The Time to Begin

We don’t always begin when we think we should. Sometimes, the work needs to wait until we’ve lived a little more, learned a little more, and become someone better equipped to see it through. What looks like delay from one perspective may be necessary preparation from another.

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I’ve been editing the second volume of my Reluctant Pilgrim book series in recent weeks. Interestingly, at least to me, it’s been nearly two years to the day since I began editing what would become Vol. I: Ashes and Ascent. It was a steep learning curve: fonts and typography, cover design, which authors I wanted to emulate or steal ideas from in terms of style and presentation, the book’s overall layout, the ins and outs of Kindle Direct Publishing, and finally, diving deep into my words, ideas, and compositions once again, probably for the last time.

Ever since publishing that first book, I’ve felt I should dive straight into the next, and then the next. But it didn’t work that way. I can conjure up all sorts of reasons why things happened as they did, but having returned to the process over the past few weeks and gotten my writing and editing muscles back in tune, I know it couldn’t have happened otherwise.

I haven’t stopped writing and publishing new material in the meantime. Between my usual Journal articles and essays and the deep-dive Lux Colloquii AI discourses (the first, “Walking Away: The Path to True Autonomy,” was published on my birthday in 2025), I’ve put out well over a million words of content. In another light, I needed that extra time to become who I am now, and that growth is informing how I approach and refine the editing process. The usual existential questions remain, too, along with the constant companion: Is this even useful? They keep me on my toes.

When we’re moved to pursue something that truly reignites or rekindles the flame we’ve carried our whole lives, we tend to fall into the work of refining the skills relevant to that pursuit. Life keeps happening in the interim. The sense of urgency that compels us to force ourselves to produce may occasionally get us moving. But before long, allowing life to get in the way becomes easier than finding the flow and doing the thing. The challenge can be greater when we choose to take this journey alone, accountable only to ourselves. Good or bad, that dynamic is unique to the individual. Be honest with yourself, because there are those who are more than happy to help.

I didn’t schedule a time or date to begin editing the next two volumes. My current aim is to publish both by year’s end, so I’ll have three books to promote in tandem. A few days earlier, I’d moved the raw documents onto the desktop of my old MacBook. Then I just started, without really thinking about it. I quickly remembered the keyboard shortcuts for the typographic elements in each chapter and got on with reading and revising what my early-2017 self had written.

As before, I’m updating the posts on my website as I work through them in the book. The version that remains will be the “final” version of each piece. The next day, I back up a few pages, reread, and tweak, trim, or revise if the spirit moves me before continuing. If my approach to scrutinizing and critiquing the work shifts significantly, I go all the way back to the beginning with fresh eyes and apply that refined process to everything I’ve already revised. The point is, I’m no longer just revising old writing. I’m deciding what deserves to survive.

I’m using ChatGPT again to assist in the editing process. As it noted recently, when I commented that I was keen to implement Derek Sivers’ writing strategy of less is more:

“There’s a difference between polishing a piece until it reads smoothly and refining it until every word earns its place. The first can leave all the original problems intact, simply dressed in better language. The second requires us to question the writing itself: what are you really saying, why does it matter, and have you said it as clearly and powerfully as you can? I’d suggest we adopt a more rigorous standard for these pieces going forward.”

And, for reference, here’s the general idea of how Derek approached writing and editing one of his books:

“I spent thousands of hours writing everything I ever learned, from the 400+ books I’ve read, and the 50+ years I’ve lived. Rough draft: over 1300 pages. Then I spent thousands of hours editing it down to 112 poetic pages. Not a single unnecessary word.”

So, ideally, the standards I hold my writing to will continue to inch forward and upward. I put a significant amount of work into refining these poems, articles, and essays back in 2019. Now it’s time to get brutally honest, clear, and concise, without sacrificing the heart and substance of the message.

Maybe it’s simply how the stars or planets have aligned once again. Maybe it’s a seasonal change that inspires this kind of shift. Maybe it’s because I’m halfway through my 50th year on this earth. Maybe it’s because I’ve been considering, in other areas of life, the necessity of changing things and relocating myself again sooner rather than later.

That internal shift, that spiritual impetus that never rests, drives outward change and spills into other areas of my life. Quite literally, turning the page on this old-made-new-again material feels critical to my progress in this one short life. Having projects to pour my creativity into is also good for my overall mental health.

There are so many ways in which the arguably fake world around us manufactures a sense of urgency, feeding the illogic of fear of missing out. But when the impulse is real, it isn’t forced. It’s simply the beginning of what we’re here to be and do. It doesn’t require prompting, pushing, or coercion of any kind. It’s a recognition that the time has come, and a willingness to follow through.

Rather than remaining in a state of seeking, striving, or need, resisting the current and trying to paddle against the flow, we become actively engaged in directing that force, drawing on both familiar and as-yet-untapped creative energy.

We can spend years trying to force something into being, forcing ourselves into action again and again, driving ourselves a little more insane with every blind stab and short-lived spark of inspiration. Then, when we’re finally ready, we discover that we don’t need to force it at all. We simply begin.

So begin.

Solvitur ambulando