Well, here we are! Another two weeks have passed. How does the road find you? For my part, I’m routinely surprised by how quickly hours and miles melt away while I’m busy putting one foot in front of another. When I departed in the wee hours of the morning to join you here, the mountain was just a little paper triangle black upon the moonlit horizon. Now, as I stand beside you among stony foothills and dawn raises its hackles, the peak is a gargantuan sheet of brown butcher paper punctured by thousands of upright green crayons as the sheet unrolls and warps haphazardly across the entire circumference of the earth—and as high as the sky.

As I consider how to begin the climb with you, I worry whether we can accomplish it. Because no matter how much distance I traverse, no matter how many mountains I summit and descend, at this moment of anticipation I always wonder whether I have it in me this time.

Can you relate? I ask you with a meaningful glance, then to give you time to think about it I turn back to gaze upon the winding, dewy trail of time and space that marks our wake.

I’m surprised to see how high the road has already climbed since the last waypoint. How high you and I have climbed. On my way here I was convinced that the path was flat. Was the grade in the road that subtle, or did I fail as usual to appreciate the heights we were already scaling while my eyes were fixed on this greater challenge which now awaits us?

But what makes a challenge greater or lesser? So many of our encounters and accomplishments, which now lie shrouded in the morning fog on the plain below, would amaze anyone who heard those tales. So why do I struggle to draw satisfaction and boldness from the resilience, the competency, and the serendipity which have brought us this far? Do you struggle?

You seem lost in your thoughts. That’s fine—moments like this are better-suited to contemplation. The sun has fully risen, an invisible rodent rustles in a nearby bush of wild raspberries, and ornery swifts have begun to dart about their morning chores while they screech in protest at having been poked out of their nests by insistent rays of light.

My atoms feel excited to the point they might burst from my skin. You also seem eager to get underway as you high-knee march in place and shift your pack on your shoulders. I stand on tiptoes and crane my neck for a glimpse of the adventures which lie in wait for us over the next rise, but it’s no use. I won’t be able to see them until they arrive. We trade a look. It seems we are ready. I whisper:

Ultreia et suseia!

This newsletter is just over two months old, and I’m delighted to report that many of you have taken up my invitation to hit “Reply” and share what came up for you while reading my biweekly missives. From the bottom of my heart, thank you! I love when my own writing fosters connection almost as much as I love helping clients to build their own wonderful bridges of words.

I’m also grateful that you feel comfortable sharing constructive criticism. This is helpful to me as a writer and as an editor, considering that my livelihood is suggesting to writers what they could do differently. I strive to be compassionate and constructive with my feedback, but when I have on my editor hat those values remain somewhat abstract. But receiving feedback puts me squarely in the client’s shoes. So thank you for giving me this gracious, visceral object lesson in why compassionate, constructive feedback is so important.

In terms of the contents of that feedback, one thing I’ve heard a couple of times is that my newsletter is too long. Hence the title of this edition. I appear to be overwhelming some of you with too many words and recommendations at a time. I agree with your assessment, and I apologize!

Ironically, I have been overwhelming myself, too. Each time I prepare an issue I worry that it is not enough. I have said this before, and I have to be careful not to typecast myself as the guy whose newsletter is all about his insecurities. I am not fishing for validation—please don’t feel any need to give it.

Instead, let’s move this line of thought in a more interesting, constructive direction. I had a real facepalm moment last week when one of you pointed out that my previous issue could have easily been two installments. I found that insight helpful and also hilarious, considering how exhausted (and satisfied, but right now we care about the exhaustion) I feel after I burn large volumes of time and midnight oil to deliver a good newsletter. Turns out I could halve my time and double my output with this one simple trick!

Also ironically, it appears that if I didn’t try so hard, this newsletter would have a better chance of achieving its primary purpose, which is to educate, inspire, and entertain you. (Whereas if you’re busy crying uncle, that positive encounter is going to have a hard time taking place.)

How is it that someone can invest so much time and energy in ensuring one outcome and avoiding another only to dodge success and steer straight into the predicament? I’m sure there are many answers to that question, but today I want to briefly touch on just one (yes, briefly):  

Imbalance in one direction seems to precipitate imbalance in the opposite direction. I think of the person who’s extremely nervous on a first date, attempts to make up for it through comical boldness or fawning, and only convinces the other party to never speak to them again. Or the new small business owner who’s unsure of their credibility in a field of established experts and who grossly undercharges to entice customers—so that the contracts they win are charity work. Or the starving person who sees a table of food and must be restrained lest they eat so much they kill themselves.

I am not a doctor or therapist, so I am not going to pretend I have expert remedies for these sorts of situations. Nor am I trying to exhaustively catalog and address all the ways a person might come to feel overwhelmed.

I primarily wish to observe our (instinctive?) tendency to overreact to perceived challenges and suspected inadequacies. Maybe that helps in some situations, but I think it harms us plenty of the time.

I also wish to observe—only as a layperson, only as someone in the trenches of the human condition with you—that I find it constructive to take a breath, listen to a few trusted outside perspectives, and generally do what I can to slow down my impulse to act immediately or even primarily according to fear and doubt.

Both the condition and my unofficial remedy apply to writing too, by the way. Because as writers we naturally bring all of ourselves to the page. So just as overwhelm (and its children, like insecurity, paralyzing fear, and crippling doubt) affect our everyday decisions, these affect our writing choices. As do the tactics we select—when we’re acting from the overwhelm and not strategically—to address our creative overwhelm.

One final thing I find really helpful is to notice and embrace the reality that imperfection is not fatal. When I take clear-eyed, honest stock of my historic mistakes and achievements, I’m amazed to see how much in life I’ve survived, overcome, and accomplished. Not on my own of course, but also: always in my own company. You know, that flawed person who, when I am under duress, I am convinced couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.

And I strongly suspect that if you took stock, you’d also find that who you are is made up of much more than mere liabilities. In fact, I daresay that even some of the very things you think of as weaknesses are, with the proper attention and application, among your strengths.

In writing terms, we might classify this as your voice—which doesn’t find its strength in how perfectly it overlaps some universal ideal of The Writer but rather in a healthy combination of diligent craft work and judicious preservation—elevation—of the quirks that make you you.

But all that said, I’m still going to keep my promise to work on making my newsletter shorter. 😊

P.S. - I wrote in a similar vein in another two-part essay where I explored whether it’s more helpful for a writer to think in terms of publishing end goals or how they conduct themselves along the way. Here’s part one: https://www.ultreyaeditorial.com/blog/journey-or-end.

P.P.S. - I enjoy genuine connection, so if a thought or question came up for you, hit reply and tell me about it.

P.P.P.S. - If you enjoy this newsletter, please pass it along! I’m trying to grow my reach and I’ve been stalled for a few weeks, so if there’s someone you think might enjoy this, I’d be grateful for the recommendation.