introducing—buttahbasted, the series

first drizzle

Ever since Writing barged into my apartment insisting I abandon every important project to finish one of the unfinished drafts lying dormant on my desk, I've been wrestling with the pen in my hands.

Could I send Writing off to the workplace to fetch dollars for me? Or would it take offence that I was refusing to play?

This post comes in two parts:

1. a few confessions about online writing

2. a sneaky announcement! 

2023 was the year I found myself as a writer. I finally accepted the outstretched arm Writing was offering. Cadence and consistency were important. I published around fifty essays last year. But this year, you haven't heard from me as much. I released a story about a ballerina dancing in a wasteland, and one announcing my course. Then, I vanished. Poof! Gone with the wind. 

Well, today I'm going to reveal what Writing and I have been up to.

Writing online is weird

There are no in-betweens—you either publish 1000 words or write a 50,000 word book. Writers are word-factories churning issues out on a schedule. Hit publish. Promote another another draft onto the assembly line. The clock starts to tick, its pendulum pounding, six days and twenty-three hours to package the next set of paragraphs. Publish or be forgotten.

Or you could write a book—devote yourself to a heavy, emotional experience where your editor becomes your therapist, priest, and best friend. You learn the physical limits of your self-belief. This process can be deeply rewarding for you and your readers. Our animal brains looooove the idea of pointing to a tangible thing—a spiral-bound book, saying "I made that. I did that." It makes the author feel like a "real writer". 

In the first half of last year, I published an essay here every week or two. You met colorful characters from six months of travel—gangster street dogs that chased me in Thailand, my friendly kidnappers in Seville, the travel nurse who nearly poisoned me in Lisbon, and that outdoor shower in Cordoba. I reflected on the stories we tell ourselves about work, love, and money.

I loved that season but I learned a week is too short for this work. Creative quality requires time. I need to gather, listen, sit, then stumble….gaze through the windowlight, hold a belief branch, step away from the sentence soufflé and watch it rise!

All the nothings that consume

There's a popular meme about how a person who loves baking falls for the trap of entrepreneurship. She loves the way sugar, flour, and heat transform into all kinds of treats and textures—those pillowy soft croissants, crunchy cookies, risen breads, flat pastries, sweet and savory tarts.

So she opens a bakery to sell her treats, but in a sick twist ends up consumed by all the non-baking work required in business. She must negotiate with suppliers, optimize her website for SEO, make social media reels, balance the books, and learn basic business tax law.

Last summer, I felt this newsletter had potential to become a "real business". Multiple times, friendly strangers stopped me at events in real life quoting passages from my essays verbatim. Readers had written deep, soul-stirring replies to my pieces. (I keep a personal jar where I store these kind words). Fifteen generous people decided to become paid subscribers to support my writing. I'm still humbled by this support. 

I wanted to pour gas on the little embers forming in front of me. So I hired a Substack coach—yep, a person who teaches you to build a profitable newsletter business on this platform. They taught me a lot. To succeed, I would have to publish two essays a month, be active on Substack Notes, re-release old essays, make video episodes, record audio snippets, consider offering office-hours, serializing e-books, memoirs, promos, and more videos. It reminded me of the baker. 

Before committing to the gameplan, I asked myself a few questions:
1) Is the world asking for more FAST content?
2) Where does more-more-more and fast-fast-fast take us?

Syllables spilling all over your screen. Littered language loitering in your email inbox. Word fragments wheelbarrowed from exhausted writer to overwhelmed reader. Is this the game I want to play?

Discontent with content

I've been online for seventeen years. If you picked up a pair of forceps and pried my brain open, I'm sure you'll be able to tell. Should those fleshy nodes be that swollen or is that the consequence of a debilitating Twitter addiction?

It seems everyone is struggling with this. My friends and I constantly trade remedies to stay offline. Lower the brightness on your phone. Turn off all notifications. Delete Twitter for good. No, really delete that shit. Maintain strict phone-free hours. No TikTok after 8pm. Someone recently recommended Brick– a physical device that frees you from the temptation of your device. 

This is madness. You know it as much as I do. That we have to do so much to reclaim our time, attention, and focus. It sucks for us artists too. We must please our algorithm overlords who determine our worth, or forever shut up doomed to silence. 

I won't write for likes or clicks. It's a disservice to both reader and writer. You have given me the privilege of your attention–I should honor that and make stuff deserving of such. Not that fast food, quickfire garbage, I should serve fuller fibre wholemeal that satisfies. 

Even if I wanted to feed you junk, AI models will eventually do that much better than I could. Love dog videos and clothed chefs making cool recipes? Soon, AI models will generate ultra-realistic videos of puppy chefs making perfect beef wellingtons to make you swoon over and over. Startups will pay engineers $500,000 a year to fine-tune those models to keep you swiping and swooning. 

What won't change is the enduring value of human expression and imagination. The authentic expressions of our experiences—the complexity, the conflict, the embodied sensuality, the flaws, the authentic turns of phrase, the absurd and bizarre connections we make in our minds. When our feeds are saturated with hyper-realistic and addictive AI-generated content, we will yearn for the HUMAN— the unique POVs, the human experience as described by breathing meat-sacks who struggle with cognitive dissonance. 

I want to write more human things–I don't care if the algorithms reward this. Last year, I realised I loved describing scenes. Reconstructing old ones from memory, and making new ones from my imagination. Painting the sensory picture with vivid strokes you can touch–the sensualidad, the intangibles, the hushed internal dialogue, those external physical dimensions. 

So over the last few months, I made something that fulfils this expression. It was made slowly and with intention. When I was in Mexico City, a bartender explained that mezcal is to be "kissed" not "taken as a shot". This is the same way. Don't rush to lick your screens, but you get the idea. Here, we reject the framing of fast-fast-fast and more-more-more, and replace it with intentional art. Today, I'm announcing "buttahbasted".

Welcome to Buttahbasted

Buttahbasted is my written album that will be dropped over the summer months. It's the feeling you get when life soaks you in a sensory stew. Imagine the first drizzle of shea butter on parched skin. Close your eyes and savor the umami that stirs in your soul when you hear Cleo Sol. Feel the intimate welcome offered by the scent of teakwood. This is buttahbasting in every dimension.  

Don't know what a written album is? You're in good company. I don't know anyone else doing this. Technically, it's a short story collection with seven stories, six factual, and one fictional piece. Each piece features a blend of prose poetry and narrative. I'm calling it an album because I'm jealous of other artists (musicians, filmmakers, clothingmakers) who can disappear for a while, get inspired, experiment with new styles, and make seasonal drops around a theme or emotion.  

The connective tissue that runs through the pieces is "richness from everyday moments" hence the "buttah" in the name. Basting a steak is an act of love that elevates an act we've done for millennia — cooking meat in fire — to an aromatic, nutty luxurious one that grips your nose. That's it, I want to grip your nose! 

But it's not just about food. It's about flowers, full-body serenades, happy tears, mistaken faces, and catfishing charlatans that promise you life-changing brisket but give you a sad plop of meat instead. 

Welcome to buttahbasted. 

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Paid subscribers will get full access to every piece in buttahbasted as a HUGE thank you for supporting me over the past year. Paid subs will also receive free access to Untethered, my magazine from last year.

Free subscribers, I’m very grateful for your support too. I will release one or two essays from this collection to you for free. I’m also going to package all seven stories into a beautifully designed and constructed ebook that will be available for purchase.

Thank you for your support and love 💛.