My podcast has no tight pitch and I momentarily forgot it existed. I do it anyway, because the loop of making and sharing still feels worth it.
Someone on Threads asked me what my podcast was about, and I had to pause — first because I momentarily forgot I had one, which pretty much tells you everything about how seriously I take it, and second because once I remembered, I genuinely didn't have a clean answer.
I don't know what my podcast is about. Not in the way you're supposed to know. There's no pitch, no clear audience hook, no reason a stranger should subscribe unless they already know me. I told the person on Threads exactly that, and I have no idea if they ever hit follow. But that's the honest answer, and I'm okay with it.
Not taking creative projects too seriously means they can never really grow — and that's a trade I've made knowingly.
The upside of treating the podcast casually is that it stays fun. The downside is the same thing. When something is always second or third on the priority list, it can't build momentum, it can't grow, and it won't produce anything that looks like a real output in any measurable sense. My main job is editing podcasts for clients — that's what pays — and beyond that there's just life with a family. By the end of the day, there isn't much creative energy left. Some people manage that better. I'm sure of it.
What I actually enjoy is the loop itself: record a thing, edit it, publish it, send it out into the world. There's something about giving a little piece of yourself to someone who might be struggling with something, or who might find it motivating, or who just wants to share in the fun of it. That same instinct is why I live stream video games, and why I've even streamed myself editing podcasts — just to show that it's possible, that a person can sit at their desk with a camera and a microphone and broadcast 4K video to anyone on the planet in real time.
It just kind of blows my mind that it's possible.
There's still a part of me that finds that genuinely astonishing. Sitting at your computer, streaming live to Twitch or YouTube, watchable by anyone, anywhere, while it's happening. That feeling hasn't worn off, and I think holding onto it — that slightly naive wonder at what these tools can actually do — is a big part of why I keep playing with them at all.
"I like to hang on to a little bit of that naive kind of thought of how it used to be, as a way of means and a reason to explore how to use these tools."
It's not about monetizing it. It's not about building a following. It's more just the fun of it, and the amazement that you can do this kind of stuff at all.
That's why the podcast exists. No sharper reason than that.
