Earlier this month, I visited my best friend in Florida. We were essentially coparenting 5 children so it involved lots of icy treats, water activities and some necessary TV - but one of the highlights was going with our college girlfriends to see Dashboard Confessional at the St. Augustine Amphitheatre.

Fronted by the still-skinny-jean-clad Chris Carrabba, Dashboard remains one of my favorite bands from my youth, and the night was a DeLorean trip back to basement parties or late night drives, scream-singing lyrics that I didn’t know I remembered alongside other 40-somethings whose raised arms and glazed eyes told me they were also being transported.

Surprisingly, at least to me, Dashboard wasn’t headlining - but rather opening for The Fray. I’m sure there is listening data that supports this, and my feelings are entirely subjective, but I always associated The Fray’s chill, singalong-style with my mom’s minivan tuned to Coffee House Classics. Not hair screaming infidelities, etc.

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With a new album released this year, we figured The Fray would want to play that first and foremost. Trap the audience who would wait for the classics. But while in line for Dashboard merch after the Dashboard show, we heard the opening notes of The Fray and ran for our seats as if possessed by some unknown force.

Or known force, I later found out.

Alex Gittelman, who writes the Substack “Notes on the Brain,” recently published an article on why music from your teenage years hits harder. The article itself is a bit highbrow (for me, maybe not you), but the point is: the “reminiscence bump” - a popular finding from memory research - tells us that music experienced between the ages of 12 and 22 gets encoded as our neural architecture is still forming. So those CDs you blasted in your first car become part of how your brain processes sound. And is why, in present-day, the piano intro of “Konstantine” still sends chills up my spine.

My body recognizes it before my consciousness does, because it’s in me.

So back to the concert.

As we entered the amphitheatre, beholden to the science that had taken the reins on our brains, we started singing along. And then we looked at the stage.

And we were wholly unprepared.

For the muscle-tee wearing, guitar-slinging lead singer running around stage like he was considering pulling a Benson Boone flip. The band’s indie pop bounce-alongs sounded more like rock anthems somehow.

Had The Fray gotten a glow-up??

So we stayed for a few songs. And then a few more. And observed the band’s 2026 influence as evidenced by the multigenerational crowd singing, swaying and even making out.

Not only had it seemed like The Fray’s fame had sustained, but maybe even skyrocketed, in the 21 years since “How to Save a Life,” served as the unofficial anthem for Grey’s Anatomy.

And where had I been? Not saving a life, but building one, I suppose.

The next day, perplexed about my newfound fandom, I started googling. And I found out that who we saw on stage was not the original lead singer.

Frontman Isaac Slade publicly left the band in 2022, and Joe King - co-writer on most of the songs, backup vocalist for years, an original member from the start - stepped into the lead role.

The Fray had not changed their name, but their singer - and by default their tone.

Where Isaac Slade’s version of The Fray sounded more polished, Joe King’s take felt closer to the angsty, rebellious and deeply feeling spirit of that whole era. It resonated with 17-year-old me. Who will forever have the aux cord to my taste.

As with any new leader - new school principal, new CEO - they’re going to have thoughts. And while there are forums of displeased fans who question whether The Fray deserves to be The Fray without Isaac, the change enabled them to keep playing. A change that wasn’t risky because Joe King was part of the band from the start. He understood the audience, the infrastructure.

And he didn’t break what didn’t need fixing.

But this isn’t just about bands. (Although I would love to just talk about bands.)

In a corporation, with the exception of the social media manager maybe, you are just a brandless member of someone else’s band. You don’t have your own voice. And you’re not really supposed to. So you just post pictures of your kids on Instagram, only the backs of their heads of course, and then you share some company-approved LinkedIn update on the event you just worked on for ten weeks straight.

But what do we sound like when we take the mic?

To announce…a new chapter, a career pivot, a Substack, or business you’re finally building?

I’ve spent years writing brand voice guidelines for other people’s businesses. When I’ve trained new hires on how to sound like [insert brand], I say that the voice is something that does not change; the tone flexes for different situations and channels, but the voice always stays the same.

But I’m not currently practicing what I preach. I have a website that still sounds like the version of me from two jobs and two less kids ago. The tone reads like a music blog bio section, which at one point was my intention.

So I’m building out brand guidelines for myself. Starting with voice and tone. Because brands - even personal ones - need consistency across moments and channels in order to connect, resonate, and keep audiences coming back.

But they also need revising as your brand grows.

And as for The Fray.

