(The following should be read in the frantic, slightly bewildered tone of a man who has just discovered a new door in his own house and isn’t sure if it leads to a sunroom or a panic room.)
OKAY. SO.
Look, I’m aware. I’m aware of the… the presence of it all. The digital footprint. The spectral self we leave scattered around the internet like breadcrumbs for ghosts. For years, my philosophy was simple: if you want to find me, you know where the office is. The laptop is on. The door’s unlocked. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. A one-stop shop for the neurosis, the posts, the whole… vibe.
It felt pure, you know? Contained. A single dusty room in the vast, gleaming, algorithm-driven mall of the internet.
But then… you start muttering to yourself. And you realize some of the muttering is… longer. Or it’s just an image. Or it’s a thought that doesn’t need a 45-minute preamble about my childhood dog. And you can’t just drop that into the feed. That’s like serving a single, elegant scallop on the same plate as a three-pound meatloaf. It gets lost. It’s disrespectful to the scallop.
So. Fine.
I’ve… expanded the compound.
Exhibit A: The Instagram. @digitalmarketingforcreatives – go find it, I’m not your social secretary.
What is it? It’s… visual muttering. It’s a picture of the microphone with a weird shadow that made me contemplate mortality for 20 minutes. It’s the empty coffee cup from a great conversation. It’s my dogs looking judgmental about a new piece of gear I bought and will absolutely regret. It’s the raw, unpolished, between-the-posts debris of my brain. No big statement. Just… glimpses. Flashes of the haunted light in the window as you drive by the house. Think of it as the blogs mood board. Or its panic room.
Exhibit B: The Substack. (@digitalmarketingforcreatives – you’ll figure it out.)
This is the opposite. This is the long mutter. The thought that starts at the coffee maker and ends up three miles down the road, having fully deconstructed the concept of “success” or why I’m suddenly nostalgic for a specific brand of pen from 1998. This is where the posts go that are too long for a caption and too unhinged for anything resembling a respectable publication. It’s the essay written in a bathrobe. No ads, no middleman, just… text, from me to you, landing softly in your inbox like a slightly anxious letter. Some free, some for a couple bucks if you want to support the cause and keep the lights on in the mutter-verse.
Why? Why do this? Why fracture the attention? It’s not a growth strategy. I don’t have a “content funnel.” I have a psychic spillway.
It’s because the thoughts come in different sizes and weights. The blog is the main course, the big conversation. The Instagram is the scribble on the napkin. The Substack is the long, rambling letter you find in a drawer.
They’re all the same voice. Just different rooms in the same increasingly cluttered, emotionally porous house.
So. If you’re interested in the visual detritus, that’s over there. If you want the longer-form, written-down neurotic rambles, that’s over here. The main show, the mothership, stays right where it’s always been.
I’m not trying to build an empire. I’m just trying to properly file the chaos. Consider this the new, confusing floor plan.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go figure out what the hell a “Story” is and if I have one.
Obviously you can still subscribe to the blog here.
Digital Marketing for Creatives 
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