I’m currently spending an inordinate amount of time writing chapters for a new book about getting older. It’s exciting, time-consuming, and probably the most intellectually challenging endeavor I’ve undertaken so far. I really have to apply myself if I’m going to reach my totally unreasonable year’s end deadline. The hardest part? Not ducking or suppressing my feelings and just being brutally honest about how I’m dealing with aging.

I used to get stressed out for having too many ways to express myself creatively. Now I just feel kind of lucky to always have a few options. From a practical point of view, writing is the most accessible and ultimately, the most distributable. In the long run, it might just be the most fulfilling. For all his shortcomings, I somewhat begrudgingly admit enjoying a smidge of gratefulness for having inherited a few strands of my father’s writing gene.