Let It Go (But Not the Good Stuff)

A Basecamp Dispatch on letting go of clutter, compulsion, and my beloved em dash

This week’s Basecamp Dispatch finds me channeling my inner Elsa. No, I didn’t flee my kingdom in wintry angst or belt out any Disney power ballads (you’re welcome). But I did realize I’ve been clutching a bunch of nonsense like a broody hen guarding a golf ball.

So I let it go.

• First, the em dash. A well-meaning but mildly soul-crushing editor recently informed me that I should ditch them — apparently, they’re now red flags for AI-generated content. And here I thought AI was just coming for our writing jobs, not our punctuation. I love a freakin’ em dash. Nothing else punches a pause like that long, glorious line. It’s not a hill I’ll die on, but I am dragging my feet on the hike back down.

• Second, clutter. I’m slowly cleaning Outdoor Life out of my office space. For months, it’s looked like a Cabela’s exploded in here — camo in heaps, half-tested gear in bins, rods and reels leaning in corners, one rogue pair of chest waders with no known origin. The gear-testing nightmare had even spilled out into the hallway. Purging and organizing is hard work, and more than a little overwhelming, but it feels like a hard reset. Fewer piles means more room for pacing — or lying facedown on the floor, wallowing in despair when the words won’t come.

• And finally, the urge to perform on social media. I went for a Sunday hike at Medoc Mountain State Park with my husband and Penny Dog. It was a gorgeous day, with low humidity and coolish temps that felt like so much relief after a long stretch of swampy, hellfire heat. We hiked five miles and didn’t see another soul. I also didn’t take a single photo or post anything to social media. No proof. No content. And you know what? It still happened. Wild.

  

  Penny Dog, amateur hiker. Professional napper. Full-time role model. (Disclaimer: This photo is not from Sunday’s hike.)

Maybe this is what freedom looks like right now: fewer em dashes, fewer piles, fewer posts hoping to matter to people I wouldn’t invite to supper. More walks. More quiet. More pages that don’t need an algorithm’s approval. Less of what drains me. More of what fills me: Penny Dog, hot coffee, chickens clucking judgment from their perch on the henhouse roof. And me, trying to hold onto what’s worth the grip — and letting my inner Elsa take care of the rest.