My giggles are gone—it’s late in the afternoon, and I haven’t had time to truly sit down and write for myself just yet—but the amusement behind this idea is not. So, it stays, and thankfully, so are you.

It’s 3:30 PM and I’m itching for my second coffee of the day, about a half an hour before a call I’m very much looking forward to. Maybe someday I’ll talk about this call and the aftermath, if all goes well…

Anyway.

This idea came to me in the shower, and so you have to suffer with me.

Or, laugh. Which is preferable.

The original concept behind this was to write a literal, bland as hell 20-step “guide” to show you how to be as boring as possible, packed with all the “advice” you see posted on every social media wall, on every LinkedIn article, and on every entrepreneurship-buzzing X feed. People like to fight me on what they consider actual useless advice, but if this helps clear any confusion, I consider any and all trends to be absolutely pointless.

I liked the idea, sure, but as soon as I opened up my laptop and finished writing the headline, something struck me.

Struck me not in the, say, lighting in a bottle sense, but more like a delicate little spark. A nip on the heel courtesy of a sentient cotton ball pretending to be a poodle. A perturbed sliver under the skin that you can’t quite pluck.

I stopped myself from pursuing the admittedly superficial and many-times-done idea, because I realized I was almost entering a pattern I have consciously tried to peel off my brain ever since I pivoted this newsletter for the thousandth time.

(If rebranding were a sport, I’d be a fucking Olympian).

And that pattern was accidentally falling into the exact habits I’m trying to break. By creating something silly and parodying, in a way, the marketing and sales storytelling behind masterclasses, and courses, and other pieces of purchasable things thrown at you on a daily basis, I was contributing an equal amount of shallowness.

I don’t even believe that these things I just listed off are inherently distasteful. Quite the contrary; I’ve invested many times into books, mentorships, and courses that have significantly changed my life, career, and self-awareness as a creative human—including Ogilvy on Advertising, which, to this day, serves as one of my personal bibles.

Now, why does this matter? In some ways, it doesn’t. I could’ve still gone through with what I was thinking about doing. It probably would’ve gotten at least a curious response. Maybe a few chuckles. Maybe a few swipes and disinterested shrugs. Maybe. But instead, what I would like to do is walk you through why this is important on a grander scale, because most people who are so quick to jump on trends and abandon their identity could use a solid, bare-bones kick in the teeth.

Writing daily personal essays is a commitment.

It’s a commitment that forces me to think about my ideas without falling into the temptation of going with what’s easiest, and what’s fastest. Especially right now, as I face an interesting career transition, living in a new apartment with my life partner, embarking on side quests that light the fire in my blood and a delicious current of lightning in my brain. Especially during this awkward time where I’m unleashing everything that comes to this dome, and practicing curation in terms of the Soul, and not of the usual parameters I would use to guard, systemize and deploy my taste.

I don’t think I’m a boring person.

SIDE NOTE. It’s 9:38 PM now. Been a few hours since I started this article. Been a few hours since I thought about the beginning of this. My eyes are glazing over, dry and tired and bloodshot. I think my thoughts have been stirring with the might of a whirlpool Odysseus would give the wide berth, because I’d completely forgotten I was writing this. It’s interesting to skim over this—because I’ve made a pact with myself to not cut anything glaring or sequential to these articles, as this is part of the entire point of writing CUT YOUR TEETH this way, as crippling, uncomfortable honesty is one of the most important ingredients to this messy, beautiful place. Now, as I’ve read, I’m leading myself to places I didn’t really think about before. This is the magic of writing that can’t really happen without the working of the brain in the background as you leave and commit yourself to other projects. Even when you’re not sure what to write about, let the ideas unfold as you go. Feel them flow from fingers to keyboard. Or pen and paper. If you have those, you’re a better person than me. I get carpal tunnel when I try to write with just pen and paper, sadly. I’m almost jealous.

But, I almost gave into a trope, rather than a proper idea.

A trope that would automatically chain me to the Kingdom of Bore—might write that down; there could be a short story idea lingering in-between those syllables—and I would have no one but myself to blame.

You might think this is silly.

Who cares? Who gives a shit, Taylor? Why would anyone give a flying fuck about whatever you’re trying out? Why does it matter if you post something thoughtless and silly and contrived? The rest of us do it. Why should we even pay attention to the flywheel you’re throwing at me right now? Goddamn.

Those are all potential, validated questions that could pop up as a response. I unconsciously anticipate them even when I don’t want to. I simply write, and think as I write, and publish. For this newsletter, I no longer put myself through the painstaking editing process, only because this is a test of the Self to push through the boundaries of limitations and see what’s possible when I allow the mind to unbind itself from the

I almost gave into the temptation of going with the funny joke of an idea that didn’t really align with who I am as a person, instead of writing out the answer to the question that was sitting in the back of my mind: “Why am I even considering the easy way out? I have so much I would rather say.”

