Missing the point
Authentic writing and conversation feel inseparable from the human messiness that makes it recognizable.
I know I’m missing the point of this paper, but re-reading Attention is All You Need while trying to come up with a title for this essay, I can’t help but feel there is a magic to this stream of words that we can’t teach to a program. It is the pauses, the imperfections, the typos, the rawness that no algorithm can do better. That makes the long way, the worthwhile way.
If there were a frontier where AI would lose, it would be in the art of writing and conversation, borne from humans sharing their attention. This fear that AI will initially augment us, but eventually replace us feels suddenly universal held.
But in this specific dimension, this ineffable beauty of simply interacting unaugmented with one another, I feel artificial composition steals the slow parts of being human. It skips over the messy parts where the meaning lingers.
It is in the silence between words that we find connection — and that’s a space machines will never inhabit. What is real is the being alive, an expression of a mind that knows what it is to struggle with meaning and organic imperfection in all of its intention. The imperfection is the point.
We are threads pulled from an old sweater — connected, fraying, tangled, alive, non-linear.
What are your favorite substacks, tweets, books on this topic? Please drop them below, I would love to read them:
Together in apartness
Attention, in its purest form, is the most personal thing we can offer someone. It requires giving everything else up.
I frequent cafes and restaurants just to be around other people, and I’ve gotten into a wonderful habit of not taking my phone. Look around next time; people sitting together on separate screens, talking at each other, not looking up, avoiding eye contact with everyone around them. We sit side by side, each in a distant world, together and apart.
Proximity is not presence. The irony is that in our attempt to be everywhere at once, we lose the essence of being here. Constantly available, connected to no one. When we’re truly present with someone, we let them know that, for this moment, they are the focus of our world.
I think about the people who have come in and out. The ones to whom I feel closest, who can make me feel seen, actually don’t talk a lot. They are just there for me, present, undivided, paying attention when I most need them.
I’ve been thinking lately about attention as a form of love. It’s simple but so rare to hold someone’s gaze in full focus, hear every word, deeply experience rather than float in periphery. You can only touch the now. In the end, I think that’s all we want: to be seen, to be heard, to be there.
A scene from Before Sunshine (1995) that I can’t stop thinking about, goes like this:
“You know, I believe if there's any kind of God, it wouldn't be in any of us — not you, or me. But just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed. But who cares, really? The answer must be in the attempt.”
Two types of conversations, in my experience. Ones where (i) you are conversing, and ones where (ii) you are waiting for your turn to talk.
I believe we’ve lost something fundamental, that being the art of unabridged conversation, of just being with one another. Coffees are 30 minutes, meals are 45-60 minutes, board meetings are 3-5 hours? Everything is urgent, everyone is busy, and has somewhere to be. We’ve lost the depth and the space for meaningful connection.
Give someone the gift of your full attention. Close tabs and just be there, because you choose to be. Have 2-hour conversations, write long emails. You will see people for who they are, slow time, and deepen connection. Attention is all you need.
Publishing drafts
1/3 of the way through this writing challenge, I find myself most looking forward to the tension of a first draft. The hardest part of it has been forcing myself to publish things that aren’t perfect. Or even good?
But in there somewhere is something so beautiful and creative that I lost by learning how to write great work emails, investment memos, and investor presentations. The courage to write imperfectly, expose something unpolished and real. This is what makes writing alive.
The joy of unearthing things that pull my attention, answering questions that float into focus when I’m forced to write, is the best gift I’ve given myself by starting to write in the open. When I write, I reveal pieces of my essence I didn’t fully know were there. The imperfections, the revisions, the rawness.
I’m sharing stories that feel like hugs, drawing up childhood memories in full color, and confessing the questions I haven’t yet answered. This is a mutual unfolding, a real-time conversation with a heartbeat.
The mirror still feels very foggy. The broken sentences — the ones I can’t quite get right — hold the truest fragments of my consciousness that I’m endeavoring to record. Thank you for being here.