They’re still The Fray. Same music, different singer - one that can pull me from the merch line and make me listen to their 2026 album on the next day’s run. And write a whole Substack post about him.

Turns out bands can get a glow up. And new fans in the process.

COURT

Audit your brand voice to determine whether it might need a glow up, too.

If you have a body of original work, plug it into an AI tool and ask it to describe your style. Then compare something from two years ago to something from last week. What stayed? What drifted? If you're starting from scratch, AI meets Girlboss has a two-minute exercise worth doing.

SPARK

Blast some of your old favorites - find that other voice, the one that’s still you but a bit louder, and really really good at recognizing great music.

And since you’ve read to the end, your gift is a few fuzzy snippets of The Fray’s 2026 vibes.

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If movement is how we measure worth, then stagnance is a dirty word. It’s typically associated with the rancid or the rotting. But sometimes that stillness, to the point of decomposition, is necessary for regeneration. The marination of ideas isn’t always pretty. Like flower stems in standing water, sometimes it stinks.

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The last few weeks have been a bit disorienting. I’ve had several opposing forces stop me in my tracks. Both joyful and sad.

I’m home in the US for the summer, and because of that, I was able to attend the funeral of my high school friend Nate who passed away in a car accident this May. It was heavy and strange to be in a room with people who I never thought I’d see again, celebrating the life of someone who I assumed would always be there.

I saw him every Christmas for a while but it had been a while. It didn’t seem like he could ever be gone, because rivers always run. He was adventure-seeking, carving his own path, with an eye for nature’s beauty - captured in stunning photographs that still sit on his Instagram profile. He was the first to crack a joke (often at your expense) but also the first to lend a hand. He was on his way to rescue an owl the day he died.

I realize I’m writing from the bloodjet, the wound not the scar. The opposite of what you’re supposed to do. But sometimes that’s life. It doesn’t get a clean edit, or the ending we expect.

A few days later, Irish musician Glen Hansard died in a motorcycle accident. I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him perform, and I always knew I’d see him again. Until I realized I couldn’t, and the lyrics to Falling Slowly suddenly hit a new nerve and the poster on our wall from his 2019 Barbican show became even more treasured.

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You've made it now

Meanwhile, my young children grounded me in the present. Their very existence requires mine, and their joy at diving for sinkers in the pool and collecting shells on the beach is contagious. The day before the funeral, I got to meet my best friend’s little miracle baby boy for the first time. And the day after, we left for our annual family trip to one of my favorite places in the world, The Outer Banks.

There, we got to finally see the wild mustangs of Corolla Beach, first brought to the area by the Spanish in the 1500s. There are 127 horses that peacefully coexist with the humans (as long as we stay 50 feet apart and don’t feed them). Our group passed a stallion eating grass while someone hung bathing suits on the other side of the yard. These creatures create families, weather storms, and can be found frolicking in the ocean on the first warm day. Just like us.

Seeing them made me realize I had needed this pause. I needed to step outside of myself and seek out nature like Nate. I needed to touch grass.

I’m taking a virtual songwriting course with Grammy-winning indie folk singer Madison Cunningham. While I’m doing this primarily as character research for my novel’s musician protagonist, I’m also intrigued on a more personal level. I have dabbled in multiple instruments, in lyric-writing. During the first gathering, the first thing we did was go off to write a song. I was paralyzed. And then once I sat for long enough, I wasn’t. During the lecture portion, Madison outlined the four stages of building a song - and step #1: demolition. She said, “To make a mess is to point the arrow toward something beautiful.”

Madison told us a story about signing with a label, and how suddenly she went from being a kid with a passion to an adult with a deadline. She spent 12 hours a day perfecting a song. And it showed. It was overwritten, she was overworked. Her famous mentor Mike Viola told her she needed to go to the movies - and she needed to do it all the time.

This year is a fallow season for the UK’s Glastonbury Music Festival. The break takes place every five years so the land can recover, locals can breathe, and the planners can improve the event for the future. It’s regenerative and brilliant.

I’m not great at standing still, or going to the movies, or noticing what’s happening beyond the immediate swirl. But sometimes stagnance is the answer. Not movement or mastery or anything else. Just sitting in the bathwater until it gets cold, until we start to embrace the discomfort long enough to learn from it.

COURT

My “homework” from a kundalini exercise this week - and now yours, too - is to mentally swap any shoulds and shouldn’ts. We are often wrapped up in our own problems and pursuits, incapable of considering the context from which another person is acting. So what if we paused? If someone doesn’t do something you think they should do, reframe it. And vice versa.