I’m never going to discover my true, Undiscovered Strengths as a writer—and neither will you, by the way—if I (or you, once again—heh, aren’t I cool and meta) allow my distractions to guide me from dopamine-induced excitement to the addictive, syrupy-sweet promises teased to me through these half-baked, unexciting, shallow ideas?

So instead of giving you the parody of a 20-step guide, or course, or whatever—and honestly, if I’m chronically allergic to anything in the digital universe, it would be the abhorrent how-to guides that most freelance writers were stuck learning how to dish out for tech companies in 2018 to pay their bills—I think it’s more appropriate to give you the honest advice 99.9% of these gurus wish they knew how to give you in a fraction of their snake oil time projections. For free.

How to be so boring no one could possibly give a fuck about you even if you gave them all the sex, drugs, and money in the world.

The secret isn’t really a secret.

It’s simple, and it’s a trap even the most intelligent people fall for.

The “secret” is to constantly show up as someone else, and never as yourself. It’s to train your mind, soul, and heart to be that of a Consumer, and never the Creator. It’s to be so wrapped up in the opinions, stories, and time-limited narratives of others that you forget what it feels like to hear your own thoughts. It’s to be so paralyzed by the idea of unpopularity that you don’t even dare take the chance to fall flat on your face, even if that one mistake could lead to a life-changing win. It’s to be a person who steals, cuts, trims, screenshots, and copies, but never takes their scrambled vision to the canvas. It’s to be so embroiled in what’s happening now that you completely lose sight of history’s greatest stories that transcended tragedy, beauty, and curvatures of humanity. It’s to be the person that’s never curious, and never comfortable with their own thoughts, and never interested in creating anything of value for themselves.

To be boring is to sacrifice everything you are for everyone else.

And, yes, this is what most people are telling you to do.

Yes, you could go viral. You could make money. You could get attention.

That’s great, in its own way. I applaud earned success.

But then what? What will you have to show for it once the vibes end, you shed your old skin, and what you became known for doesn’t reflect you at the place you are right now? What will you do when everything you ignored makes sense, and nothing you actually did makes sense any longer? What will you do when the templates become obsolete, your writing folds within itself because you have’t shared an original thought in years, and everyone else has moved onto something sparklier, shinier, and prettier? What will you do when you dissolve into ashes? When you become insignificant?

Not sure how you’re feeling, but I’m not grinning anymore.

Goodnight, good morning, and good luck.

— Taylor Barnes.

When was the last time you had this conversation with yourself? Probably never, if you took the time to open this email. Newsletter. Column. Letter. Glorified diary entry dripping with too much to say and too much to think and not enough desire for harmful habits to make it half as good as anything Kerouac wrote. (Don’t really mean that, but you kind of get what I mean, yeah?) Whatever you want to call it, I guess. Doesn’t really matter. Now. Look. I’ll say it straight, because you deserve that, and you’re still rocking your way down this message, faster than I can mentally picture the entire portrait as it unfolds—your delusions are not fucking grandeur enough. You don’t dream big enough because you’ve never believed you were allowed to dream big. Or, to dream at all. Or, worse, you’ve had enough imagination to have grand dreams—for the dreamer is born, not made—and you’ve had visions, and you’ve had half-ideas borne from the blood and the soul and the trickling nightmare-delight hybrids you have never had explanations for, but somehow knew deep in your gut that they were real—and these, after all that… you ignored. You ignored those warnings and pursued the pain of others’ judgments. You ignored the good and chose the vile. You allowed the perspectives and opinions of Enemies and Allies alike poison your vision. The tears you’ve cried have been more for others and less for yourself. (Well, consciously, but we both know that those tears leaked from the eyes of the child within you who never had the audacity to challenge the system, say no to those who blocked them, and channeled their rage into horrendously addictive energy that made them stay up until midnight vomiting in the fucking toilet). this might hit too close to home. but you need to hear it. because I did, and if I could go back in time and shake myself by the shoulders, I would. I would, and I would scream into the face of the Girl I Was when I was old enough to understand where my heart wanted to go, but too afraid to pave the trail I wanted to pave. And I would wipe away her tears, and tell her to buck the fuck up and believe in herself and all that corny garble you don’t want to admit actually makes sense in the Hollywood makes-our-hearts-burst-into-flame way. Please understand that I’m telling you this because no one else had the gall. Please understand these are not warnings, but words of encouragement. Certified green lights to signal the traffic of your future. Your past. If I could go back in time, I would, but I can’t. Maybe you want to go back in time, as well, but you know you can’t. You can’t, and that’s okay, because the future still lacks tread. I’m giving you permission as a total fucking stranger because someone has to, because the only reason you’re still reading this is because you needed permission from someone who wouldn’t bullshit you. So I’m telling you right now that you can. You can fucking dream big. You can be so delusional it makes your chest tight and the air leave your lungs. You can be so unbelievably obsessed with your ideas and your dreams and your stories and your vision and your fucking everything that you can abandon the Dreams of Everyone Else behind and finally Achieve What You Want to Achieve.

