My Mother's Button Collection: A Case for Not Publishing Consistently

What if there's another way to grow as a writer?

It’s 1:58 AM, and my bedroom is caught in a standoff.

Behind me: The Tyrant—my anxious mind—pacing with its usual flair for melodrama, muttering things like, “Another week, another failure to deliver!”

In front of me: my laptop screen, glowing like a judgmental firefly, blinking at me as if to say, “Really? This is the best you’ve got?”

Caught in the middle of it all: a middle-aged possum—me—frozen between deadlines and dignity, trying to convince himself that if he just squints hard enough at these random thoughts, they might arrange themselves into something that looks less like a crime against writing and more like a second Write of Passage essay.

I close the laptop. Not out of defiance, but resignation.

My first essay, The Buns That Got Away: A Case for Radical Acceptance, had been like finding a perfect match—you know that satisfying click when a button finds exactly the right buttonhole? It came together with that kind of inevitability.

The second essay, The Words That Got Away: A Case for Containment, however is like trying to force a coat button through a shirt hole, knowing it’s wrong but hoping nobody notices.

I knew what the problem was. I’d scoured my mind like a tailor on a tight deadline, trying to make mismatched pieces work because it was time. The Tyrant was thrilled. “Deadlines breed creativity!” he chirped, ignoring the obvious: you can’t force buttons to fit.

But isn’t this what writers are supposed to do? The writing world loves to parade its champions of consistency. Writers whom I admire like

Elle Griffin

dedicates two disciplined hours every morning to write while holding a full-time job. Or

Michael Dean

, who published daily atomic essays for seven straight months—every single day—until something clicked. Their schedules became the engines behind their success, proving that consistent publishing can uncover clarity, momentum, and even a bit of magic.

I tried telling myself I could get there too, if only I pushed hard enough. But something wasn’t adding up. The more I tried to follow their example, the more disconnected I felt from the work.

Just as I was about to spiral into a monologue about my doomed writing career,

Harrison Moore

, a Write of Passage mentor whom I now picture swooping in wearing a red cape and matching briefs, stopped me mid-stitch: “You’re a strong writer … Where you could most benefit from is in the thinking.” Which, let’s be honest, was a polite way of saying, Slow down, Socrates, your essays are all vibes and no substance.

It made me wonder: is publishing daily really the same as thinking deeply? For Elle and Michael, it seems to be. Their discipline forces them to wrestle with ideas every day, sharpening their insights through repetition. It’s a valid argument: writing consistently means thinking consistently.

But for me, it felt like trying to sew a wedding dress in a day—you’ll finish something, sure, but probably not something you’d want to wear in public.

Consistency, as I’m learning, isn’t one-size-fits-all. Elle and Michael are master tailors who’ve built beautiful systems, turning daily practice into perfectly fitted pieces.

But not every creator works best in a busy workshop.

Julian Shapiro

collects his buttons only when curiosity strikes, letting patterns emerge before deciding what to make. Derek Sivers keeps a minimal, carefully curated collection, adding pieces only when he’s certain they’ll create something worthwhile. And Paul Graham gathers his materials slowly, letting connections strengthen until they’re ready to be revealed.

For me, the collection still needs growing. Before I can focus on daily creation, I need to build my repository first—let it gather the pieces needed for work that matters.

These days, instead of forcing words onto the page, I collect loose threads and spare buttons: Thoughts that make me pause. Tickle me. Move me to tears, even.

Like how certain questions stick with you like a loose thread, begging to be pulled. Like why the smell of rain feels like a memory. Like why dogs tilt their heads when you talk to them. Like why people have an avocado slicer in their kitchen. Each observation goes into my button tin, waiting to find its match.

But there’s a caution from

Si Quan Ong

and

Lionel Yeo

—brilliant writers who’ve been here before. Note-taking, they warn, can become its own form of avoidance—a collector’s trap, where buttons fill boxes but never find their way onto any clothes. You can spend years organizing your tin, sorting by color and size, while nothing actually gets made.

It’s a generous caution: collections can become clutter, where ideas gather dust instead of meaning. The Tyrant loves this, whispering, “Even your friends think you’re just hoarding buttons instead of doing the real work.”

Still, I decided to trust the process. Instead of forcing out my third and final Write of Passage essay, I went back to my tin of what moved me, sorting through my collection of buttons—those small, seemingly insignificant moments that snagged on my thoughts. I gave myself permission to end the course without a final essay. No pressure to find matching buttons immediately—just run my fingers through them.

That’s how the essay, A Mechanic’s Dictionary: A Case for Forgetting, emerged naturally, like finding a perfect match you didn’t even know you were looking for. It became the piece I’m most proud of thus far. Far more importantly, though, it’s the one in which I enjoyed every moment of the writing process. The ideas came together with a satisfaction that reminded me of my mother’s smile when she’d finally find the right button for an old coat.

The Tyrant was puzzled. “But... but... where’s the struggle?” he stammered.

That’s exactly the point. As

Hari Kanth

reflected in his essay, your best work emerges when it doesn’t feel like a slog.

I have fifty subscribers on Substack. Fifty wonderful, possibly distracted souls—half of whom are probably family members, a quarter of those are my friends who feel sorry for me, and one is definitely me on a different email address. What they will notice isn’t whether I publish today or tomorrow but only whether the outfit looks tailored or thrown together.

So, I’ve redefined consistency for myself. It’s no longer about Did I publish today? but Did I think today? Did I add something meaningful to my collection? My notes have become my own button tin—a little chaotic, a little precious, but full of possibility.

Tonight, I’ll close my writing app and open my journal instead. I might not have a new essay tomorrow, but I’ll have something better: a collection that’s just a little richer, and the quiet confidence of a someone who’s learned to trust that the right matches will reveal themselves.

Because maybe consistency isn’t about sewing on schedule. It’s about knowing when to collect, when to wait—and when to stop forcing matches just because you feel you should.

Watching my mother with her button taught me something else too. She never seemed frustrated by buttons that didn’t match immediately. She took pleasure in the collecting itself, in running her fingers through her tin of possibilities.

Perhaps that’s the real lesson she was threading all along. Every time I see her add another button to her collection, watching how her eyes light up at each new possibility, I realize: this isn’t just how we find our perfect matches—it’s how we learn to love looking for them.