They should shouldn’t unload the dishwasher…because they didn’t.

They shouldn’t should be late…because they were.

It might not feel good to merge expectations with reality; it might not even make sense in the moment. But to sit with it forces acceptance and a perspective shift.

SPARK

When something stops you in your tracks this week, let it. The bad, the sad, the beautiful. And feel free to let me know what it was below.

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I’ve worked at not one but two music streaming start-ups where “the culture” was so unquestioned that we willingly wore our own merch.

And then I spent time at a massive tech company, where I have a list tattooed on my brain of what we stood for and who we were. I still quote it sometimes.

And now, shockingly (mainly to myself) I’m missing people. Or more specifically, that built-in camaraderie that comes with close quarters and formalized fun.

While contrived, the container for socialization is like your neighbors in a suburban cul-de-sac, or the other parents in your kid’s class. And while I do have a few virtual writing groups, I haven’t been particularly proactive when it comes to in-person things.

So I decided to change that.

Because like a concert, or 10K race, there’s a spark that happens when people who love the same things gather en masse.

Here’s what I got into this month…

#1: Byte the Book x The London Library event: How To Submit and What Happens Next?

The London Library is an institution and any event is reason to go. But this one put on by networking community Byte the Book was exceptionally useful, as it was about the manuscript submission process. Although I’m not there yet with my novel, I hope to be - so I thought why not learn the ropes before I need to use them…

I sat in a room of floor-to-ceiling books, strategically close to the aircon, and coincidentally next to a woman who is also a mom, writing about music, and struggling to fit it all in. Meeting her, and another author, also writing about music (!) made it worth it, but there were some great takeaways from the panel on stage, too. Full recap is on Byte the Book’s site here, but my favorite quote for the purpose of this post was veteran publisher/editor Scott Pack’s advice on Beta readers:

“Don’t have someone you’ve formerly slept with, are sleeping with, or want to sleep with… give feedback on your manuscript.”

While tongue in cheek, his point was that you need readers who will give you advice you can actually use. And won’t sugar-coat, or offend you, based on your relationship status. (My addendum.)

Takeaway: You need a handful of objective writerly readers whose feedback you’ll respect.

#2: Maggie Nelson at Poetry International Festival

My next port of call was Southbank Centre, where Maggie Nelson (The Argonauts, Bluets, The Red Parts) was as sharp and sure-footed on stage as she is on the page. If there was a question she didn't want to answer, she didn't. If she needed a moment to think, she took it. She read from The Slicks - her latest work that explores the parallels of Taylor Swift and Sylvia Plath - and then sat for a Q&A with the moderator, and a few lucky fans who raised their hands.

Her off-the-cuff responses to the audience were probably my favorite part. Someone asked about her research process for Bluets, and Maggie said it took her years of piecemeal collecting of words and items; she even had an altar of blue things. Someone asked about the form. She noted the numbered list of blue fragments was modeled after aphoristic philosophy.

And as for the question on how she writes and edits: she noted the importance of having both the “blood jet” - the ideas that pour out - and then also your inner editor who comes in and manipulates this gush into something story-shaped.

Takeaway: You need the blood jet and the editor. Never at the same time. The spark, and the court.

#3: Substack Writers Meetup

I had been meaning to attend author/writing coach Amy I Beeson’s monthly Substack Writers Meetups in West London - and this month I finally made it.

The general format at these meetups is that after some socializing, three people read, and the rest of the group feeds back. Amy says a reason for this is that once debut authors are published - they are suddenly asked to read in public. So it’s an opportunity to practice in a comfortable environment with people who get the craft.

It’s also enjoyable as a listener; you get to experience multiple dimensions of the story. The intonations, the pauses, the pitch. It’s literary, yes, but also entertainment.

Takeaway: Reading your work aloud to real people is practice you can’t get alone.

#4: “Writing the Zeitgeist” with Narratively Academy and Alizah Salario

In my past life, I wrote about music, and entertainment - always tying to the customer, the moment…and the brand’s USP. But I wondered: how much “me” do I include with cultural critique? (After all, I still want to write about Off Campus, and Hailey Bieber’s jeans.)

So when I saw journalist and editor Alizah Salario was teaching a two-hour crash course on culture criticism, I decided to attend. She shared fantastic insights on how to make it personal (e.g., a mile deep, an inch wide) but the most fun part was sharing our unique “Roman Empires” - whether it be people, moments, fictional characters - that we could talk about in depth and at length. What are our obsessions? Mine might be Maggie Nelson, early aughts indie music, the Olsen Twins, vintage shopping, or running.

