there is someone out there with a wound in the exact shape of your words

i will keep making things

I received an email from Substack recently, telling me that I've lost subscribers to this newsletter. In the spirit of the 9-year-olds that I used to love/fear coaching... when? when did I ask? They used to say that to me when I would give feedback that they never asked for, and as Ted Lasso so eloquently puts it, "I don't think you realise how healthy that is".

There was a time, all too recently, that seeing the number going down would bother me. That the gentle downward trend in the % of people who open this email when it inevitably hits their inbox is a sign that I am failing. And maybe it is, but I've learned that being curious about it is far more productive than my automatic, surface-level anger to hide the fact that it hurts.

I thought about this in other contexts, for the creators that I love. I'm sure that subscriber numbers on YouTube are such an important commodity, but I think it's kinda scary that we've commodified this. What happens when that's the only metric that matters? This awkward, ironic clashing of worlds where your best content is written from a place of deep care and openness and perhaps a sense of introversion because it matters to you and that creative space is exponential... the second you leave that space, you might also leave behind the energy that got you here in the first place.

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A post shared by @filmwavecherry

I was watching one of my favourite musical artists perform a live concert set as a video on YouTube recently, and it got me thinking about the joy of creating. I have always adored live music, and it's meant that my money is often spent on experiences rather than material things because the way it feels to be in the presence of people like Hozier and Noah Kahan is absolutely priceless.

I remember going to one of the most infamous music festivals here in Australia (Splendour in the Grass) by myself one year, because I didn't know anyone else who wanted to go. I drove the 2 hours to Byron Bay in my little car on the morning of the first day, because I could only afford a ticket to 1/3 days and thankfully so many artists I knew were playing on that Friday. I remember the trip feeling like so much further than 2 hours because I had never needed to drive that long before (a blip on the map compared to my move to Perth). I caught the bus into the showgrounds and all the acts that I wanted to see early in the day often played to half-empty tents.

When Jack Garratt took the stage of one particular tent and started live mixing his own music, putting little twists and turns on the songs that I knew word for word, beat for beat, I was mesmerised. Until I overheard someone standing behind me remark with clear disdain... "this is nothing like the original". I felt like yelling THAT'S THE POINT. Why would you come all this way for something that is saved on your phone. Why would you spend so much money to disregard the human being that created the thing you love, and THEIR expression of love, which is to create something right in front of us. The vulnerability that it takes to toy with the familiar, to venture into the unknown between this note and the next and share that with strangers? How could you not appreciate that.

You could view Jon Bellion's live 'concert' in the same way: it's just a livestream right, why not just go through the motions and play the songs you know like the back of your hand, and make it sound like the recordings that made you famous... but he chooses not to. I get the sense that he couldn't even if he wanted to. His infectious energy and blatant love for the creative process, for making something together, for thinking through making and doing, is captivating.

I want to be captivating, not captive to what people think we should do, be, write.

That concert, which I stumbled upon, was the shape of my wound and I didn't even know it until I found it.

I find this reflection has impeccable timing, because I have been plagued by some feedback that I didn't realise was holding me captive until I started writing this edition. It was a comment around my approach to developing young people in a niche space (cricket umpiring). Like many spaces I occupy nowadays, my goal is to make it fun, engaging, active and experiential. I don't just want to talk about the thing, I want to think and feel through it. There are so many key moments in a sport like cricket, and if you don't get a chance to practice those moments in a safe space, where you can work through your mistakes and evolve your approach, then those skills won't transfer to the performance environment even on a good day.

Umpiring in cricket being a rich, dynamic, decision-making process that requires you to make sense of sooo many sources of information at once, it's almost ironic that the most common form of training is a 3 hour slide deck. Words do not teach you how to do things, and they sure as hell won't get you out of trouble when someone (disrespectfully) questions your decision, even if nothing will come of it because your decision is final.

I get it, steeped in tradition and all that, but I don't think it's a matter of believing 'this is how we've always done it' or a fear of change. I mean, sure, those things are probably bubbling underneath the surface for everyone at any given time, but when you really stop to appraise the situation, how can sitting still and passively being told information help you move, make decisions, find information and know how to use it, communicate with others, shake people's hand, instil confidence and be uncertain and make a decision anyway.

We can be as animated and engaging as we want in that classroom, but we do not umpire cricket in a classroom. So where do we go from here? If our understanding of what learning really is, is fundamentally different? If what we think is valuable, and how we can grow that together, is done in entirely different ways? I'm more than happy to do both for now, but I can't keep splitting atoms.

I will keep making things though, like silly little games where children kick tennis balls so they can decide if that was an LBW wicket or not. Like putting out a boundary rope and making people jump over and around and in and out again just in case some kid watches Glenn Maxwell in the Big Bash League and tries to do it too. We'll cover off on most of the 42 Laws of cricket, but they won't know it until they get home and download the app, or read the handbook. And then, sometimes, I'll get an email from a parent saying 'I bought [my child] a copy of the Laws of Cricket, which they read every night'.

And if you're sentimental like me, you'll write that on a sticky note in the back of your journal and carry it everywhere you go.

p.s. 22564 days, trying not to spend them angry.