I wrote a book. This week, I got my hands on a hard copy for the first time. It is a slim tome, 100 pages in total, readable in under two hours at one’s leisure.
It is 10 years in the making – the hard graft, experimentation, reflections and epiphanies of someone trying to make a difference in the workplace.
There is some ego in writing a book. That my ideas and experiences are “worth it.” However, I wrote it mostly as a promise to people who have encouraged me over the years. Our efforts were worth it. We made some excellent shit happen.
There is something about being an AUTHOR that is supposed to impress people. I am a bit more sceptical myself, although I lathered it all over my LinkedIn profile.
Just as everyone has been a content creator – a writer, photographer, performer – ever since social media went mainstream, so they have become a publisher. I used to use a Gapingvoid cartoon in presentations that said “Publishing is the press of a button.”
There is nothing special about authoring a book. That’s probably what made me do it. “Who am I to think I have something meaningful to add to the canon?” Well, I am someone just like everyone.
That is enough.
I wrote it for myself. Work is an iteration of what you know towards the emergent. The book is my notes on what I did, how I got here, and an encouragement that I can do it all again tomorrow.
This Much We Know.