In our group, one person talked about language and its perceptions based on who was speaking it. Another woman was writing a book on the beauty industry and what we’re told to do to our faces. And it was this sharing and listening that inspired me most. We all had stories to tell, we just had to make the connections.

“Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.” - Annie Dillard, “Write Till You Drop”

Takeaway: Identify something you care about, then write to find the connections.

#5: London Writers’ Salon Check-ins & Check-outs

And lastly, I can’t forget my London Writers’ Salon fellow Gold Writers. For the past few months, I’ve been meeting with small groups and a coach for a check-in on Mondays to set goals and discuss the sticky bits (Britism that I love) and then on Friday, to share a win and a hurdle. It’s accountability, support, and connection all in one. It’s changed my writing - and writing life - for the better in a few short months; it’s keeping me accountable during chaotic summer travel, and will be something I’ll continue long after July is done.

Takeaway: Want to improve your writing? Talk to other writers. It’s that simple.

So if you’re looking for your people, whether that be a new work wife or beta reader, maybe try the below:

COURT

Go to an in-person event. And then challenge yourself to talk to one new person. It could be a poetry reading, a running meet-up, or obscure hobbyist conference in your town. Block the time and get the ticket so it’s harder to talk yourself out of it. Even if it’s changing a virtual meeting to an IRL coffee, do it - and feel the shift in energy that comes with connecting.

SPARK

Blood jet. On your way home from whatever event you go to, take out your notes app or a notebook and just let the words flow. Capture the spark of doing things with other human beings.

Tell me - or ask me - anything. How do you stay social as a solopreneur? What events have you attended that recharge you? Who’s in your creative corner?

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School’s out. We had the rescheduled sports day. The eco fashion show. The end of year picnic. And summer starts now.

As a suburban 90s kid, summer used to mean endless days at Burke Station Swim Club playing Sharks and Minnows, eating ice cream sandwiches, and crushing on the boy down the street with the white Camaro. Nothing to do and nowhere to be.

And while I love summer, as a parent working for myself, this time of year instills a bit of unease. I’m scheduling camps, booking activities, reapplying sunscreen while trying to figure out when I’m going to have time to work, read…think.

Last week I started panicking.

And then I started planning.

But as we know, the best laid plans - like that well-intentioned healthy meal for the kids - often end up in the bin.

So here are the four things I’m going to attempt, and maybe report back on. Mainly written for posterity and accountability. But if anyone wants to not do nothing (although I’m definitely scheduling some of that too) with me, please feel free.

Go with my flow

You may have heard of something called sleep chronotypes that reflect your body’s natural sleep-wake pattern. I already know I’m a Lion. I’m most productive in the morning, and I like to wake up before the rest of my family. But to do that, I need to go to bed fairly early. This means sometimes not finishing the episode or glass of wine. It means if there are kid wakeups, it might not even happen.

Recently I got into a bad habit. I was on Substack at 10 p.m. restacking, reading, scrolling. And I quickly recognized that the space, while welcoming and lovely, activates me. So I decided Substack for the mornings and afternoons. Evenings, for reading. Because the less I fight the energy current, the easier it is to do the thing.

Pick one thing

Which brings us to the thing.

Another habit of mine is hedging - or doing a little of a lot. It feels productive, mainly because I am constantly moving. And I mistake the exhaustion for progress.

I recently devoured this article on Slay with Finances about locking in on one thing - because more time spent on that One Important Thing, and less elsewhere, will guarantee it actually gets done. While the author Jessica Onne’s example is a six-month experiment, it got me thinking that this concept on refining focus when time is limited makes sense for certain seasons of life as well - whether that be motherhood, or summer.

My One Important Thing is building a profitable career as a writer. My three inputs are working on my novel, publishing Substack essays, and selling things I’ve already written. That’s it. It sounds, and likely will be, nearly impossible, but formally writing it out already makes me feel more focused.

Stack my habits

When I was getting my MFA while working full-time in New York City, I learned about habit stacking. It’s exactly what it sounds like: identifying a current habit, and stacking another one on top, with the first working as a trigger to ensure the new behavior actually happens.

For this summer, there are going to be fewer "habits” I can count on…except maybe these:

I’m going to wake up…and I’m going to go to sleep.

And as mentioned above, it’s the mornings that matter for me. Evenings are for reading.