You can. You will. You have to.

Good morning, good night, and good luck.

—Taylor Barnes.

There is nothing beautiful about complacency.

There is nothing beautiful about laziness. There is nothing beautiful about wallowing in self-pity. There is nothing beautiful about watching everyone else pursue their dreams while you drown yourself in self-inflicted woes (and lies). There is nothing beautiful about laughing at people who are actually trying, and insisting you’re superior because you didn’t have a shred of the audacity they did.

There is nothing beautiful about throwing Everything You Could Be away because you were given the excuse to do so by a random stranger on the internet that said you have every right to be angry about something you don’t actually understand.

Because it’s easier than ever now to broadcast victimhood and laziness and your bare-as-bones lack of giving a fuck, and you still wind up surprised that you’re not opening the doors you thought you would open. What a shock. What a disaster.

If you couldn’t tell, this is quite hideous, and not actually that funny at all, and to say I’m furious about the growing acceptance rate around this behavior is an understatement.

I’m angry about this strange unconscious shift towards intentional complacency because I was raised with the encouragement to pursue my dreams, no matter the cost, and to not let excuses define me—and yet, all around me, there is always at least one person who allows their misplaced hatred of society, or culture, or the government, or whatever else to direct and define their every move.

My mentors believe the same. The people I admire the most believe(d) the same. You think Michelangelo was complacent? You think he believed skipping the process of chiseling perfection out of marble and just “believing he deserved it” would’ve given him the same legacy that he has?

No. Obviously that would never happen. I could write an entire series of letters about Michelangelo alone, but he became who he was because he applied himself and he loved the work and he loved the process and nothing could’ve stopped him. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He would look at the wave of complacency today and laugh. He would be thoroughly disgusted by the lack of effort. The lack of fucking passion.

We admire the greats for being the greatest. We study them because they’re the greatest. It’s the same with scientists. Engineers. Builders. Entrepreneurs. Thinkers. Inventors. Makers. Artists. Athletes.

For some reason, though, we have recently chosen a narrative of laziness, complacency as a verb—now that’s a joke if I’ve ever read one, and I’m no comedian—and it’s brainwashed countless young people into believing they’re entitled to things just because of who they are. Their lack of effort is a poison supported by their equally lazy and chronically depressed peers, and it shows. The leaks are obvious.

If that’s you, let me be frank, because the only kind way to approach this is to be clear:

You’ve been told you shouldn’t have to work by people who hate work, and insist you should be damned if you do love work. (This is worse if you actually want to be rich; wealth does not inherently equal villainy, and being poor does not automatically make you virtuous). You’ve been told to accept the bare minimum by people who would rather see everyone fail—including themselves—then allow themselves the chance to get rich. You’ve been told to not even try, because why should you when you’re apparently “owed” a debt by “the system?”

You might think I’m getting political out of nowhere, but if you do think that, I need to push you to think about this deeper—because this is exactly what complacency comes from.

Complacency, in my unprofessional opinion, is born from insecurity, and this only becomes worse when it’s encouraged and logirifed on a mass scale. Yes, you could say ChatGPT and Claude and their Big Daddies are responsible for the electric current of complacency, handholding, and perpetual self-deluded victimhood. But, I would argue that you always have a choice, and bending the knee to the Musks and Zuckerberg’s and Altman’s of the world will never, ever do you any favors.

The acceptance of complacency is the rejection of potential.

You will never find the next Steve Jobs twiddling his thumbs and mumbling about the world and how “everyone’s against him” and how he’s somehow the only special person on the planet who would rather be complacent, point fingers, blame your problems on growing global juggernauts like every AI company on the planet, get angry at the success of others while you do nothing on your couch, etc. and etc.

The people who will change the world are never going to worship complacency.

If you don’t want to be complacent, don’t ever lose that. This is becoming a remarkable thing, to actually give a fuck about what you do, to actually strive to be the best you can be, to actually make something out of yourself that lives long after you’re gone. This is, sadly, one of the ugliest things to happen to humanity, and our growing acceptance of it—the normalization, the glorification, the glamorization and all the descriptors you could possibly need (pull out a damn thesaurus if you must)—will only get worse.

