This year, I did something I’ve never done before.

Declare a sabbatical without an end date, knowing that the end date might be quite far away.

It started in the summer.

And one of the things I noticed in the beginning was that I was feeling a profound fatigue around short-form content.

Weary to my bone of carousels and reels, emails and podcasts, being relentlessly mined for dopamine, and the illusion of having done something useful with one’s mind just floating in a sea of quickly churned out, and equally quickly forgotten output.

So, when I logged off from the world, it wasn’t even out of some lofty principle.

I was just following what I instinctively yearned for — the way a shark can smell blood from miles away, the way pregnant women are said to crave the food that contains the nutrition that their gestating fetuses need.

I needed words cooked slowly.

Slooooowly.

Perhaps even agonizingly slowly (I once had a friend who was a novelist. The time it took to birth a novel — agonizing indeed.)

To make up for the years I spent immersed in words, images and videos that took only minutes, or hours, to make. The fast food of creativity.


So I dove into a months-long marathon of doing almost nothing but reading novels.

Through the written word, I’d traveled to the Deep South, Harlem, Vietnam, Australia, India, Iran, Brazil, Senegal. And more.

More importantly, I’d traveled to the insides of extraordinary minds. Minds that were fully awake to the world, sensate equally to its brutality and its beauty.

Poverty.

War.

Partition.

Genocide.

Slavery.

The endless re-enactment of hatred and trauma.

And, threading through the midst of it all, impossibly — courage, love, kindness, tenderness, art, humanity.

These minds grabbed the thorniest, most uncomfortable questions of humanity by the throat, and stared into its eyes and refusing to look away, courting madness and fury.

These novels did not give me answers.

They did not prescribe a “how to” for how I ought to live the next chapter of my life, nor how to respond to a catastrophic world with my sanity and conscience intact — both of which I was subconsciously looking for.

But what they did, I feel, was restore my humanity.

They connected me back to the person I am, and always have been, outside of the professional roles I play.

Simone who looks. and keeps looking.

Simone who thinks and asks questions.

Simone who does not tire of searching.

That Simone is the most authentic Simone there is, and any identity of mine that is even a little bit more stable, poised, and reassuring than that is a lie.


These books also punctured giant gaping holes in the comfort of my former intellectual and ethical indolence. I found myself interrogating:

Why was I so content to communicate to my people through tiny Instagram squares and minutes-long videos?

Why was I so content to consume the same from others, and call it “learning” or “connection”?

What happened that I had become so comfortable conflating learning with entertainment, conversation with sound bites of conversation, and the sacred materiality of human togetherness with doing a bunch of clicking and swiping?

Had my thinking become so at ease with the conformity and shallowness that commerciality dictates, that I felt little inner tension with doing just that for years and years?

“If you’re ever going to go back to work, do it different,” I heard from within.

I need space where my thoughts can really stretch out without having to be cut up into squares.

I need space where my friends can read, and we can talk to each other without the interruption of constantly having to scroll left, and blinking notifications left and right.

So here we are.

An old-timey, 2006-style blog.

A blog is not the answer.

But it is a place where we can ask a hell of a lot of good questions.