In the morning I make coffee, and when it’s done, I sit down and meditate. The challenge is to not get sucked into my phone. Most of the time I fail, and mainly because my kundalini meditation is on Instagram, and the Off Campus clips are still calling to me. But then once I am sufficiently zen, I’m in a headspace to write. So I do whatever writing is priority, for as much time as I have.

The kids wake up around 7 a.m. And if I’ve done just this little bit of something for myself, it means I’m more patient. Even on days like today, when I cannot find uniform shorts and we’re sticking gems to the teachers’ Thank You cards minutes before we’re supposed to leave.

Protect the time

For me this means planning for it. And sometimes paying for it. Signing up for a class or course. Scheduling it on my calendar and getting childcare. I understand this isn’t possible for everyone, but the accountability can scale. It could be as simple as socializing the days / times you’re not free to friends. Setting a recurring alarm or timer for yourself. Saying no to a coffee invite. I recently had to do that. It felt weird, empowering…and right.

Last night, I went to an event put on by “Byte the Book” at The London Library. The lead-up to get there was stressful. As I went straight from the school picnic straight to nursery pick-up, then home to feed the kids snacks - with not one but two spills - I thought about cancelling. BUT…I had a sitter coming at 6. And I bought a ticket. And that meant I was more likely to go.

But also, take a beat

I wanted to publish this yesterday, but with the pile-on of activities I couldn’t find the time. I almost stayed up late. But I know that’s not when I work best. And that’s when I read after all! And so I gave myself grace.

I logged into Substack to tell all the people not asking that my essay would be delayed, and saw another woman’s post on how she wasn’t sharing anything new this week because she was taking space for summer. I loved this confidence and commitment to the pause. Because yes, the doing is important, but so is the existing, resting and resetting.

After all, the living is what gives us the stories worth telling.

These constraints are what I hope ensures they eventually get told.

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We just got back from Paris, where we spent four days in a heatwave. I know these high temps aren’t rare in parts of the US, but Paris without AC or window screens is a different beast.1

Our Airbnb had two “Dyson-style” fans which were useful only when propped directly against the bed, a foot away from our daughters. It also had a very popular bar teeming until 6 a.m. across the street… So how did we sleep? Brown noise, cold showers, too much rosé, no blankets, reading nonfiction, journal-venting. Repeat.

But alas, this isn’t about what went wrong, but about what we did right - or at all. Because if there is ever a constraint for creativity, or anything really, it’s the heat. The trip was planned seamlessly by my sister-in-law, who found activities and a rhythm that worked for toddlers, teens and adults alike. So if you’re planning a multigenerational trip, hopefully this list will come in handy even when it’s not hotter than Hades. Here are my tips:

• Go underground. Even though some of us had been to The Louvre, we didn’t realize you could visit the foundations of the fortress. Needless to say, it was much cooler down there. And really fascinating to stand where there used to be a moat, regardless.

• Prioritize play after productivity. City trips are heavy on the sight-seeing and museums, and that can only go so far with little ones. What worked for us was scheduling in time to create - we did a perfume workshop at Molinard where we all made a custom perfume (even my three and five year olds), and also a Monet-inspired art class that involved layering pastels over watercolors. Fans blowing, cold fruit, and water in abundance.

• Find your oasis. Ours was a coffee shop with mild air circulation and fun decor (shoutout Big Shot) with baristas who knew our order by the time we left. We ended up here, and our family’s hotel lobby, a lot. The “climatisé” advertisements in windows helped to identify our next stops.

• Make it interactive. As a reco from a guide, we downloaded FlashInvaders to identify little street mosaics (which apparently exist in London, too); this made our walking tours feel a bit more like scavenger hunts for the kids.

• Never trust the driving ETA. On any maps app. It was double what it said, every single time, typically longer than walking, and the reason why we missed our Monday p.m. Eurostar train and “had” to stay two extra days in France.2

• Fill your cup (in my case, shop). Do something for yourself. The last day, I had about an hour, so I went to Aesavant (a store ft. independent designers) and The Vintage Society. I got a bag, a top and some earrings - and my cup runneth over.

On Saturday night there was a storm, and it was like a fever breaking. I appreciated each drop of rain, the booms of thunder. The girls marvelled at the lightning.

And the next day, when there was a subtle breeze in the streets, it stopped me in my tracks. Sometimes these situations make us appreciate what we had all along. The city seemed to wake again. People laughing, not just existing. Someone playing an accordion. Runners running. The heat, like pregnancy nausea or a bad relationship, forgotten. And our love for Paris left in its wake.