While everyone else is racing to the bottom and trying to drag you down with them, be the first person to say “no, I actually care, and I’m going to give a damn about myself.”

If your friends want to waste their lives and squander their potential and pretend the world is against them, let them. Let them do what they want to do.

But you must have courage to defy that, and choose to act.

Reject complacency and you choose beauty.

Have conviction. Have passion. Have ambition.

Accept complacency and you choose The Curse of Eternal Ugliness.

Choose wisely.

— Taylor Barnes

Might delete later.

I’ve been a writer for a long time. A copywriter, still long… but less than writing in general. A creative, since I opened my eyes. Maybe even from the womb. An artist, always. Perhaps in the cycle before me, whether that was crafted by intelligent design, or God, or evolutionary circumstance that’s too complex for me to understand but always grabs ahold of me in a way where I have no choice but to fucking listen so what’s the point? So many of us are, you know. You, too. You’re an artist. A creative. A writer. Musician, maybe? Painter? Filmmaker? Director? Entrepreneur? The ambitious creator-of-all-things-you-love-more-than-air that no one can copy but everyone will try? You know this already, so I don’t need to tell you, but I’m going to anyway—why, oh why, the fuck are you still following trends? Why are you pursuing the algorithm? For quick wins? Shots to the moon? A rush of golden dopamine so sexy and sweet it runs like gold in the bristling caverns of your brain matter? You’re hardwired—down to the bone, your DNA, the billions upon billions of cells and atoms and all the other fantastical things that make you who you are—to make, make, make. To be, be, be. To create without rules, without laws, without the tethering of other’s demands. Experts will try to convince you that you have to follow trends to survive. I disagree. I’m going to prove it. In my way. And so will you. You’ll flip off the trends and channel your own path because you realize sooner or later that you have no choice, and the most remarkable artists that ever lived—from business to the classics and beyond—never, ever, gave a single fuck about short-term trends and limited beliefs. They radically pursued who they were. They created who they were through action. They never gave up. They pushed, and failed, and kept going. You ill do the same, because you are designed to breach the world’s open arms and feed its insatiable earth with creations and thoughts and ideas and concepts that only you, as your individual self, can create. You’re not a fucking trend, so stop acting like one.

If this burns you to read as it did for me to write, good.

Don’t let that warning eat you alive without a result.

— Taylor Barnes.

Stop worshiping everyone else’s shit.

You drink the dopamine gold as if it were the finest wine.

What glitters on your social feed imprints on your brain. Yet another over-edited stranger on LinkedIn selling you a $27 course promising you’ll find “inspiration” through their half-baked, AI-generated garbage. Trends dominating the ads flooding your breaks in-between videos, podcasts, and personal writings are telling you to buy! Share! Review! Join our cult community!

Everywhere you look… there’s hell.

Noise. Signals. Lies. (Lazy) storytelling.

The more you consume, the less cognizant you become about what you consume. You stop paying attention to what you’re eating. You start losing sight of why you wanted to eat that thing to begin with.

Over time, you realize what a horrible mistake you’ve made, but once you realize what’s happened, it’s already too late—and you have no one but yourself to blame.

A grim tale, yes.

But, there’s more to this story than the foundations.

As someone who works in brand narrative and advertising, I don’t fault what advertising is meant to do—persuade you to buy things.

Or, more accurately, remind you of why you needed specific things to solve your problems to begin with. How it’s done can be tasteless and poorly motivated.

(But, in the right hands, it can be beautiful)

Now, here’s what I do fault:

The over-reliance on drinking in what’s spiraling through your everyday interactions like the aftermath of opened floodgates. The practice of completely letting yourself loose and wild in the trenches of overconsumption, because you’re—whether you admit it or not—more interested in escaping into a world someone else made, rather than planting your feet in a world of your own design.

You’d rather scrap your way onto Escapism Express than indulge in the makings of Originality Island.

If you disagree, that’s good.

It means you’ve been in that place before, and you’re fighting against it.

Or, it means you’ve recently realized the horrible place you’re in, and you’re tired of walking the same steps as everyone before you. Or, it means you’ve wasted an insulting amount of time trying to be liked instead of listening to the fragments of inner storytelling that shape you into an uncopyable someone. Or, it means you’re in a very confused—and very delusional—state, where you’re knee-deep in this bullshit, and you can’t see you’re just seconds away from drowning.

Most people are uncomfortable with being alone.

Some were not lucky enough to raise themselves on daydreaming, getting lost in their head, and letting their imagination play.

A tragedy that writes itself.

I’ve always been a daydreamer. A girl with her head in the clouds. My only fond memories from my childhood and teenage years was rooted in the stories and characters I created from nothing. I discovered a love of writing in kindergarten. No one taught me that. I just knew it. I just did it. I followed it, and it never stopped.

