I could be sitting in a cab. I could be on a walk. I could be watching a movie, and out of nowhere, an idea, a thought, a curiosity will arrest all my attention and draw me toward it.

At this point, I’ll feel compelled to jot down that half-baked thought. Sometimes I’ll do nothing with it. Sometimes, I’ll explore it, question it, and see where it takes me. It could take the shape of an essay, an interview, a video, an audio story. I decide to let the wave dictate its shape and where it would like to flow. I’m shaping, nudging, editing, and trying to make sense of it. At the start of every piece, you'll find that original wave, raw and unedited.

I call it Wave in the Mind because when the idea came to share these thoughts, I had Ursula Le Guin’s compendium of essays, titled Wave in the Mind, sitting right next to me. It felt like the most apt title. Then I opened the book and re-read the epigraph. She’d borrowed it from Virginia Woolf, quoted above.

Through Wave in the Mind and, well, through all these ideas that have been forming organically over the years, I find myself taking the looking glass to our inner lives, observing the human condition, and discovering stories at the fringe. I’m concerned with our idiosyncrasies, why we make certain decisions, how we see the world, why we see the world a certain way, what inures the cynic, what keeps the dreamer afloat, and I guess wherever else these waves take me.

This space exists because it simply had to. I work as a creative producer, and I’ve been in service of my clients for about seven years now. But there was always a part of me that wanted to share ideas, or ‘waves of thought’ that would sit idle across my notes app, various Google Docs, various journals. Now they find a container in this space, and more importantly, in you. As is the case with most creative work, I am only building the channel of communication, curating it, crafting it in the best way available to me. Now, it rests with you to decipher, interpret, and share as feels right to you.

A poet I revere, Mary Oliver, once opened a poem with “Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.” Well, welcome to my silly, imperfect creative playground.

Thank you for being here.