COURT

What is something you only noticed once you had it back? It could be the quiet, a person, your own bed.

SPARK

Sit with it and recognize it, before it becomes background noise again. The act of noticing = mental AC.

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It is so hot in London. So hot that my daughter’s school sports day was cancelled for the first time in 24 years. So hot that I’m exclusively wearing Hill House nap dresses, and ordering things like peach iced tea instead of coffee. And it’s so hot that all I have the energy to write about is the energy it takes to write.

As mentioned in my first post, there is never enough time. And sometimes how we spend that time is the story, the fodder for conversation - or in my case below - the subject matter of the song-without-music I wrote. Because when the raw material of our days is what we have to work with, all we can do is sculpt it into something that feels a bit more like art.

So while I’m making no claims to being a poet, my point here is: all feelings can be harnessed. At night if I wake up and I’m feeling the overwhelm, I just type and type in my iPhone notes (that’s what that was ^^). I get it out of my brain and make it go somewhere else. So whether it’s stress, boredom, anxiety…or melting in this heat. Maybe there’s a story in that.

Speaking of, we’re heading to Paris tomorrow which has a high of 101 / 38 degrees. Wish us luck. I’ll probably be complaining again with my thumbs and then calling it art.

COURT

Morning pages for a week. Or nightly iPhone notes. Write about anything, every day. The intention is to clear out the cobwebs so the real ideas can surface. Originally from The Artists Way, I also heard about this practice when I interviewed the “Rockstar Whisperer” Kathryn Frazier. Don’t overthink it. In fact, don’t think at all.

SPARK

After a week, go back through your pages. Read what you wrote. See what keeps coming up. The Blues reclaims the sadness. The artist keeps repeating the lyrics - until the vent session becomes something beautiful. And same goes for you: what feels like nothing in the moment might just be the song.

MY FAVE SPARK THIS WEEK

And if you’re in London, go see 1536. To quote the woman in front of us who was texting her friend: it’s “f-ing stunning” and “a feminist masterpiece.” But also maybe consider a matinee. Because sitting in a cool dark theatre during the hottest hours of the day witnessing playwright genius Ava Pickett’s story about Anne Boleyn from the POV of three country women, and the ripple affect of power that we never see coming…was as refreshing as that peach iced tea. If you see it, or any good theatre, let me know in the comments.

For an introduction or refresher on all things Court & Spark - you can read my first post below.

Court & Spark

Introducing Court & Spark

I write this for free to give my roving rants a digital roof over their heads, but if you’re looking for more - come on in and cozy up. Paid subscribers get the bonus content, monthly play prompts, and the business B-sides and templates. Founding members get me, directly. Think of it as a mini consult without the invoice…

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3 months ago · 10 likes · 12 comments · Anna Svoboda

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Maybe I’m not just meant to be a driver.

I thought this while openly sobbing in the passenger seat of my instructor’s car as he drove me back from the test center. I had just failed my third UK driving test, and I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so incompetent. I could prepare for the meeting. Edit a doc. Get my kids to school on time (most of the time). Why couldn’t I do this?¹

At this point, I’d mentally given up. My husband had his license. I didn’t really need to drive in London. I loved walking everywhere. Or maybe I felt it was only appropriate to let bygones be bygones after hurdling over the old adage third time’s a charm.

But days later at a dinner with friends, instead of validating my desire to quit, one said: You just need to go after it like a dog with a bone.

After all, I had gotten this far. I had spent hours-turned-days of my life, and more money than I wanted to admit, on lessons and tests. And most importantly, I KNEW I could drive. I just had to beat the system.

A dog with a bone would be relentless in its efforts. Probably to the point of illogical. But a smart dog might also change things up a bit.

And so I went for it again.

But this time, I tried to mix up the variables so that it felt less like a five-year-long failure and more like a new challenge.

I decided to go back to my original test center where there were scenic roads and just the mini roundabouts versus the three-lane rings of terror. If I was going to do this, I might as well enjoy the ride. I changed instructors…again. The first one had a temper. The second one was too relaxed. This third one was serious but calm - and best of all, he provided context. After half a decade of driving in the UK, I finally understood the whys behind the rules of the road.

And I tried to change my outlook. The day of the test I journaled. I hadn’t been so nervous for anything in recent history. It wasn’t that serious. I could hold that logic in my head, but my nervous system couldn’t catch up. So when my body - specifically my shaking hands - threatened to drop the bone…I did star jumps in the test center bathroom.

