The world is full of people willing to screw you over, on purpose or by accident. People are generally good, but that doesn't mean they aren't looking out for themselves first. I don't blame them. You have to take care of yourself before you can take care of someone else.

That's why unconditional love is so rare. For two people to be so confident in who they are—as a team and as individuals—that they are each capable of putting the other person first regardless of conditions or convenience is so rare, it can take a lifetime to find.

Those odds are the stuff miracles are made of.

I Resolve to Be Extraordinary

This year, I'll turn twenty-six.

Throughout my twenties, I've been concerned with living the most peaceful life possible, not externally, but internally. I have always sought a state of mind free from the bonds of competition, fear, and envy. In my pursuit, I have failed as often as I have succeeded, but in doing so I have gotten better. I have learned.

I realize that what I know now is the result of every moment that has lead me to this point. I am grateful for each of them. They have taught me what matters.

In 2013, many more moments will happen. Some will be joyful. Some will be terrible. Some will be long awaited. Some will be unexpected. All will contribute to who I am this time next year and for the rest of my life. I am eager to find out.

But as always, it is not the moments themselves, but how I deal with them that determines who I am.

I cannot control what you think of me. I cannot persuade you to feel what I feel or to believe in what I believe.

You are up to you, and I am up to me.

And so, at the start of a new year, I resolve to be the best possible version of myself. I resolve to do things that fulfill me and remove those that don't. I resolve to love and protect unconditionally those who are closest to me. I resolve to take care of myself so that I may be best equipped to do all of the above.

I resolve to be the person you want to be around.

I will not force things to happen, but rather create circumstances that allow them to. I will not struggle to meet anyone's expectations but my own. I will not fight for anything I don't love.

I will not try to sell you on who I am. Who I am will speak for itself.

I resolve to be me. In doing so, the things that are meant to happen will happen, and the people who are meant to be in my life will be.

I look forward to an extraordinary year.

Once More Unto the Breach

My friend Richard J. Anderson has a new year's resolution:

New Years Resolutions are stupid, and almost guaranteed to fail. Yet, here I am on the last day of 2012, making a resolution, and backing it up with a big, public post on the Internet. That resolution is that I will be posting to Sanspoint every day—or at least every weekday.

For a good majority of QLE's first year, I committed to publishing every weekday. I still don't have a definitive sense of how worthwhile an endeavor that was.

Publishing every day is hard. Motivation comes and goes, and it's often difficult to detect whether or not you're wasting your time. Yeah, yeah, "writing is rewarding even if no one reads it," but that doesn't mean spending time and energy on a piece and not getting a peep in return isn't demoralizing.

To its credit, I believe daily publishing helped me establish a small reputation in my corner of the Internet. I may have even helped a few people. I also believe that, when it comes to writing, quantity begets quality, so I certainly don't regret it.

The eminent Jason Rehmus in a letter to Patrick Rhone:

Publishing a new piece each day isn't an end, but it's simply a path, maybe even just a small part of your path. Even if you don't publish one day or one week or one month, you're still traveling on the path in front of you. Choosing to write every day is a decision to set yourself in motion instead of staying still. An object in motion can change direction more easily than one at rest.

Shortly after QLE's one-year anniversary, I got a job teaching English. While it's been incredibly rewarding, it's also afforded me little time to write blog posts. I felt guilty about that for a long time, but as Jason says, it's all part of the same path. Writing or not writing—time still moves forward.

I don't believe in publishing for publishing's sake. I've written every day before; I know I can do it. But I will not allow my site, which I love, to become a source of stress because of some promise I made on the Internet.

I don't want to replace "I feel bad because I haven't written anything lately" with "I feel bad because I have to write every day."

So no, I'm not resolving to keep any sort of schedule here just yet.

That being said, I do miss the thrill of publishing and the camaraderie of my online colleagues. Thus, I am resolving to write. I resolve to write what I want, when I want, in the hopes that what comes out will be something I wanted to produce, rather than something I was obligated to come up with.

In no way do I mean to discredit guys like Patrick and Richard. They're both far more brilliant writers than I, and I have no doubt they'll produce quality insight on a daily basis. I look forward to reading it, and you should too.

Publishing every day is something every writer should consider at some point. I did it, and it was rewarding and worthwhile. For now, though, this is what works for me. And we should always do what works for us.

Have an extraordinary 2013. See you soon.

To Be Alone with Your Thoughts

To be alone with your thoughts is at once a state of great freedom and insidious terror.

