Dispatches from Good Name Advisors

I’ve been told that I can come on a bit… strong.
Over the years, I’ve worked to become more aware of my intensity — not to dim it, but to make it more welcoming. To lead with curiosity before conviction. To let people in, rather than overtake the space.

In the category of “I can’t believe you’re sharing this!” — I once met one of my creative heroes, the great cartoonist Roz Chast. I was so overcome with admiration that I launched into a breathless monologue about her brilliance — her wit, her drawings, her books, the way she captures life’s absurdities. Somewhere between “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written” and “you are my spirit animal,” I noticed she was… backing away.

I was mortified. Message received.

And yet, she remains one of my favorites — precisely because she manages to make our collective neuroses feel both tender and hilarious. Lately, I’ve been thinking about one of her cartoons that depicts a “Year at a Glance” calendar. It starts out with a generous January pie piece, and big February and March slivers. But by the time it reaches the 4th quarter of the year, you can barely read the months. They’re squished, crowded, comically small.

That cartoon lived over my desk, because it felt true. The year begins spacious, full of possibility. Then, somehow, time compresses. The days blur together. The margins narrow. By October, everything feels like it’s happening at once.

I think about that shrinking calendar often — especially now, as we head into the last two months of the year. There’s something about this time that feels both frantic and fragile. The to-do lists grow, the daylight fades, and we all start doing that mental math: Can I fit it in? Can I make it happen?

But maybe the real invitation isn’t to fit more in — it’s to make room. To give a little air back to what matters most.

Maybe intensity isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s just another form of caring deeply — one that needs direction, not apology. And maybe the shrinking pie pieces on the calendar aren’t a warning, but a reminder: that our attention is finite, and worth protecting.

So as we approach year’s end — before the pie disappear entirely — I’m asking myself – and I hope you ask yourself:

What have I accomplished that once felt out of reach in January?
What do I still want to give time and energy to before the year closes?
And what, if anything, deserves to be carried more gently into the new one?

Fondly,