Make Something Heavy

We create more than ever, but it weighs nothing.

Of course, there’s a range from light to heavy, and not all light things are bad. An entire economy thrives on lightness. Memes, breaking news, and celebrity drama shape culture in spades.

Light things shape culture, but rarely shape us.

Creation isn’t just about output. It’s a process of becoming. The best work shapes the maker as much as the audience.

You don’t just create heavy things. You become someone who can.

No matter how many you stack, Tweets and TikToks don’t add up to something heavy. They don’t solidify. At best, they’re a pile of snowflakes, intricate yet ephemeral. Beautiful while they’re here, gone before they hit the ground.

Substack, for all its virtues, finds itself in the midweight creation zone (if you use it right ). Writers stack posts, building up a library of words that starts to feel substantial . Even the most successful Substackers, those who’ve turned newsletters into brands and businesses, eventually want to do more than stack things.

They want to make one really, really good thing. One truly heavy thing. A book. A manifesto. A movie . A media company. A monument. — A masterpiece.

Heavy projects are the lifeblood of creative fulfillment — and creative longevity. And for now, no platform truly offers that kind of weight on its own. Platforms are built to amplify, not anchor. 5

Light mode is fast and iterative, producing work that’s quick to make but just as quick to fade. It’s the mode of rapid experiments, side quests, and prolific posting. Heavy mode is slower, deliberate, and intentional (often hermit mode). It’s the mode of deep work that builds over time and carries lasting weight.

Some go straight for the heavy: building the billion-dollar startup, writing the world-changing book, recording the defining album. No pit stops . Or, in less relative terms: things that will stand on their own and stand the test of time. Weight is lindy .

Others build up to the heavy things: essays before the book, short films before the feature, prototypes before the big product.

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.

Everyone calls themselves a creator now. It’s the default title of the moment, the identity of an era. But does everyone who claims it actually feel it? Do they know the deep, anchored satisfaction of having made something that carries weight?

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.

You don’t feel like a true creator because you haven’t made anything heavy, and deep down, you know light things don’t count. Your output is high, but your imprint is low. You ship, but you do not build. You call yourself a creator, but what have you made that could survive a month offline? A year? A decade? If you stopped posting tomorrow, would anything remain? Creating for 24-hour cycles isn’t freedom, leverage, or legacy—it’s just renting out your time.

Weight is tangible in the physical world. Working with your hands , with weight, shape, and dimension, holds an abundance of untapped virtue and value. Online, by nature, weight is harder to find, harder to hold on to.

People ask, "What are you working on?" They’re really asking: What’s your endgame?

My answer is simple, but not easy: make something heavy.