The Mess Behind the Screen
I am a hypocrite.
There’s been a lot of noise about the Andrew Huberman situation, a conversation I have zero interest in joining. But it got me thinking about the disconnect between public personas and private people — the mismatched creatures lurking on either side of the same screen.
After years spent working in various sectors of the media (at a talent agency, as a book editor, on staff at various publications, as a celebrity ghostwriter…) I have a hard time trusting what I read — not the words themselves, which are easy enough to take at face value, but the voices from whence they emanate. Many are the times I’ve met a beloved figure whose work I stanned only to discover the human behind the art was different than advertised.
In numerous cases, I’ve also observed an inverse relationship between one’s area of focus and their lived experience. If someone extolls the virtues of work-life balance, say, there is a decent chance they spend all their waking moments glued to their computer.
While I’d love to regale you with specific tales of shocking behavior, that would be very much beside the point. Because the point is this:
It is everyone.
The public-private disconnect isn’t limited to famous folks, or public personas, or even randos who grab the mic. The nature of sharing our lives online, in any way, is that one can only present a slice at a time. Even the most well-meaning, authentic tell-all can only cover so much.
The more I live, the more I am forced to conclude that the world is full of hypocrites. Do I count myself among them? Absolutely.
*
I’d like to think that if you spent a day with me, you wouldn’t encounter a wildly different person than the glimpses you see here. But while I try to present an honest account, I am human — with hang-ups and projections and not-entirely-objective views of my being. I asked my partner, Teddy, to weigh in on how reality might not match what you read. “Well, for one thing, people probably perceive that you sit down and the ideas flow and suddenly you’ve got an essay,” he said. “But I know the reality is very different.”
So, in an effort to be transparent (and also entertaining), today’s newsletter comes to you in collaboration with my spouse, who (bless him) witnesses my process every week.
Fictional Ideal
(How a Sunday Letter happens, in my dreams)
I’m out on a run when an idea drops, fully formed, from the ether. Never one to toy with a transient gift of the Muses, I jot it down in my Notes App. After a shower, I land at my desk, where my fingers tippy-tap the essay with relative ease. It takes an hour, maybe two. Once the draft is complete, I step away for a moment to sip a hot beverage and gaze wistfully out the window at an idyllic city scene. I return to the essay with fresh eyes, adjusting some words so the language flows and pops exactly as I wish. I schedule it to publish on Sunday evening, a time still in the future.
Reality
(How it really goes, 200 letters and counting)
It’s Sunday morning. This is the day I send my newsletter, but the newsletter does not yet exist.
This is not abnormal. It’s also not entirely fair. It does exist, sort of. I’ve been working on it for days, if not weeks. There are notes scribbled in a notebook. Other thoughts written on my phone. A Word document full of paragraphs that don’t yet connect in any meaningful way.
(Teddy adds, “You always start the day muttering, ‘I have nothing! I have nothing.’”)
I’m not yet sure what the point is — the thesis, the conclusion, the heart. This typically unfolds as I’m writing, which is annoying because I have to suspend my disbelief and keep going without a guarantee. It’s like driving with a GPS system that thinks it’s funny to withhold how much farther you have to go.
Teddy is in his office, working at the computer. I appear in the doorway.
“Okay. This is what I’m thinking.” I rattle off the gist of what I have so far. “That sounds interesting,” he says, half paying attention, which is just as well. This is only the first appearance. There will be many more.
I’d like to tell you what transpires over the next, oh, I don’t know, ten hours or so, but it’s akin to falling down the rabbit hole. There is much typing, some copy-and-paste shifting of things. Pacing. Copious amounts of lip biting.
From Teddy’s vantage point, I walk by approximately seventeen to eighty times. Sometimes, my wandering appears to have a point — to procure a glass of water, to greet the dog. Other times, it seems I am lost in my own home.
Some frequent exclamations, delivered to no one in particular:
“I don’t like it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“I scrapped the whole thing and started over.”