I never realized how much of an advantage being a daydreamer—a person who loves being in her own thoughts—would become as an adult in her early thirties.

I also never realized how important it would be in my line of work, and how listening to my early mentors was one of the worst mistakes I could’ve made as an inherent, intuitive storyteller. But, that’s a story for another time.

What I do think is vital to point out is how depressing it is that most people are so terrified of the effort it takes to look deep inside themselves and carve out the uncomfortable, the beautiful, the ugly, the terrible, the disastrous, the life-changing, and the moments in-between that make them irreplaceable.

This matters, because these are the ingredients behind truly original work. If you consume too much—if you barrage your mind with the thoughts, opinions, creations, and inspirations from other people—you slowly (but surely) lose your sense of self, and you sacrifice what makes you unique for the rush of some shallow “trend” that convinced you it was the right thing to do.

Write this down if you must:

To be original is a choice.

Most people give up before they truly try.

They would rather consume, instead.

They would rather fall victimhood to the brainwashing of cycle after cycle, social post after social post, news after news, celebrity after celebrity, gossip after gossip, announcement after announcement, and so on and so forth—instead of taking a very serious, and very challenging, and very rewarding, bet on themselves.

They would rather kiss the sugary-sweet promises of Everyone Else, rather than sculpt their passions, interests, and the blueprint of their soul into something remarkable.

Those tasks, the monumental ones, take time. They take time and blood and sacrifice. They require pain and delusion and recklessness. They ask you to sharpen your fangs to break into their world and whimper in the face of their masters. They ask you to trade what you can so you can finally see What Could Be.

They ask you to eat at their table. Sometimes, you do. When you recognize masters, you want to greedily mop up what’s on their plate. Sink your teeth in. Rip the flesh off the bone. Look into the eyes of the feast-bringers and raise your hackles. You have entered their domain. You will win. You will do what it takes because you’ve learned what conscious consumption should do—fuel the original stories within you.

Stories you then channel into work.

Into art. Into business. Into relationships.

Understand this, my friend:

You are not meant to be insignificant.

You are not an overconsumption slave.

You are meant to create.

So go.

Eat with intention.

Devour the world’s most beautiful things.

Consume what the masters made so your palate emerges refined and glorious and untouchable.

Then, abandon all caution…

And fucking create.

Connect with me on LinkedIn.

If you’re interested in exploring what I do for clients, hunt the White Stag.

See you soon,

Taylor

On originality, point of view, and refusing to accept one of the biggest lies that plagues modern society.

Like millions of others, I watched The Odyssey last weekend.

Sat in those modern, greasy theater chairs with a stupid grin on my face, anticipation buzzing under my skin, and welcoming the adrenaline of preparing watch one of my favorite all-time stories get the Christopher Nolan treatment.

If you don’t know this about me, I love film.

I treasure it as an art form. At one point, I believed I wanted to not only write novels, but craft screenplays. I still read screenplays regularly, and I watch movies like I would observe a painting in a museum. From both a craft and critical perspective, film is extraordinary to me, and very influential on all of the work I create.

Now, knowing this, I knew this was not going to be a perfect film. I went in with fairly high expectations, considering what I knew about it before the story started. I had a feeling it was going to be less about the gods and more about Odysseus. I had a feeling it would highlight more about the human side of things, and potentially, I had a feeling the director would do the objectively smart thing when it comes to moneymaking Hollywood films, and make Odysseus a much more sympathetic character.

So the movie I saw did not surprise me.

Many parts of the story were changed, of course. Some things. I wasn’t happy about. Most of the decisions, however, I thought were very smart, and the pacing of the three-hour epic was—in my opinion—perfect.

I’m not a classicist, but I love the story of The Odyssey, as well as The Iliad. Of course, you can’t forget some amazing Greek plays, like Oedipus, or Medea. 

These characters, their interpretations, and the study of Greek mythology and the influence and concepts of these ancient gods—and their pettiness—still inspire me to this day.

There are few things that make my fingers twitch with the desire to write than rereading an old myth, or a snippet from an epic poem—or even one of these plays—that planted a seed of inspiration within me, many years ago.

Now, this love comes with a very important principle:

I knew Christopher Nolan wasn’t going to make a god-heavy epic with an Odysseus as troubled and three-dimensional as the one from the story.

This doesn’t mean it’s automatically excusable, or “good,” but I do want to argue that the movie was well-crafted in many ways.

I thought it was well-directed, fantastically acted, and while certainly not perfect, the elements of the story that mattered the most were kept.

I felt like Nolan was telling me the story he wanted to tell. It was his decision, as the director, translator, or interpreter, to tell the story this way.

