The Mother of All Shoutouts

I hope this is going to last forever

Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

I’ve been doing this writing thing for a few months now. To be exact, since October 12th -- the day I hit publish for the first time. Since then, I have hit publish thirty-one more times, on every Wednesday. That’s seven months and five days, today.

When I started this substack, I didn’t really know where I was going with it. It felt good to finally overcome the blocks and fears and perfectionism that had held me up for so long. But I thought that this was going to last for some time, until I’d get tired of it, and stop it. Pretty much like I’ve always done, with everything: I’d get interested, then the interest would turn into an obsession, then the thing would get life-exclusivity (meaning I wouldn’t look at, think of, or consider anything else), then I’d get tired and disinterested and then I’d stop, often abruptly. And cancel the thing, sometimes for years, until I’d decide to pick it up again for a new iteration, sparked by a random idea or thought or conversation or something I noticed. Rinse, repeat. 

But week after week I saw that this thing continued, had a life of its own, surprisingly and mysteriously kept occupying a front seat in the theater of my priorities. Every week, I’d catch myself paying attention to the tiniest detail about objects or behaviors or phrases or memories. And these details would morph into thoughts and observations and emotions out of thin air. They would become writing material. Maybe it’s still early to say that this is going to last -- seven months is a relatively short time, after all. But if I know anything about myself, these are excellent signs. 

What makes me resort to the this time is different cliché here, is that this time is really different. If the dominant thought when I started was whether readers were going to like my stuff, I gradually and spontaneously distanced myself from that. Not that it isn’t important. It’s just no longer top of mind. And not by choice. Writing has become a thought-identification process, a therapeutic activity, a conduit to understand myself and the world around me in new, unexplored ways. Maybe the curiosity to unveil things about myself and my surroundings that I didn’t know is what made my focus naturally shift from what readers want to read to what I want to write. And if what I want to write ends up being interesting to readers too, that’s great. 

But I discovered that this isn’t easy, it isn’t a thing where you look at the blank page until the muse comes along and takes your hand and the magic happens. Eventually the magic does happen, but at the end of a lot of work, a somewhat painful process triggered by mysterious elements and producing mysterious outputs, one where energy, effort, brains, heart, and deadlines count. One where there’s discomfort involved.

A weekly writing cadence, where I commit to publishing a piece no matter how bad and confused and hopeless I might feel, taught me that I can do this even when I think I can’t. But I keep forgetting about this and every week I think that, this time, I won’t be able to do it. And when I eventually do, I’m so relieved that I get the strength to repeat the cycle all over again. This discomfort, this vague sense of self-doubt, is what I find writing and publishing regularly are all about. And maybe, paradoxically, this is precisely what keeps me at it week after week. Deadline after deadline. 

I now write for the satisfaction of creating something unexpected and surprising even to myself, no matter how painful and hard and inconvenient. And when you do things just for the satisfaction they give you, [insert the name of a miracle that happens]. Seriously though, I don’t really know what happens, maybe nothing. Doing something with total absorption and spontaneity is good in and of itself. And that’s enough.

But this piece isn’t an ode to my writing process and its evolution ever since that first time I hit publish. It’s been unprecedented for me to witness such a dramatic change in how I approach writing and, by reflection, in myself, but there’s nothing really special to it, and I’m sure thousands of others can relate.

Starting a substack has given me the opportunity to plug myself into a community of awesome people. Every week, I get several interesting and thought-provoking comments below my essays, left by people who have actually read them, who have paid attention to my writing. They tell me what it made them think of, lay out interesting ideas and unexpected connections, express emotions, and teach me things that I don’t know. They are encouraging and validate that what I deem interesting it’s also interesting to them (it doesn’t hurt), and contribute to propel my forward motion on this journey. They make me happy.

And so yesterday, for the first time in these first seven months, I did something that I intend to repeat periodically. I copied in a file, one by one, all the comments left below my essays. They are precious stuff, I thought, and I want to collect them as if they were antique books or sports cards or marbles or vintage guitars. In some cases, they are mini-essays in and of themselves, beautiful gifts given to me that I will want to return to and re-read and think about many times. They are what some truly special people took the time to write for me, to express their unique thoughts. And the very idea that these thoughts were inspired by my writing gives me joy and makes me think that I did something useful and positive and good, in a way.    

