The modern makers’ machine does not want you to create heavy things. It runs on the internet—powered by social media, fueled by mass appeal, and addicted to speed. It thrives on spikes, scrolls, and screenshots. It resists weight and avoids friction. It does not care for patience, deliberation, or anything but production. It doesn’t care what you create, only that you keep creating. Make more. Make faster. Make lighter. Make something that can be consumed in a breath and discarded just as quickly. Heavy things take time. And here, time is a tax.

even the most successful Substackers—those who’ve turned newsletters into brands and businesses—eventually want to stop stacking things. They want to make one really, really good thing. One truly heavy thing. A book. A manifesto. A movie. A media company. A momument.

At any given time, you’re either pre–heavy thing or post–heavy thing. You’ve either made something weighty already, or you haven’t. Pre–heavy thing people are still searching, experimenting, iterating. Post–heavy thing people have crossed the threshold. They’ve made something substantial—something that commands respect, inspires others, and becomes a foundation to build on. And it shows. They move with confidence and calm. (But this feeling doesn’t always last forever.)

No one wants to stay in light mode forever. Sooner or later, everyone gravitates toward heavy mode—toward making something with weight. Your life’s work will be heavy. Finding the balance of light and heavy is the game.4 Note: heavy doesn’t have to mean “big.” Heavy can be small, niche, hard to scale. What I’m talking about is more like density. It’s about what is defining, meaningful, durable.

Telling everyone they’re a creator has only fostered a new strain of imposter syndrome. Being called a creator doesn’t make you one or make you feel like one; creating something with weight does. When you’ve made something heavy—something that stands on its own—you don’t need validation. You just know, because you feel its weight in your hands.

It’s not that most people can’t make heavy things. It’s that they don’t notice they aren’t. Lightness has its virtues—it pulls us in, subtly, innocently, whispering, 'Just do things.' The machine rewards movement, so we keep going, collecting badges. One day, we look up and realize we’ve been running in place.

Why does it feel bad to stop posting after weeks of consistency? Because the force of your work instantly drops to zero. It was all motion, no mass—momentum without weight. 99% dopamine, near-zero serotonin, and no trace of oxytocin. This is the contemporary creator’s dilemma—the contemporary generation’s dilemma.

We spend our lives crafting weighted blankets for ourselves—something heavy enough to anchor our ambition and quiet our minds.

Online, by nature, weight is harder to find, harder to hold on to, and only getting harder in a world where it feels like anyone can make anything.

A synthesizer produces music very differently than an acoustic instrument. It produces music at the lowest level of abstraction, as mathematical models of sound waves.

Once we started understanding writing as a mathematical object, our vocabulary for talking about ideas expanded in depth and precision.

An idea is composed of concepts in a vector space of features, and a vector space is a kind of marvelous mathematical object that we can write theorems and prove things about and deeply and fundamentally understand.

Synthesizers enabled entirely new sounds and genres of music, like electronic pop and techno. These new sounds were easier to discover and share because new sounds didn’t require designing entirely new instruments. The synthesizer organizes the space of sound into a tangible human interface, and as we discover new sounds, we could share it with others as numbers and digital files, as the mathematical objects they’ve always been.

Because synthesizers are electronic, unlike traditional instruments, we can attach arbitrary human interfaces to it. This dramatically expands the design space of how humans can interact with music. Synthesizers can be connected to keyboards, sequencers, drum machines, touchscreens for continuous control, displays for visual feedback, and of course, software interfaces for automation and endlessly dynamic user interfaces. With this, we freed the production of music from any particular physical form.

Recently, we’ve seen neural networks learn detailed mathematical models of language that seem to make sense to humans. And with a breakthrough in mathematical understanding of a medium, come new tools that enable new creative forms and allow us to tackle new problems.

Heatmaps can be particularly useful for analyzing large corpora or very long documents, making it easier to pinpoint areas of interest or relevance at a glance.

If we apply the same idea to the experience of reading long-form writing, it may look like this. Imagine opening a story on your phone and swiping in from the scrollbar edge to reveal a vertical spectrogram, each “frequency” of the spectrogram representing the prominence of different concepts like sentiment or narrative tension varying over time. Scrubbing over a particular feature “column” could expand it to tell you what the feature is, and which part of the text that feature most correlates with.

What would a semantic diff view for text look like? Perhaps when I edit text, I’d be able to hover over a control for a particular style or concept feature like “Narrative voice” or “Figurative language”, and my highlighted passage would fan out the options like playing cards in a deck to reveal other “adjacent” sentences I could choose instead. Or, if that involves too much reading, each word could simply be highlighted to indicate whether that word would be more or less likely to appear in a sentence that was more “narrative” or more “figurative” — a kind of highlight-based indicator for the direction of a semantic edit.

Browsing through these icons felt as if we were inventing a new kind of word, or a new notation for visual concepts mediated by neural networks. This could allow us to communicate about abstract concepts and patterns found in the wild that may not correspond to any word in our dictionary today.

What visual and sensory tricks can we use to coax our visual-perceptual systems to understand and manipulate objects in higher dimensions? One way to solve this problem may involve inventing new notation, whether as literal iconic representations of visual ideas or as some more abstract system of symbols.

Photographers buy and sell filters, and cinematographers share and download LUTs to emulate specific color grading styles. If we squint, we can also imagine software developers and their package repositories like NPM to be something similar — a global, shared resource of abstractions anyone can download and incorporate into their work instantly. No such thing exists for thinking and writing. As we figure out ways to extract elements of writing style from language models, we may be able to build a similar kind of shared library for linguistic features anyone can download and apply to their thinking and writing. A catalogue of narrative voice, speaking tone, or flavor of figurative language sampled from the wild or hand-engineered from raw neural network features and shared for everyone else to use.

We’re starting to see something like this already. Today, when users interact with conversational language models like ChatGPT, they may instruct, “Explain this to me like Richard Feynman.” In that interaction, they’re invoking some style the model has learned during its training. Users today may share these prompts, which we can think of as “writing filters”, with their friends and coworkers. This kind of an interaction becomes much more powerful in the space of interpretable features, because features can be combined together much more cleanly than textual instructions in prompts.