Ass in Chair, Fingers on Keys

The oldest surviving Qwerty keyboard, made in 1872. It can be found in the Buffalo History Museum.

Hello, it’s me. It’s been a long time.

Here are a couple of things I’ve learned in the time I was gone.

First, never break a good habit streak. Once you’re rolling and stop, it can be hard to get back into the groove. Even for things you enjoy.

Second, comparison is the killer of joy.

I knew both of these things already, but I fell into old traps.

I’m going to blame the nearly two months it has taken to get another post on Tom friggin’ Junod.

If you’re not familiar with Tom, he’s one of the finest magazine writers of the last fifty years. His Falling Man has become the unofficial eulogy for the Twin Towers. For many, it defines our memory of 9/11. His profile of Fred Rogers became a Tom Hanks movie and has elevated Mister Rogers to a cultural touchstone. In the next few weeks, Tom will publish a memoir of his father, In the Days of My Youth I Was Told What it Is to Be a Man. I expect it to be a phenomenon. It will win big awards. It will be a movie. It will cause people to start dressing like a 1960s hairlegger.

The thing is, Tom has started doing publicity for the book, and one of his stops was the How I Write podcast. And when a writer as good as Tom Junod spends an hour or so talking about the secrets to good writing, other writers should pay attention.

After I processed his advice, I wrote lots of words for this Substack. I kept revising a long, 5,000-word piece centered around learning as much as I could from Tom. And none of it was up to snuff because I was trying to write like Tom Junod.

What a waste.

So that’s where I’ve been—trying to write like someone else. That said, I’d encourage other writers to watch the podcast. There is a lot of good stuff in there—just don’t lose yourself.

Also, buy the book.

My ersatz sabbatical has had me thinking a lot about writing, though. And the point of it. The thing about Tom’s stuff is that a couple of his pieces are Important. Capital I, era-defining important. Aspiring to that is a worthwhile goal, but there’s no quicker way to drain the pleasure out of a project than to put that kind of weight on it.

I’m not going to write that way. But I am coming to terms with my writing as little i important. That’s because in 2025, over half of the traffic on the internet was generated by AI. This shit is taking over our lives. Writing is our primal art and we are surrendering it to some server farm in rural Idaho.

As AI slop comes at us like The Great Wave off Kanagawa, striving to write well is my flag of permanent defeat, patched together out of flour sacks and raised above my rickety sloop. To care about language is the only resistance I can offer. The act of making art for arts’ sake is once again a radical notion.

I came across this video a few weeks ago about the advantages of film in the era of digital. It tells the story of what we lose for the sake of convenience. But it is also about taking the time and focusing on craft. As much as Tom’s advice, it’s reframed how I think about writing.

After I watched this, I wanted to go to the nearest pawn shop and buy an old film camera. But I’m a writer, not a photographer. (Also, I already have a perfectly good Ikoflex sitting on the shelf.) I don’t need a camera, I need a keyboard and I need that moment of focus that all writers strive for.

I’ve been known to complain about the act of writing. I often quote good ole Dottie Parker’s line, “I hate writing, but I love having written.” That’s an oversimplification. For me, there’s a lot of sloppy time around writing. Getting myself comfortable, checking emails and messages, distracting myself with this website or that app. It’s all a type of throat clearing. All of it is chasing moments of focused creativity.

I probably could have written a bad novel with the time I’ve spent on Substack if I’d used some Nanowrimo methods. If I’d used a little AI, I could have written a three-book romantasy series. But at sixty, much of the regret I have is for the corners I cut. I made great opportunities for myself, then failed to do great things when I found workarounds that meant the results were good enough, but not great. On the other hand, the things I’m most proud of are the things I gave everything to.

I would never have called myself a writer at the time I told myself I was going to write a novel. I just wasn’t very good and the word meant too much to me. But I wanted to be one, and I committed to the process, to not cut corners, to learn the craft, and do the work.

I knew what writing wasn’t, and I didn’t want any part of it. I was running one of the larger book festivals in the country at the time. It seemed like every time I was at a gathering, another someone would come to me and tell me they were a writer and they had a great idea for a book. Often, they would be looking for help writing their book. They had the idea, but couldn’t find the time to get it on the page.

Here’s an idea for a book: A guy gets up from his hospital bed and walks home.

You might say that’s not much of an idea, and you’d be right. But Charles Frazier turned it into a National Book Award. That’s the plot of Cold Mountain.

You don’t need an idea to be a writer. You need to do the work.

Writing a novel was me putting myself through a kind of school. I’d already gone to the finest schools, mister lonely, but I only used to get juiced in it. This was different. There were years of research for my book, but also years of revision. The research was fun. The revisions—less so. Revising—reworking my own sentences over and over— taught me to write. When my agent called and told me that St. Martin’s was taking my book, I considered it my graduation. I got my diploma. I moved my tassel. I’ve called myself a writer since that day—that is my reward for doing the work.

I’m still a writer, and my goal is to be a better writer. Just not necessarily to write like Tom Junod, damn him. And becoming a better writer means sitting in the chair and putting fingers on the keys. A human writing about human things and making human mistakes. Let the AI wave crash over me, I’ll still be typing away.

So after a short break, I’m back here in myhandbasket. I missed y’all.

Song of the Week

I couldn’t do the opening line of this post without having this track tucked in down here.

Hello, It’s Me is the first song Todd Rundgren ever wrote. It is a perfect pop gem but quite sad at it’s heart.

Rundgren has always zigged when the world was zagging. It’s part of his charm and cultish longevity. To this day, one of the most incongruous producing credits in rock and roll history is his name on Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell. These days he admits that he produced the ninth-best record of all time just to make fun of Bruce Springsteen. Ha, ha. Very funny. Now do Dylan.