In her newsletter Granola, Gracy Olmstead writes:

When I first started working as a journalist in Washington, D.C., I was required to publish 3-5 articles a week. They were not usually long, but the output required a constant scouring of the internet for any possible leads or “hooks” one might use for a story. My coworkers and I spent all of our time on Twitter, keeping up with second-by-second updates from Capitol Hill, the White House, and local think thanks. There was a desperate pleasure in it: a feeling that you were “in the know” in a way few other human beings were. You were in the middle of a city humming with excitement and activity. You had a job, and your job was literally to keep up with as much that was happening as possible, as soon as it happened.

But over time, as you can imagine, that output and degree of constant attention was exhausting. It was difficult to turn off. It was almost impossible to avoid scouring the news with equal ferocity during the evenings or on the weekend. And more insidious, there was this constant pressure to have an opinion on every single topic that rose to the forefront in that space and time. Because I was required to write so often, I necessarily had to write about things that I knew very little about. I had to think up a “take,” all too often, when I did not have one. Sometimes I honestly did not care. Other times, I was simply troubled by the events occurring in our world and felt nothing but sadness over what was going on. I had no opinions about how future events ought to unfold. I just felt their weight, their need to be carried silently in lament and prayer.

Later, as a freelancer, I tried to back off the pace. I really disliked the intensity and fixation on any news story or controversy that had risen to the surface. I did not like being part of the “hot take” market. I did not want to feed the aforementioned monster.

But of course, it was tough. If I didn’t write opinion pieces, I did not make money. If I did not make money, it took a toll on our family’s budget.

It took a while, but over time, I realized that writing about things I truly did not care about was not worth it. For me at least….

It seems we have forsaken the humility of learning, of silence, and of question-asking for the incessant demand that one must express and defend a stance. It is barely possible to change one’s mind. What this does to our civic life, and our communities, seems unfathomably dangerous.

But I think my brother-in-law is right. If we share opinions less—or at least without clench-fisted anger—there’s a chance we will open up some mental and communal space for true, deep, rich conversation. Perhaps we might discuss not just presidential politics, but also the ideas and concerns that inform them. Perhaps we will consider more than the Supreme Court, but also the nature of democracy and what it means to be free. How do we care for our communities? What is meaning, and how do we pursue it? What makes us human? Is there a God? How should we then live?

Macro-thought, micro-opinions. Perhaps it’s worth giving a try.