I’m sitting in the university library’s fourth floor, surrounded by twelve open books spanning disciplines that supposedly have nothing to do with each other. To my left: a mycology textbook open to a chapter on mycelial networks. To my right: Audre Lorde’s Sister Outsider bookmarked at her essay on the erotic as power. On my laptop screen: three tabs comparing note-taking apps, two articles about Indigenous data sovereignty, and a YouTube video about sourdough starter maintenance.

There’s a faculty member across from me who keeps glancing over with that look I know well—the quizzical one that says pick a lane.

But what she can’t see are the connections forming in real time. The notes on how fungal communication networks mirror the way marginalized communities share survival strategies. Or how Lorde’s concept of the erotic intersects with Indigenous approaches to knowledge as embodied experience. How the care required for sourdough parallels the attention needed for long-term creative projects.

This moment—books scattered, mind leaping between topics, finding threads others can’t see—this is where I’m most myself.

When Curiosity Gets Pigeonholed

Everyone wants you to pick a lane and stay in it. “What’s your specialty? Niche?” they ask. “What are you known for?” As if the most interesting minds in history didn’t range across multiple disciplines, as if curiosity itself isn’t the most valuable thing a writer can offer.

Diversity is the point. The connections between seemingly unrelated topics—like those books scattered across my library table—are exactly what readers are hungry for. The links between chess strategy and therapeutic journaling, between sustainable agriculture and creative writing pedagogy, between true crime psychology and community organizing.

Most writers choose expertise over curiosity. Safety over surprise. I’m choosing the scattered books approach. A 2023 report found that 52% of employees actually consider themselves generalists, and these folks are often the ones excelling at connecting new ideas and working across different fields. This kind of interdisciplinary thinking is a major driver of innovation, helping us solve complex problems by bringing together insights from different areas. Innovation happens when you make unexpected links between seemingly dissimilar subjects.

The Daily Practice

Every morning I write 750 words in my private journal. No editing, no planning, just whatever’s moving through my mind that day. Over the years, this practice has become my most reliable source of insight —about how ideas actually develop, and how thoughts connect across seemingly unrelated territories.

I Analyzed 14 Years of My Writing with Vibe Coding. How 1,002,243 words of journal entries revealed the patterns of a writer's mind.

And the most interesting insights happen at the intersections. For instance, last Tuesday I started writing about seasonal depression and ended up analyzing the cinematography in A24 horror films. Yesterday, I was documenting a panic attack and found myself connecting to the way our information feed creates false urgency. This morning I wrote about learning to bake bread and realized I was actually working through grief about my grandmother’s death.

These aren’t accidents or distractions, rather, they’re the actual shape of how minds work when they’re allowed to roam freely. Like those books spread across the library table—each one informing the others in ways that wouldn’t happen if they were shelved separately. Most writing tries to edit out these connections, to stay “on topic.” The connections are the topic.

This is how a digital garden works, where ideas are cultivated and linked in a non-linear way, much like our brains make connections. It’s a space for learning in public, reducing perfectionism, and allowing for continuous growth of ideas. The Zettelkasten method is also all about building a web of knowledge by linking individual, seemingly unrelated notes.

Writing as Medicine

Writing has always been medicine for me—not metaphorically, but literally. The physical act of putting words on paper changes my brain chemistry, regulates my nervous system, helps me process everything from daily anxiety to intergenerational trauma. Expressive writing improves both physical and psychological health, leading to fewer doctor visits and better immune function.

When writing is medicine for the writer, it often becomes medicine for the reader too. Authentic exploration of ideas creates space for others to do their own exploring.

I write about anxiety medication not to be the mental health writer, but because beta blockers are part of my daily reality, and when I explore that experience honestly, readers tell me it helps them feel less alone. I write about Indigenous knowledge systems not to be the NDN writer, but because ceremony and traditional teachings inform how I approach everything from time management to data analysis.

I write about film criticism through the lens of trauma recovery. I analyze urban planning as someone who’s lived in low-income housing. I review kitchen equipment as someone who’s fed children in hospice care. I explore digital minimalism as someone raised on the early Internet. I discuss academic labour as someone who loved university but chose to leave.

This is how the human mind actually works. Like that scattered table of books, each informing the others. If there is demand for specialization, instead offer integration. In a culture that rewards expertise, I celebrate the amateur spirit and the beginner’s mind— loving things enough to explore them without needing to master them.

The Renaissance Writer

Be a writer that readers are loyal to because they trust how you think. Because you’re curious about the connections made between seemingly unrelated topics. Whether reviewing noise-canceling headphones through the lens of neurodivergence, analyzing the economics of farmer’s markets, exploring the overlap between poetry and data visualization, or discussing the spiritual dimensions of decluttering—they’ll know it’ll be filtered through a perspective you won’t find anywhere else.

Think of it as intellectual promiscuity in service of deeper understanding. Like that table of scattered books, drawing from whatever source offers insight, whatever field provides tools, whatever tradition holds wisdom.

My own positionality—prairie-raised, Indigenous, Queer, academically trained but independently minded, medicated, curious about everything—means I can write about ADHD management from lived experience while also bringing NDN concepts of cyclical time. I can review kitchen gadgets as someone who’s cooked professionally but also as someone who sees food as ceremony. I can analyze social media platforms as both a digital native and someone trained in postcolonial theory.

I want my writing practice to be a model for others who feel too curious, too wide-ranging, too interested in everything to fit into neat professional categories. Giving generalists challenging work pays off, boosting engagement by 280% and the probability of great work by800%. Be perpetually amateur—in the best sense, someone who does the work out of love.

Next week, I might write about why I think fountain pens are secretly therapeutic tools. Or maybe I’ll share my analysis of how horror movies help me process intergenerational trauma. Or perhaps I’ll dive into what I’ve learned from attempting to grow herbs on my Calgary apartment balcony. I honestly don’t know yet, and that’s the point.

I’ll be writing from whatever feels most alive in me that week. Whether it’s analyzing the cinematography in Midsommar, reviewing my favorite todo app, exploring the intersection of Buddhism and hospitality work, or documenting my ongoing experiments with time-blocking as someone with ADHD.

I’m building this in public because the process itself is part of the product. Because showing how minds actually work—messy, tangential, curious about everything—is more valuable than pretending to have everything figured out.

I want to create a space where intellectual curiosity is celebration, not apology. Where following your interests wherever they lead is strategy instead of distraction.

The professor across from me is packing up her books now, each one sliding into its designated compartment. But I’m staying here with my scattered table, these twelve open books that are somehow all talking to each other. Expect the unexpected. Trust the scattered books approach. Let’s see where this goes.

Originally posted here.