To be clear, I loved it for what it is. I did not love it as a wholly accurate retelling of The Odyssey, but I did love it as its own sort of film.

If you were to compare it to Homer’s work—or Emily Wilson’s translation of it—I have a few bones to pick that I do think weakened the story.

One example? Nolan wanted Clytemnestra and Helene to be identical twins. Did that make sense? Not really. I thought that was one of the sillier choices, as that removes one of the most important differentiators in Helene’s story, and reason to be. Her origin is very clear about how she is the most beautiful woman in the world—the face that launches 1,000 ships—and if her sister looks exactly like her… why would it still be only Helene, and not both?

The other largest glaring example for me was every choice made with Calypso. Odysseus doesn’t have amnesia on an island with her. It’s very clear throughout his years staying with her—in various translations of the story—that he just wants to go home. Back to his wife, back to his son. (I know some stories have them written as lovers, and he even bears children with her… but we’re not talking about those)

So, I do have some problems.

They just didn’t break the film for me.

I expected Christopher Nolan to tell me what he wanted to tell me. He managed to accomplish this with competent direction, some odd scriptwriting—this still isn’t his strongest suit; the exposition was getting tiresome—and some insanely beautiful visual and acting-forward storytelling that created a satisfying and interesting story.

I’m telling you this not to be one of those obnoxious die-hard Nolan fans who scream obscenities on Reddit on how he can do no wrong, and he’s a god among filmmakers, etc. and etc.

Without apology.

Without reprimand.

Without external influence.

You were not designed by God, or man, with your inherent interests woven throughout every piece of your soul: your passions, loves, desires, and hates—nor were you placed on this planet—in order to please everyone else. You were put on this damn planet to establish a footprint that no one else can fill.

You need to get in touch with every part of yourself that demands recognition.

These might not be as present as your other daily thoughts, but they’re there. You feel them. You see them. You hear them. They’re screaming, whispering, clawing at you to pay attention. You must obey these callings, recognize when their screams make an idea, concept, or story tangible to you—and go after it.

The reason we, as human beings, are so interested in reading one topic from many perspectives—at least, if you’re a well-read and curious person who hasn’t atrophied your brain—is because we’re curious about how many ways we can experience a story where we share a connection.

It doesn’t matter which vocation you’ve chosen. If you’re a designer, brilliant. If you build brands, incredible. If you gather communities to boost startup credibility, amazing. If you’re a painter, musician, or professional thinker… damn, I love that. Please never let that go and keep pursuing what makes you individually special.

However, you must pursue these vocations with your unique point of view intact.

Even if you’re doing something similar to Christopher Nolan—adapting a timeless piece of art with enormous breadth, depth, and interpretations to experience—you must never lose sight of your own voice.

Outside noise clutters the creative vision. You see it all the time, with artists and entrepreneurs alike. Trends. Data. Customer input overtaking the original vision. Logical information hideously converging with personal tastes.

Failure to witness the Self among the clutter of Other.

I would argue this is the greatest tragedy to befall the modern artist.

The creators. The creatives. The entrepreneurs with artistic integrity. The people who refuse to be put in a box, but feel the need to branch off and adopt identities that are not their own, in order to achieve “success,” or become “noticed.”

Or, worst of all… be “liked.”

Christopher Nolan obviously did not create this version of The Odyssey to please others.

He created it because he wanted to. It’s his vision, and others went along with it. Audiences hate it. They also love it. It’s raked in millions. It’s raked in anger.

What a relief that he created a piece of art that’s generating so much discussion.

What a privilege to make a piece of work that challenges others to spit fire in challenge. What a beautiful thing to wield as an Artist of the Modern World, to command, to dictate, to craft a piece of art that arouses discussion like this on a mass global scale.

For, perhaps, many years from its creation, too.

No matter your vocation, you must allow your point of view to stake its claim. Never allow the opinions of others to sway what makes you truly unique.

Everyone says “nothing is original anymore,” and so they encourage laziness. They encourage copycats and tired ideas and even more disastrous outcomes. They believe there’s no point in trying—whether subconsciously or consciously—and so they want you to feel as inadequate as them. They want you to feel limited, so they can feel big.

You must never listen to this lie.

It will poison your potential.

What makes you original—what makes everyone original—is their palate.

A Creative Palate, as I like to call it. And one of these points of identity is the intersection of your origin story, your passions, your interests, the art you love, the art you want to create, the ambition that ties it all together, and the dark sides of things as well to pinpoint what you absolutely do not want to do.

This… is uncopyable.

And, yes… it is original.

Work, art, people, and brands that inspired me this week.