The imagination is an entity of creativity, of wonder and what-ifs, of potentials and possibilities. The mind is an entity of knowledge, of fact and logic and practicality. I envision the imagination like a mist surrounding the mind. Sometimes it serves as a cloud, lifting the mind up to new heights. Sometimes it becomes a fog so thick that the mind disappears entirely.

When presented with real solitude, the imagination runs wild. Little effort is required to push it out the door and into a world of endless thoughts and ideas. The imagination takes the mind by the hand and whisks it away like leaves on a blustery day. Or a sign in a hurricane.

Where the two wind up, however, is not so easily guaranteed.

My imagination often leads me to places of inspiration and optimism, but just as frequently to places of fear and despair. It collects all the loose thoughts floating around in my head and synthesizes new creatures, some delightful and some frightening. It creates scenarios, dozens of hypotheticals, none of which may be true, but all of which seem absolute. And because this alchemy takes place only within the confines of my mind, while I lie idle on the couch, there is no escaping it. There is nowhere to run. There is only wondering and waiting.

Our minds are the one thing over which we have complete control, and yet they often seem to be the most difficult thing to control.

For this conundrum, I have no solution... other than practice. We must not fear our imaginations or the places they may take us. Rather, we must remember that these destinations—for the moment—exist only in our minds.

We may not be able to control the possible futures our imaginations present to us. But we can still choose to act—to get off the couch—and determine whether these visions become reality.

The Hypercritical Way

David Smith has some great commentary on the end of Hypercritical:

I started to think retrospectively about Hypercritical and why I liked it so much. John has demonstrated that it is often far more satisfying to understand why you like something than to just blindly hold an opinion. I began the process of re-listening through the entire Hypercritical catalog, all 158 hours of it. My goal was to be able to clearly describe why I love the show so much. The result is a critique methodology that I’ll rather overbearingly refer to as The Hypercritical Way.

He's also compiled a twenty-minute clip reel of some of his favorite Hypercritical moments. Terrific tribute.

Via Merlin

Farewell, Hypercritical

Hypercritical, John Siracusa's podcast with Dan Benjamin, has just concluded with its hundredth episode.

I haven't listened to every episode of the show. For me, the topics ranged from utterly engrossing to completely inscrutable. But the one thing that has always remained constant is John Siracusa's incredible perspicacity, and that's why I mourn the show's conclusion.

John's ability to dissect with astounding depth everything from video game controllers to geek culture has consistently floored me, and I will miss the weekly opportunity to learn from his powers of observation and criticism.

Thanks, John, for your diligence and dedication throughout the one hundred episodes of Hypercritical.

The Fromagerie

As previously stated, I keep a small circle of close friends. I don't talk to strangers, and I have no interest in small talk. I am loyal to those who are closest to me.

Still, I often wonder if that's the best practice.

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I had lunch with my undergraduate advisor (still my advisor in many ways) and a mutual friend of ours at a fromagerie and bistro.

As we ate and discussed the ins and outs of English professorship, I noticed a waitress, whose beauty I found so astounding that I found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. My company, being older, wiser, and always eager to help me find love in unexpected places, encouraged me to strike up a conversation with her. I obviously demurred, finding it preferable to hide behind my cheeseburger.

Of course, after we parted ways, I realized there was no way I could not talk to her and still live with myself, so I went back inside.

I told the waitress behind the counter that one of her coworkers was wearing a gray, v-neck sweater and inquired about her name. She poked her head around the corner and confirmed my beloved's identity. I asked if I could talk to her for a moment and was told I could find her upstairs at the bar.


The bar was crowded, despite being near closing time. I found her washing a dish (let's say), quite magnificently. I only had a minute to survey the scene and plan my approach before she whipped around and appeared right in front of me, taller than I'd realized.

I greeted her warmly and introduced myself before asking if she'd like to have dinner somewhere, sometime.

I don't know if women rehearse their reaction to these sorts of inquiries, but she seemed genuinely taken aback and managed to find the words explaining she had just broken up with her boyfriend days earlier.


I offered my condolences and asked how she was doing, to which she responded, "Not good."

They had been together for a year, and I explained that my last relationship, despite being equally "brief," had also had the depth of one lasting several times that. She seemed consoled by it, and then proceeded to thank me for my invitation because—even though she had to reject me—it was exactly what she needed to hear on this particular day. I said I was happy to help, and perhaps another time would suit us better.

After I left her, I realized I could not in good conscious leave without providing my contact information. I tore a page out of my Field Notes and scrawled the following note:

Pretty Lady Whose Name I Will Not Disclose on This Blog,

It was wonderful to meet you. I hope you feel better soon.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Andrew Marvin

(555) 555-5555

(In case you could ever use an extra friend.)

