Not like. Love.

What happens tomorrow? That’s what these guys are trying to figure out and because I have a lot of respect and admiration for them, I want in.

But responding to this is daunting:

“Today’s dilemmas deserve fresh eyes liberated from the tired status quo of superficial journalism, boring narratives, and old ideas about what works. We want stories about the people, the movements, and the trends that are tearing the world down and building it anew. Pieces that are about what’s coming next, about hitting the reset button, about preparation, about people and ideas that are pushing the boundaries of our collective comfort zone.”

They’re right, obviously. Obviously. But it’s hard (whining here) to find things to write about before they’re happening, as the momentum is building and an idea is on the cusp.

Everything I though of felt trite, or as if someone else could cover it better. Nuclear power, played. Fires, might have been news last week. Women athletes trying to decide between babies and their career, more on that later, but kinda played right now. It was stressful. I over analyzed and got stage fright-y. I really wanted to write something, but I felt incredibly uncreative and flat.

During one of my two triathlon training runs I tried to think about things that are exciting me right now: stuff that I’ll pay attention to and get all internet rabbit hole-y on my own. “you should only write freelance articles you’re excited about,” my mother told me when she was visiting. I took it to heart, or to my lungs, or whatever it is that helps me concentrate when I’m moving.

And I thought about words and about poetry and about videos that I’ll watch on vimeo, even thought I hate Internet videos. So I’m going to pitch them on the future of poetry, and how it’s not just old white people academics, how it’s these guys in the subway or in coffee houses in Austin, meshing iambic pentameter and hip hop, and making sure that people hear it. Because I hope that’ll still be important tomorrow.