Call it a summer pause

May we all return rested.

This could be us. (Getty Images)

A cardinal rule of newsletter writing is that when you publish an issue you’re especially proud of — an essay that resonates, that a longtime reader calls “one of the most powerful things you’ve ever written” — the next issue is going to be ... not as good. It might even be bad.

Sure, there are exceptions. Some geniuses manage to deliver a sophomore album, book, or other work of art that outshines their breakout hit. Some people seem to swing home run after home run, operating on a different plane than the rest of us mortals. But even for those ultra-visionary, ultra-talented few, life eventually comes for them: they can’t all be hits.

I could have tried for another hit this week. I could have written about our newly tree-less patio, now more barren and blindingly bright than I imagined. I could have shared the story of my neighbor and friend, who read last week’s essay as she heard the tree being taken down — that same friend who recently visited a detention center in middle Georgia to volunteer with an organization that supports immigrants, many of whom have lost all hope. I could describe how she cried that day, a deluge of tears she’d been holding back for weeks.

I could have written about Pee-wee as Himself, a documentary which was as affecting and powerful as everyone said it would be. I could have tied together threads from the many excellent books I’ve read lately — The Bones Beneath My Skin (weird and wonderful), The Road to Tender Hearts (fast-paced and funny, despite some truly dark subject matter), and Second Life: Having a Child in the Digital Age (gorgeously written and researched, though I find myself slogging through). I could have dug into what it means to crave ease in a world full of hard truths — why, despite so many beautiful, deep works of art, I still find myself drawn to the mindless. (And Just Like That ... I’m watching a show that drives me crazy, but I can’t turn away from.)

I could have explored the tension of attempting to create something meaningful in a time when people, myself included, are tired and simply want something light. Something escapist. Something that doesn’t require too much of our sweet, dumb brains.

I could have started working on this newsletter earlier. Given myself space to explore all those ideas instead of using my limited time to lament how this week’s essay won’t be nearly as good as the last.

I could have tried harder. But I didn’t. I’m not.

It’s hot, and my creativity tends to shrivel in the sun (much like the plants in our backyard). The world is heavy. It’s hard to know what to say, or what to even focus on, when everything feels small and silly in the face of such big, burdensome times. My attention is scattered. I suspect that’s true for many of you, too. Readership is down. Paid subscriptions are down. My mood: also down.

So I’m giving myself a permission slip.

To take a break.

To release the pressure to be meaningful or poetic this week.

To stop trying so. damn. hard.

And I hope you’ll give yourself that same permission.

Call it a summer pause. (For those of you in the Southern Hemisphere: a winter hibernation.) A mid-year breather. This week, try to find one small way to rest, whether it's trading a workout for a nap on the couch, ordering takeout instead of making dinner, or skipping a newsletter essay.

And here’s the important part: give yourself a break from the guilt, too.

Rest helps us return as better versions of ourselves — more creative, more patient, more present. You deserve that. We all do.

My editor, Becca, and I are both on vacation with our families next week, so there will be no newsletter. Another break! I hope you use the time you’d spend reading My Sweet Dumb Brain to do something else deliciously sweet and dumb. Dance in the kitchen. Doodle on a piece of scrap paper. Close your eyes and listen to the world around you.

I’ll be back in your inbox on July 29. If all goes well, I’ll be rested and rejuvenated. I hope you will be, too.

Enjoy the break, friends.

xoxo
KHG