I ordered them by commentator's name and listed below each name all the comments they left, with the date and the title of the piece they refer to. Surprisingly (and amazingly), I filled more than fifty pages of a Google Doc, for a total of almost twenty thousand words! I had no idea they were this many. Isn’t twenty thousand words almost the length of a book? I don’t know, maybe not. Ok, maybe a short book. And maybe this is normal, I’m sure these twenty thousand words are but a drop in the ocean of all the comments that many “highly subscribed” writers receive, deservedly so. But it certainly isn’t normal for me, for my writing. And I feel so grateful and blessed.    

What I found by putting this file together is that I have serial commentators, people who always like to drop a few lines below my pieces. These are recurring names that I feel particularly close to, with whom I have developed a tie. They are also some of the ones I read the most myself. And I’m not doing this as a forced reciprocation -- their comments below my essays always reveal such interesting traits of them that I’m naturally compelled to go read their writings (or keep up with their publications). There’s clearly a bi-directional link between the quality of some people’s comments and the quality of their own publications, which in turn reflects the quality of their thoughts. 

And I often think that this could have gone in a totally different direction, that I could have received only sporadic comments, or none at all, that it could have been just crickets. But I’m happy it didn’t, so maybe there’s a little more to my writing than I tend to think. People seem to have some interest in my rantings and self-examinations. Maybe because I’m myself and this is my voice, the same I have in person? Maybe because I often vomit my stream of consciousness on the page, without caring too much about form and syntax? Who knows. I can only hope it will continue like this. I can only hope my serial commentators will continue to delight me with their thoughts and make me think or change my mind or see things from a different perspective. And I hope to see new serial commentators come along. 

But who are they? Who are these serial commentators? While, of all the ones who read, many took the time to leave at least a comment (and I’m so grateful for every single one of them), a bunch have been seriously recurring. 

Rick Lewis Courage Writer

, with his twenty-five comments, is undoubtedly my number one serial commentator. Twenty-five comments on thirty-one essays means that Rick has been there almost since day one. His comments are always so rich (never a one- or two-liner, always a mini-essay) and well-articulated and thoughtful and original. His aim is to start a conversation, and I’m always glad to virtually sit down and have a virtual coffee with him, and engage with his views. I can tell my writing makes him think, which is really what I’m here for, at the end of the day: to think and make others think. Rick writes about personal experience storytelling, courage, and authenticity. His substack is one of those that I immediately read as soon as they hit my inbox.

Oscar Obregon

is my number two serial commentator with twenty-two occurrences so far. Like Rick, Oscar always takes his time to read, reflect, digest, and write beautiful thoughts below my pieces. His comments come from the heart, and sometimes are so enchanting and flattering that words fail me, I don’t know what to respond. Oscar writes beautiful and compelling pieces about movies, and thoughts and stories related to movies. He’s a member of my writing group and recently spent three months in Japan and wrote about it. A must-read. At the risk of saying something trite and cliché, Oscar’s pieces make my inbox a better place.

Rachael Tiss

is number three with seventeen comments. Sensitive, clear-headed, soft spoken, and bright, she always knows how to relate to what I write about. She enriches my substack with perfect little analyses of the subjects at hand, alongside carefully chosen words about her feelings and personal experiences. She’s a member of my writing group and was one of the first to like my “voice” for what it is, regardless of the content of my writings. Rachael writes Connection Crave, a repository of beautiful essays on how to “foster deeper human connection in our overstimulated world”, as well as the WorkLife Harmony newsletter. I love her stuff.

Helen at

Earthly Fortunes

is number four with sixteen comments. The most knowledgeable, cultured, well-read person I know, she can write about history, agriculture, software, AI, farming, music, and more with disarming naturalness and discernment. She always makes the most interesting and unexpected connections when commenting on my pieces, and she’s also a Frank Zappa fan. Helen writes a newsletter on “fortunes that come from the Earth”: geography, energy, industrial society, and “the Unseen of modern life and history”. Highly recommended.     