I slipped the note to the waitress behind the counter, giving her explicit instructions that it was for its intended recipient only, and she promised to deliver it promptly. I thanked her, said "Happy Thanksgiving!", and left.

I share this story because I'm beginning to think action is preferable to passivity when it comes to relationships. I have no desire to befriend every person I meet or clutter my life with acquaintances, but I also can never be sure whether that person over there might be one who changes my life.

I like to think we each have several people walking the earth who possess the capacity to turn us into the best version of ourself. Maybe we won't meet the one who does until five years from now. Maybe we'll meet them tomorrow. Or maybe we already have.

But it can't hurt to say hello.

The Problem with Loyalty

I'm a loyal person.

I keep a small circle of close friends. Always have. Chalk it up to nerdiness, academia, introversion, et al. I don't always know whether it's the best model, but it's the model I've adopted. It enables me to put my best into each relationship. As with multitasking, the more inputs clamoring for your time and attention, the less each receives.

Tasks, of course, are not people. While you may stay up all night with a task, it doesn't embrace you in the morning. You don't take bullets for tasks. You don't wake up every morning asking yourself how you can make a task feel special today. A task doesn't care.

People matter, but it takes a lot to find the good ones. There are over seven billion of them out there, and only a handful are worth knowing. I've met a few, and to them I hold on as tightly as I can.

Even after months and years, real loyalty is unwavering. Often inexplicably so. At times, against better judgment.

I live to make you feel safe. Beautiful. Invincible.

But I can only do so much from here.

The problem with loyalty is that it creates attachment, and attachment invariably leads to suffering.

My heart is loyal to a fault.

The Handshake

My friend J. D. Bentley has decided to take his website full-time via The Handshake, his new reader-supported venture:

By becoming a supporter, you’ll also be enabling me, an independent writer, to turn a lifelong dream into a reality. I realize that may not be the most enticing part of the deal, but I’m deeply appreciative of the opportunity to make a career out of what I enjoy doing.

J. D. is one of the most talented writers I've come across in my Internet travels. He possesses a kind of ancient wisdom far beyond his years and is an inspiration to me and all who've read him. If there's anyone who has the capacity to make it as a writer on the web, it's J. D., and I have no doubt he'll succeed.

You can support J. D.'s writing for $5 a month or $50 a year. Well worth it.

Room Again for Old Things

Before I was an English professor, I was living a very strange period of my life.

I was virtually done with my master's, but I hadn't found anyone who would pay me for my above-average education. I had a lot of free time, so I filled with things I loved. Being unemployed is demoralizing, and you have to keep busy. I taught karate, I joined a band, I recorded podcasts, I did a lot of yoga, and I wrote to my heart and mind's content.

And yet, I'd often feel stressed out. Not because of workload, but because of external—and subsequently internal—pressures to get off my ass and put my degrees to use.

But how could I? I was doing things I loved. I was living a life comprised almost entirely of passions. Not even slightly lucrative, but very joyful, save for the financial stress.

And yet, ultimately unsustainable. A guy's gotta eat.

Now I'm teaching English composition at a nearby community college. I love it, and hot damn is it nice to have income.

But I was conflicted, because the daydreaming, passion-driven, Internet-living, writer, podcaster, entrepreneurial wannabe in me was protesting.


Yeah, I know.

When you set off on a new endeavor, you spend a considerable amount of time adapting. New schedules, new people, new workflows, new locations, new responsibilities, and more. Old things seem... inconsequential. Certainly your Internet website does compared to your newfound stewardship of tomorrow's burgeoning, young minds.

But eventually, harmony returns:

Things have been crazy. Transition surrounds. Time and attention are at a premium. Sleep is a gift.

Life will settle shortly and balance will return. It always does.

It has. Perhaps not fully, but it's getting there. And there's room again for old things.

Patience. Then, balance.


One thing's for sure: the longer you go without writing, the harder it is to start again.

And you feel like the only proper way to end your blogging sabbatical is with a brilliant, mind-blowing post heralding your return to the Internet.

But waiting for such brilliance to arrive takes forever.

So, hello.

Teaching has been great, but it's obviously forced me to put my digital life on the back burner. I've missed it.

I've been thinking about how best to resume things around here, and while I've yet to arrive at a firm conclusion, I thought it better to stop waiting for the perfect solution.

I spent almost a year posting something here every weekday, but I've deemed that schedule to be no longer sustainable. I mean, I could do it, but I'd prefer a renewed focus on quality. We'll see what that looks like.

If you're still here, thank you. I've been gone a long time, and I feel bad. This is an icebreaker.