I’m thinking about borders again. It’s that old saw, that old pull. Maybe it’s because I grew up a stone’s throw from Canada, where THE LAWS were different, and television news anchors pronounced their “ou” sounds differently. Maybe it’s because I grew up on the edge of a subdivision on the edge of a town that was, itself, edging away from its farmland roots. On the edge of the working class, on the edge of the century.
It’s a chant in my head — push the edge, cross it.
What edge? Where?
I’m not even sure.
Everything I am doing is my favorite thing I have ever done. Writing about the intersection of journalism, social good and data. Musing about user testing for civic apps. Co-writing a play about digital media, and performing it for audiences three times a week. Giving a Pecha Kucha talk with 300 people excited to hear my theories on cultivating a dynamite creative practice. Oh, and — you know, a new book of essays.
I’m combining media, non-fiction, performance, design and publishing in new permutations, which is what I have always wanted to do.
Maybe this push-pull is from a holdout contingent in the council of my brain. One old wheezing member hollers from the back.
“What? You are doing what you love? For money? For people? And they LIKE it? Well, this is absurd. Rewind time, get back in your box.”
Trouble is, I don’t think I can.
Or maybe it’s a voice in the hallway, on the other side of the door. Wondering what’s taking me so long.