Number five is Tai Whyte at

Tai Quinn Whyte's Weekly Wisdom Newsletter

(thirteen comments). His amazing thoughts and quotations and poetry below my pieces leave me in awe, every time. His comments are little universes to discover, savor, and return to. A practicing jazz musician and teacher, he’s one of the few persons I know capable of speaking and writing about themes at the intersection of psychology, philosophy, spirituality, neuroscience, and obviously music. Tai is a member of my writing group and publishes an extraordinarily interesting newsletter on all these things, where I always learn a ton.

Chris Coffman

is number six, with (eleven) comments that are little lessons of history and philosophy and art. They’re so dense and packed with interesting references and reflections and reading recommendations. His vast culture and well-readness speak volumes every time he comes to comment on my stuff. And I’ve learned so much from him. Chris has published two novels and writes Positive Space, a fantastic collection of long pieces on beauty and truth. Even if longer than most, I devour his essays. 

Grace Sydney Smith

(writer of The G Word, a newsletter on life, literature, truth, fiction, and evoking stories from the past) and

martino/pietropoli

(writer of Il Pensiero Lungo, a newsletter on the things we think about all life long, those that are really worth thinking about), have nine occurrences each and are both number seven. Their comments are profound, unconventional, measured reflections and ideas, and their own substacks are unique, illuminating, and so well done. Two must-check outs. 

Finishing up with

Malavika Mudit

(eight comments),

Michelle Varghoose

(seven comments), and

Camilo Moreno-Salamanca

(seven comments). They all write so beautifully and thoughtfully, and leave such precious and intriguing comments that my substack wouldn’t be complete without their punctual interventions. Malavika writes the superb Diffuse Attention, where she slow-thinks about slow-living in a fast-moving world. Michelle, one of the most popular and original emerging writers on Substack, as well as a valuable member of my writing group, writes the outstanding Michelle Varghoose, an inspiring newsletter about how she left the corporate world for a two-year sabbatical and started her journey as a creator, among other things. Camilo writes a newsletter called Tangent, a “small Internet detour meant to bring insight, joy, and help you find the beauty/interesting in the mundane”, as well as longer pieces that he calls musings. All three of them are special humans, interesting thinkers, and awesome writers.   

And I would be remiss if I forgot to mention

Steven Foster

(five comments),

Karena

(five comments),

Vicky Zhao

(four comments),

Elizabeth Edwards

(three comments),

Arman Khodadoost

(three comments),

Sandra Yvonne

(three comments),

Latham

(three comments),

Eric Ho

(three comments),

Leo Ariel

(two comments),

Charlie Becker

(two comments),

Nic Rosslee

(two comments),

Sairam Sundaresan

(two comments),

Dekera Greene Rodriguez

(two comments),

Jisoo Kim

(two comments),

Matt Tillotson

(one comment),

Chris Wong

(one comment), and

Kelly Davis

(one comment). All of them have their own super interesting substacks, all of them are inspiring writers that I know well and learned a ton from, and all of them are well worth a subscription.¹

A special mention goes to

Yehudis Milchtein

-- she didn’t comment much, alas, but I know her well as she, too, is a member of my writing group, and we have endless voice conversations on the most disparate themes, including the ones we decide to write about (so I guess our writing group chats compensate for her lack of commenting on my pieces). Her newsletter features real-life stories as portraits of her human experience, and I warmly recommend it.

I’ve been mentioned several times in many of the above newsletters, and I’m blessed to be part of this wonderful community of writers. 

So, there you have it: the first issue of The Mother of All Shoutouts. It looks like the end credits of a movie. But instead of being in order of appearance, they’ve been ordered by the number of comments they left me, from serial to sporadic. I’ll do this again in six months.

I hope this is going to last forever. 

1. I’m also so grateful for all those who read, comment, but do not have a substack (yet). I wouldn’t know how to mention them here. And those few commentators to whom I’m not subscribed (yet), but that in due course I’ll check out properly.