The Freedom in Committing

Creativity, writing and how to do the thing

What I aspire my desk to look like. “Still Life with TV”, David Hockney, 1969

Knowing the thing

I’ve been thinking a lot about agency and I’m convinced it’s the foundation of a meaningful life.

The congruence between what you want to do and what you’re doing is a marker for how well you’re living. This applies everywhere: not only to work, but the family time you choose, the relationships you tend, the hobbies you practice, the community you contribute to.

Perfect alignment is impossible, but as long as you’re working towards that congruence, you’ll feel present and with purpose. If not, you’ll probably feel anxious, tense, with a gnawing sense of dread.

Many people don’t know what they want though and a lot more are playing someone else’s game. This piece is not about that.

This is for people who know what they want to do—the project, skill, or activity they're clear on—but keep pushing it off day by day until months or years go by. This is for people who delay taking action.

I'm on that wagon.

I know I want to write way more, sharing my raw, unfiltered view of the world. But I haven't.

I've published 38 essays on and off over the past three years. Pieces I’m proud of: on gentrification, on Nietzsche, on third places, on saying yes to life, on taste. But it's been a rollercoaster. Perfectionism and second-guessing have hampered my creative process.

Each essay starts the same way: a fun exploration of an idea. I write the first draft quickly and feel good. Then I start editing.

• Is it clear enough?

• Is this paragraph repetitive?

• Does this hold up across all cultures and languages?

• What about obscure counter-arguments some grad student might raise in 2035?

• Will people a century from now quote this as the final word on the matter?

By then, the joy is gone. The scope has ballooned. What started as a cool idea has apparently become a magnum opus on something I thought about last week. It becomes too much and evidently the draft goes on hold.

So for every essay that landed in your inbox, there's another in weird limbo—too broad to finish, too convoluted to publish.

Recently, I realized the paradox: I need to treat my writing as the most important thing in the world and as not important at all. As both vital and trivial. Push "most important" too far and the stakes paralyze me. Lean on “not important" side and why bother?

I need to give each piece care and focus without expecting every digital scribble to be a masterpiece. That's just perfectionism masquerading as craft.

It's crazy how we have all these stories in our heads about what we can and can't do. Why do we feel we need permission? Why do we hand that power to someone else?

Me when I edit. “The Passion of Creation”, Leonid Pasternak, 1892

Doing the thing

The thing is that I optimized my life for freedom, and eventually found myself too free, too uncommitted, my projects took a backseat while I enjoyed life. (Which sounds almost crazy to say—wouldn’t that be the ultimate goal, to just enjoy life?)

At a high-level, I’m on track. I’m aligned on my 5-year plan: having kids, buying land and creating community. But day-to-day I’m too comfortable, too lenient with myself when goals slip by unmet.

Knowing what you want is 20% of the battle. Doing what you want is everything else. Acting on the world. Showing yourself. Creating. Achieving.

So I want to change my relationship with my creative process. Why would I filter, or second guess myself if the point of writing is making sense of things. Most times it's messy, weird, and slightly uncomfortable.

I want the path from thinking to writing to publishing to be as frictionless. Rawer essays, less polish, a more vulnerable Santi.

And most importantly: I want to commit to an ambitious goal.

Committing removes all doubt, all insecurity, all second guessing. It forces you to solve problems as they arise until you can't anymore and have to press publish and you panic but you do it and hope for the best.

This isn't about finding inspiration. It's about creating constraints to deliver. Constraints breed inspiration. There’s no better forcing function than a deadline.

Me, at 98, choosing which book to read to my grandchildren when they stay over. “The Bookworm”, Carl Spitzweg, 1850

Committing to the thing

So, my readers, my goal is to publish every day for 30 days straight because what could be more inspiration-inducing than having a strict deadline every 24 hours?

No excuses. Even if I had one too many sakes the night before. Even on Sunday. Even if I don’t feel like it (especially if I don’t feel like it).

Bear with me as I blitzkrieg myself to your inbox.

And I hope this inspires you to commit to do your thing.

Your thing isn't writing? Fine. Sign for that BJJ competition. Ask out that cute co-worker. Swear off doom-scrolling before bed. Read Lord of the Rings to your kid each night. Have lunch with your grandma every Saturday.

Pick something. Commit. Do it.

Progress comes from action—taking risks, moving forward, refusing to negotiate with your own resistance.

You are constantly signing contracts between intention and action, and those small agreements compound and shape the direction of your life.

There’s no perfect path, but you can carve one that’s undeniably yours, and isn’t that the point?

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postscript 📮

Guys, I’m so pumped and lowkey terrified about this experiment. But hey, bring on discomfort!

How have you been? Some reflections:

• What's one thing you know you want to do but keep pushing off day after day?

• What's the most elaborate excuse you've come up with to avoid doing the thing?

• What would you create if you treated it as both the most important thing in the world and as completely trivial?