And then, on my fourth attempt, I passed.

I had a woman examiner. A variable I couldn’t control. I’m not gendering my reason for passing, but her energy was warm and warmed me in return. Her questions softened my grip on the wheel. She had a stubborn cough that we discussed at length. A bit awkward sitting in an enclosed vehicle, but we rolled down the windows - and I will take honesty over everything. Including not catching a stranger’s cold.

But mainly: she wasn’t looking for me to fail. I entered a tricky situation similar to the ones before. A truck was sticking out into the road, and the driver waved at me to go around him. I inched past, dangerously close to the cars on the left. The examiner probably could have justifiably grabbed the wheel.

Instead, she let me drive.

When she said I’d passed, I was elated. But also vindicated. And then, briefly, angry. Why did it have to be so hard?

As an adult, we can largely avoid doing the things we’re not good at. Many of us do. Because it’s uncomfortable. And if we fail we can take it as a sign that it wasn’t meant to be. But it’s that discomfort that teaches us to be creative, troubleshoot, figure out what can be improved.

I’ll never know exactly why I passed. (Potentially the star jumps, a stroke of luck.) But I wouldn’t have passed at all if I didn’t at least try again. And maybe that’s the spark - pushing past the point of logical, when you know it’s right.

And what’s even better than trying again, is trying again while considering what might be worth changing. So here’s where I’d start (or reattempt).

• Spark - make up a list of things that maybe you gave up too soon. Things you are drawn to, energized by - but dropped too early, or without trying a new approach.

• Court - change one thing. If it’s an improv joke you’ve been working on, test it on new friends. A new venue. Just try again.

And if you know a no is a no, maybe just make the no feel more like a yes. A favorite play prompt of late is to take a rejection email or letter, rewrite it or print it, and black out the words to make it say what you want. (Credit my brilliant Kundalini teacher Flo Morrissey for this.)

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The B-side for brands

Is the launch really a fail - or fixable?

Whether you’re launching a Substack or new brand, here are some questions I’d ask before pulling the plug.

1. Has it had time to work? Align on the timing window before launch. Brand campaigns need 12+ weeks to show meaningful movement. (I was told to give my Substack 90 days). If you’re pulling at six, you’re not reading the right data.

2. Is your voice authentic? It sounds like an obvious one, but if you can’t connect to what you’re saying - or cringe when you read it out loud, your audience will feel that too.

3. Is the message right for the channel? A message isn’t OSFA (again, the muumuus). You need to flex for the place and the people in that space. See how similar brands are doing it & who is getting the engagement.

4. Are you measuring the right thing? Clicks aren’t equal to brand love - that type of trust builds slowly and won’t show up in short-term metrics. Know what you’re measuring, and what good looks like for whatever it is.

5. What’s one variable you haven’t changed yet? One thing. The channel, the format, the tone, the timing. Change that, keep the rest consistent, and let it run. Identify other variables; rinse and repeat.

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What's a red light in your life that ultimately turned green? Let me know in the comments.

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I’m an American writer living in London, a mother of two girls ages 5 and 3, and for the first time since college (‘university’ for my locals) I am not employed by anyone but…myself.

So how did I get here? (Here, as in London)

In 2008, mere weeks after graduating from University of Florida (*go Gators*), I moved to NYC for an internship at a global PR agency, with an office right next to David Letterman’s then studio.

One of our clients was Match.com - online dating before the apps - and the brand was struggling to reach the next generation. The summer interns were divided into two teams with the mission to create a comms campaign to reach young people…aka us. (A truly wild consideration from where I sit in podiatrist-approved slippers).

As part of this project, I went on dates for fun - and blogged about them on my BlogSpot. I also started writing a column on navigating the quarter-life crisis. Basically my hope was for my “single girl struggling in the city” perils to be discovered and turned into an HBO series. But then Girls happened and I tucked away that dream, mildly envious and massively impressed.

And I had set my sights on another dream: working in music.

The straw that broke my little entry-level back was not my 4 inch peep-toe heels, but rather, a birthday concert that I missed because I was in the office, likely pitching another teen cleanser to Eva Chen. Enough, I thought, in only the way a person who never has had enough can think.

I decided to claw my way into the music world briefly joining a band & putting out one EP, but mainly writing for free for music blog EARMILK and Z!NK magazine. And being a squeaky wheel. That final route worked, and a friend of a friend brought me in for an interview at streaming service Grooveshark. I said verbatim to whoever was interviewing me, “I’ll do anything.” Which is how I ended up in advertising Account Management.