+ Various Greek myths. The Odyssey was technically last weekend, so I didn’t want to include that experience here. I’ve reread pieces of The Iliad, Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey, and various dialogues from old plays I used to read in school. It’s given me so much joy and sparked several ideas that I’m eager to mold into my own soon.

+ James E. Hughes. If you’re not familiar with Mr. Hughes, he’s one of the most influential people in the family wealth space. This is an industry that I’ve been bullish about exploring and serving through my brand narrative design practice, White Stag, so learning through his writing, podcast interviews, and various other articles about him have been instrumental in not only validating several offerings I’m creating, but supporting the absolute necessity of narrative infrastructure as a mechanistic standing stone in family enterprises.

+ Ulysses Recognizes Achilles Among the Daughters of Lycomedes, by Louis Gauffier. If you’re reading this on web, you’ll notice I used this painting as today’s newsletter thumbnail. It’s a fantastic work of art… but it’s also hilarious. I don’t know if anyone’s captured Ulysses’s genuine bafflement in this story as well as Gauffier.

+ I recently changed up the routine in my private newsletter club for White Stag. It’s now sending private memos at a much more frequent rate. Thoughtful dives into various elements of brand narrative design. My vision is this will become the benchmark for venture capitalists and family office individuals foaming at the mouth to champion legacy narratives. As brand, and as generational intelligence.

Connect with me on LinkedIn, X, and Instagram.

If you’re interested in exploring what I do for clients, hunt the White Stag here.

See you next week, Toothcutter,

Taylor

I’m writing this week’s letter at an old desk that’s charming despite its patchy light wood, with a beautiful 3D print of a castle from a video game I love propped in the corner—a gift from my life partner—and feeling a wave of relief at the total quiet that hangs over this new place. A feeling that doesn’t seem to be allowed, until it happens, and you have no choice but to welcome it.

Most of this room is empty.

I’m not sure where to put my desk yet, but the living room will do, with its large space and general energy of “I’m not quite finished, but don’t give up on me yet.” As desks do.

I feel compelled to think, and sit in silence, and leave my headphones in my drawer while I write, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt that way. I’ve always loved thinking, going on walks, and writing from spare streams of inspiration that hit me like a delicate little spark during the most random times. Usually, they would come to me when I was moving too quickly, and too elevated, to take it all in.

In the last few days, they’ve arrived in steady streams. They see the pockets of rest and fill those crevices with fresh ideas, reinvigorated gratitude, and a sense of belonging that hasn’t been there for a long time.

This is the first place my partner and I have lived in together, on our own. Just the two of us. We were living with our mutual best friend for a few years, then decided that it was time to find our own place.

I won’t bore you with the details—”moving” is right up there with “putting together IKEA furniture” as one of my least-liked activities—but just know I’m truly lucky to have a partner like mine.

He’s stable. He’s supportive. He’s calm.

I’m a little crazy, a little eccentric, and I have moments that require deep patience and even more flexible understanding from a person who chooses to be with me the rest of our short, long, silly little lives.

It’s a big change, for the both of us.

To locate to a neighborhood that’s quiet. Trees flicker behind our new patio. We hear birds chirp in the morning. The floors are all wooden, so you can feel the cold through your socks, but you’re glad, because this means you’ll actually get a full night’s sleep most nights.

Before this place, I faced nothing but concrete, loud freeway noise, the taste of rubber in the air. I was frustrated about being surrounded by tall buildings and loud cars. I wanted more greenery, more silence, and more space to think.

So, we found a place. Perfect for the both of us.

It’s days like these where I’m reminded the emptiest rooms—be it in your house, the woods, on a walk, or in that little jittery space in the back of your own mind—is where the creative muscle truly works.

No one should be afraid of empty rooms.

Unfortunately, most people are.

No one wants to be creative anymore.

You might think I’m exaggerating.

Part of me wants you to be right. The other part of me wants to shake you until you have no choice but to look at the obvious tragedy that’s shaking the world, one mechanical first at a time. This part of me will do anything it can to open your stubborn eyelids and force it to admire the windfall of smooth-brained idiocy that’s devouring our human culture.

In my thirty-one years on this planet, I can’t think of a time where I’ve been more collectively concerned for the human race.

For what more serious matter is there, than to watch the decline of the one thing all humans are meant to do? The will to create—reaching its finality with no one to save it?

The lack of risk-taking. The lack of desire to be anything more than you are. The lack of wanting to do anything different. The lack of individuality. The lack of self-belief. The lack of desire to make things just to make things. The lack of the internal, restless fire that pushes you to exist for reasons outside your innate biological instinct.

Strangely enough, the only modern people I meet who defy these expectations are on platforms like LinkedIn, or perhaps, Substack. They’re not afraid to talk deeply about business, entrepreneurship, culture, and art. They’re not afraid to call attention to brands who are struggling to do anything remotely interesting.

