Insomnia's Edge
Confessions of a Sleep-Deprived Scribbler
It’s been a hell of a March. Things have been off-balance, out of round, off-kilter, kitty (caddy?) wompus…all the things. I haven’t quite split my differential and tipped over yet, but the splines will let go if I don’t figure out this sleep stuff.
Historically speaking, March is typically one of my better sleep months. I know this because, like a lunatic, I’ve tracked my sleep using a wearable fitness device called the Oura Ring since before the pandemic.
The Oura measures various things, such as respiratory rate, heart rate, blood oxygen levels, and body temperature. It computes many math equations before spitting out a sleep score on its accompanying app.
It may be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I can tell how well my brain and body will perform on any given day by the Oura Ring’s sleep score.
Eighty is a good sleep score. If I can hit the low eighties, I’m happier than two larks on acid tap-dancing in the bush.
But here’s the deal, kids. I haven’t seen many eighties in 2024. Lately, I’ve been spending time in the fifties and sixties, which, when translated to grade-school-speak, equates to Ds and Fs in the sleep department.
Sleep is one of, if not the most important of all human health sectors. Neuroscientist Andrew Huberman and longevity expert Peter Attia always say this on their podcasts: sleep, sleep, sleep. It’s a great regulator.
Without proper zzz’s, I’m worthless—a walking zombie.
My brain doesn’t work. Soon, bearings splinter, and the wheels fall off, and I’m writing late-night diatribes to the people telling me I should harvest the dandelions in my yard instead of controlling them with herbicides.
It's not what I call productive.
I am writing to explain why I haven’t updated you much lately. I ran out of brain power. Tapped out. With my crossed wires and scrambled lines, I haven’t been able to put much together that I feel is worth sharing.
Here’s the thing: I think taking up a slot in your email inbox once or twice weekly is a big deal. It’s an even bigger deal to ask you to open those emails and spend eight to twelve minutes reading them.
If I ask you to read something, I want it to be worth your time. I want it to be good. Since I don’t know what you, Diamond Dave, or Tommy Tutone will consider good writing, I have to use my gauge to make the best guess. And the best way to gauge that is by how I feel after producing a piece of writing.
It doesn’t matter if it’s fear, joy, or excitement. For my gauge to work correctly, I need to feel something.
If the work doesn’t make me feel something, I don’t feel it’s worth sharing. And lately, there hasn’t been a lot worth sharing. I’m all over the place. One minute, I’m thinking about farming early this spring, and the next, my kids before I switch over to what a struggle the sales season has been this winter with the farm economy collapsing in a few short months.
Randomness in its purest form. Rinse and repeat.
Here’s the deal. Your humble pamphlet jockey is frozen. Overwhelmed. Distracted and procrastinated.
One of the first things any successful Substack writer says is that consistency is a critical key to success here. They’ll tell you to publish at the same time every week so that readers get used to you showing up in their email box every week at this time. They’ll tell you that some die-hard fans will even plan their schedule around reading your newsletter with coffee every week.
These are all great ideas that make sense, but I’m learning that they don’t work for me. Deadlines are great and keep a writer engaged and productive, but for me, they make the writing feel a bit forced, perhaps a little premature.
Regarding what I send to people’s (your) inboxes, I prefer quality over quantity. I’m not the type of guy to send you something simply so you don’t forget I or this newsletter exists. As I said, it’s a big ask for me to intrude on your day and ask you to spend a few minutes each week reading my thought stream.
I want to make it worth your while. So, if that means not having one of these weekly editions ready at a specific time on a particular day each week, then so be it. It’d be a disservice to all of you to expect you to read half-assed writing.
Not to worry, I’m not depressed and stuck on the couch binging seven consecutive seasons of Trailer Park Boys like I was after my divorce a few years back.
Lately, my brain has been as distracted as my dog Lewis whenever he sees a bunny or squirrel, but I know this is just a funk.
I’m still working and writing.
This, too, shall pass, as they say.
A great idea may come and change things eight minutes from now. It’s not up to me when these things pop into my head. Writer Steven Pressfield summons a muse daily and is convinced that none of the ideas for his books were his. He, among many other excellent writers, says their ideas come from somewhere outside themselves.
However, a writer must be open to receiving the flow for those ideas to come. After more than a year of doing this, I’ve learned that the flow stops when I stop taking care of myself, whether I’m drinking too many red wines, eating too many red vines, or not getting enough shut-eye.
I always try to give my readers my absolute best. I can’t give you that on a half tank of sleep and a see-saw mind.
So, I’m taking time to reorganize and prioritize, to get relative, and most importantly, to get some damn sleep. When my batteries (or batt trees, as the boomer generation prefers) recharge, the ideas will return, and I’ll be blasting letters back to your inboxes again.
I’m grateful for you all sticking with me through the ups and downs, curveballs, and sliders life throws our way. It means a lot to me.
I’m just gonna hit the snooze button a couple thirteen fourteen more times, but I’ll be back before long. Until that day, keep your ear to the grindstone and care for yourselves.
I’ll catch ya on the flip-flop.
Good post Adam! Btw. where are you from?