Over the next few years, I met a guy at a Broome Street bar, started my writing MFA at The New School where I took classes at night and wrote in the morning, switched streaming companies and moved into copywriting/editorial by going back to my roots and writing about bands and DJs - this time for SoundCloud. I then left my East Village life for the UES, and married that guy from the bar in the Catskills in 2018.

Two months later we moved to London.

And I’m still here. What was meant to be a two year stint for my husband's job has turned into a 7+ year adventure. I finished my MFA at London Metropolitan University during the pandemic, had two kids two years apart, and landed in B2B editorial at Amazon - where I just left this March (more on that below).

And how I got here… (As in Substack)

And now I’m settling in to being a bit unsettled.

This period of change has opened up new avenues of time, curiosities - and anxieties. I’m longer part of a collective purpose, and I have to make my own. There’s not a big name employer to endorse my work or worth. It’s both pressure-bound and freeing.

I’ve spent years insisting I’m too busy to live the life that I want, and what I didn’t realize until now is that I’m always busy. I will always fill my calendar with things I need to do before the thing I love most - which is writing. Instead…I fold the laundry. I scrape this morning’s oatmeal off the table. I make dentist appointments that I inevitably reschedule. I email that person back who definitely isn’t waiting on me.

While employed, my therapist very gently guided me to the fact that a job can just be a job. She said I didn’t have to always give 150%…150% of the time. And same went for motherhood, too. What if good enough was good enough, and I saved some of that energy for myself? It was a simple concept, but eye-opening. To accept that I could steal some of that time back, still doodle in the margins of a busy life.

I had just made peace with my situation. I had a steady, salaried job as a WRITER. How lucky was I?

And then the editorial team was largely laid off.

While it was unfortunate for many, I had essentially manifested this weeks earlier while queuing with my colleagues for [the best] falafel in London. I had said I needed a nudge to do the things I had been wanting to for years.

And… shoved I was.

Now, I don’t have the excuse of a full-time job to not write the novel, not start the Substack, not build my business. Which simply put, is to help brands stay - and sound - human in the age of AI. Because frankly, as a writer who has helped to train LLMs to sound like us, I know where the machines need help. What that first flat draft requires to become a message that lands. And why when it comes to emotional resonance, humans always do it best.

The case for structure and spontaneity

As Joni Mitchell fans might grasp, Court and Spark is the title of her 1974 album. What you probably don’t know, is that it (alongside salt and vinegar pop chips) got me through my first pregnancy and the pandemic. As my world became more insular, Joni’s music felt expansive.

I bought the record on eBay and a man wrote a note about what the album meant to him. This human connection in a time where we were forced to stay physically apart struck me. And that’s what music, creativity, and language can do.

And now I’m borrowing (upcycling?) the term for my Substack. Joni had apparently liked the contrast of “court” (order, society, formalities) and “spark” (emotion, romance, creativity) - and the tension felt in managing the external expectations with personal pursuits. Instead of trying to grasp the smoke-like concept of balance, Court & Spark represents more accurately life’s levers that are constantly at opposition but work best together. Like creativity with constraints: making a living while doggedly pursuing your dreams, getting the kids to school on time but taking a moment (only a moment!) to stop and smell the roses, and just finding meaning in the margins of a structured life.

Every week you’ll get a note from me - and often with a Court and a Spark.

The Court: Something structured. A constraint, framework or a way of thinking about your work or creative life more deliberately.

The Spark: Permission to break free. One small, playful thing to try before next week.

Sometimes it will be two sides of the same coin. For example, I recently signed up for agent table reads. Writing my novel is creative food for me. But I needed to add external accountability, so I made myself a deadline. Signing up for table reads meant I had to edit my synopsis and first three chapters of my novel, and craft an agent cover letter. Things I need to do anyway. Things that always fall to the wayside.

On that note, I’m curious to know:

1. What’s your spark - that one thing that your soul needs that you can’t make time for? (If you don’t know, think back about what you loved as a kid…what made hours feel like minutes?)

2. And then, what can you put in place to make sure you add this type of play to your days? Whether it’s booking tickets to an art exhibit, signing up for guitar lessons, downloading Duolingo.

The best time might have been then, but the second best time is now. Take it from someone who has had Substack posts just whiling away draft-mode since 2023.

Thanks for reading to the end. I promise posts won’t be this long in the future. I’m aware, your margins are slim.

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Know a shadow artist who could use a little more play? Please feel free to pass along.