However, the truly elite intellectuals are minding their own business, reading books from people who were too wise and upright for the world we live in now—minds like Plato, Hypatia, Socrates, Epictetus, and the like—and showing the actions of the immortal through examples we will likely never see.

I can guess, because when we observe and read from the world’s most brilliant minds, we attribute mannerisms to them that make sense. If we see a smart person move, we try to learn from them. We want to be like them. (Or, at least, I did, and have)

This problem is systemic.

It’s not solely related to the workforce.

It’s not solely attributed to non-creatives.

It’s on a deeper, more holistic scale, ranging from the people critiquing the art of others, to apologizers for those monetizing generative AI creations, to the strange in-between where a complete lack of identity directly correlates to a need to be adored by people who don’t matter.

More creative people are spending their energy on being recognized for being creative rather than creating the work.

More non-creative people are spending their energy defending tools that eliminate the creative process, and thus, encouraging the growing elimination of quality human-crafted art. And business.

This epidemic is burning within us. As individuals, and as a collective. As much as I dislike the idea of us all being connected symbiotically, biologically, or even spiritually, I have to accept that so much of this is ingrained in human nature, and my attempt to resist it will only keep creating static pushbacks that I really don’t like.

I feel the jaws of this epidemic closing in, even though I will never accept it. I can accept certain things are not in my control, sure, but I can’t accept this as one of them.

People are reading less. They’re writing less. They’re thinking less. They’re making less. They’re “generating” more, however. Artificial intelligence has convinced stupid and intelligent people alike that they’re using them as “thought partners” when, most of the time, they’re being manipulated by mirrored language they can’t truly out-prompt. (Believe me, I’ve tried)

They’re becoming so enamored with the idea of doing nothing that they have no idea what it’s like to create for the love of the act.

The process is where the real magic happens. I write because I love to write. The process matters just as much, if not more, than the final product.

“Prompting” AI to “write” a book for you is not the same as writing a book, and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is lying. If you’re telling yourself such a crazy falsehood, be brutally honest. You’re not an artist. You’re an imitator desperate for an identity, and your insecurity in your ability to create anything from who you are now is what’s lured you into the steel jaws of AI idealisms.

I’m actually not anti-AI.

But I am anti-AI when it comes to art.

The whole point of expression is to express yourself. If you lose the ability to express yourself—which, yes, the machine does take that ability away the second you outsource anything—you lose the right to call your art, art.

No one wants to be creative anymore.

They would rather be lazy and pretend they’re creative, instead.

What a shame.

But then again… what an opportunity for the rest of us.

The ones who give a damn.

The ones who love to create.

The ones who love the pain and pleasure of the process.

The ones who suffer with neurodivergence, disabilities, and adjacent problems, and don’t use those truths as excuses to be less creative.

Self-honesty is where creativity begins.

It’s now become easier than ever to delude ourselves into being dishonest.

Encouraged by the masses.

Monetized by those unseen.

What inspired me this week…

+ My studio, White Stag. I soft-launched (social posts only; the official announcement will come later this week) my brand narrative design practice, White Stag. As the companion to my monthly letter, this is where I help early-stage venture capital funds (focused on consumer tech, mostly) and their portfolio companies use the art and science of language to build, scale, and establish legacy-framed brands. For the next generation, and beyond.

+ My partner. Already waxed a little poetic about him, but he’s pretty great. Very supportive, kind, intelligent, and creative. Without him, the last couple of years switching, pivoting, and reframing my business operations wouldn’t have been possible. I’ve been in some dark places, and it’s because of him I’ve been able to crawl back out.

+ This article by Josh Elman, from a16z’s A Time to Build. Beautifully written and thoughtful article on consumer startups, the importance of worldbuilding for these growing companies, and the underlying message behind the shift. He makes an interesting argument for the next age of makers—people using AI tools and other resources to create at levels we haven’t seen before. While I find this mostly optimistic, my original points in today’s letter makes me question all dimensions of this article. Worth a read, for sure.

+ Coinbase’s advertisement that no one seems to be talking about, for some reason. This is one of the best ads I’ve seen in the last ten years. Everyone should watch it. Everyone should study it. Everyone should do exactly the opposite in their own way. Be inspired by the vision, not the actual step-by-step mechanics. Otherwise you’re doomed to copy and not create.

+ Empty rooms. Seriously. Find one. Or create one. It will change how you think and solve problems. Your creativity needs constraints in order to bloom and function. Anything less is unacceptable.

Let me know what you’re itching to see from future emails.

This is your world as much as it’s mine.

See you next week, Toothcutter—

Taylor