On stewarding fields
Revisiting fallow two years later—and how it's grown.
A quick aside!
Apart from writing this newsletter, playing on the Lot Radio, and doing client work (lately Michigan Central’s Art Program), I’m deep in fundraising mode for one of my quickly scaling projects, Imbolc. It’s a festival of music, poetry, art, and food Jan 29-Feb 2 in Detroit that honors the Celtic roots of the celebration and welcomes the start of spring. What started as one event in 2023 is now five days, six venues, fifteen events, 50+ artists, and likely 1,000 attendees this year with Detroit Design District and more. Weeee!
If you’d like to support this work—we’re $6k away from closing our gap—you can head to our Imbolc store to grab my first-ever risograph in collaboration with the amazing Taxonomy Press; a graphic score by the dearest King Sophia; a blank ink on black membership card with Brendan Byrne; and more.
Okay! Back to biz! Thanks!
This article is adapted from a talk for Drew University’s nycTREC Communications & Media program.
I used to think careers were ladders. These days I think they’re more like farms. Ecologically minded farmers rotate what they plant across the land to give the soil time to regenerate. They grow money crops, plant cover crops that restore the land, and—every so often—they let a field lie fallow.
When I first wrote about this 8,000-year-old practice in “On the urgency of fallow” two years ago, it was somewhat one part personal hunch, one part “I swear there’s a through line to what I do.” Two years later, after several cycles of projects, pivots, and pauses, I can confidently say it has held up. Letting parts of your career, your practice, and your life rest is not indulgence; it’s infrastructure. Grind forever and expect burnout or balk at blanket layoffs when all you’ve ever done is what you’ve been told.
Last week, I shared this approach to careers with a room of Drew University students studying media, advertising, and culture on NYU’s campus. We did a short exercise and swapped notes on staying principled inside systems that don’t always reward principles. Below is a written version for everyone who asked :)
On crops
Because I have many interests (God forbid some of us aren’t specialists, but generalists!), I let them ebb and flow based on what makes me happy and what makes me money. It’s the creative equivalent of lying fallow: intentional rest that leads to long-term yield.
When I map my last eight years of work, I don’t see rungs—I see rotations:
Money crops: work that carries the financial load (startups, consulting, and corporate work, like strategic partnerships, consulting, program scaling, design ops, CRM ops, GTM).
Cover crops: work that gives me pure joy—with little, if any, financial return (Daniel-as-artist; i.e. Moods, Imbolc, music, my films, sculptures, and books).
Fallow: intentional non-production that resets my land (instead of producing, I’m reading, researching, listening, traveling, and gathering feedback).
Try it: What are your money crops and cover crops? What does laying fallow look like for you?
If you’re stuck, think of it this way: your money crops should be legible and productized. Cover crops and fallow time should, however, be protected on your calendar just like your money crops.
I package money-crop work like products for a startup, company, or client (e.g., “CRM in 30 Days,” “Partnership Pipeline,” “Campaign Strategy & Documents,” “Editorial System Sprint,” “GTM Narrative Workshop”). Clear scope, price, outcome.
I schedule cover crops as if they were client meetings. Studio time, time to catch up with my record label, thinking time, you name it—it’s on the calendar. I don’t “if there’s time” the cover crops. There won’t be.
When covered well, cover crops should make your money crops better—ideas sharpen, proposals feel more creative, and clients feel the difference.
On ratios
How much should you spend on these three groups? For me, the ratio changes based on how much money—or how much beauty—I need in any given season. For example, think about these questions:
What am I interested in? → the topics your cops could cover
What do I do really well? → the tools you use for any type of crop
How much money do I want to make? → the number your cops should hit
What are my hard lines? → the ethics, or crops, you won’t grow
This framework is, you could say, my weather report. When I ignore it, I drift—planting too many things in the dead of winter expecting fruit the following week. When I answer honestly, decisions become easy. If an opportunity can’t connect #1 and #2 in a way that satisfies #3 without breaking #4, I pass.
As Bill Bernbach says, “A principle isn’t a principle until it costs you money,” i.e. ethics are only real when they cost you.
Try it: Write quick answers to all four questions above. Circle the one you’re least honest about. Pull that root and focus on the rest.
On harvesting
Fallow can look like this in practice:
Saying “not this quarter” or “yes, but next year” to new ideas, projects, and offers that don’t fit the current rotation.
Fewer meetings, more input: less talking means more doing, like writing books, planning shows, and hosting meetups whose ROI compounds year after year.
Letting a channel rest (no Substack for a month or three) to return with a stronger thesis.
Giving your year a “verb” instead of a resolution: what do you want to do, or enact, this year—and let the verb dictate what to tackle this year.
If you feel like you simply must do something that feels wild and off the beaten path—turn the “no” into a “small yes.” Imbolc, for example, started as a single event in a single location—not a five-day festival. It was a pilot, not a program. From there, the team organically grows into the size it needs to be for the year.
Every time I’ve applied these practices:
Yield goes up. Not immediately—later. That’s the part to trust. Take this letter’s stats: in the past three years, with no actual marketing budget or intentional growth strategy. We’ve nearly doubled our subs from 350 to 700+ (hi all of you!). That’s crazy to me.
Try it: Name one area you’ll let lie fallow for 60–90 days. What simple practice will replace it? (E.g., evening reading block, weekly museum walk, one longer writing session.)
Fewer identity crises (“Who am I?”) because the field metaphor holds variety without panic.
Try it: Look back at your answers to the questions in the last section, then look at mine below. They changed in the past eight years. How do you think you’d answer in 2017? Anchor yourself on what’s consistent, whether it’s apparent or a dotted line, and set the rest aside.
In conclusion
I don’t climb a ladder anymore. I steward a field—rotating crops, improving the soil, and feeding a community. The yield is steadier. The work feels truer. And when the weather changes, I’m less and less caught off guard, because there’s always another plan or a backup project to launch.
If you answer these questions for yourself—or even try this analogy out in 2026!—I’d love to see it. And if you’re earlier in your path, it’s okay to rotate a lot in your first few years. You’re not lost; you’re building soil.
Thanks again to the Drew/NYU students for the great questions and to everyone who asked me to publish this. If this was useful, you can subscribe to get future pieces on creative work, systems, and the occasional field report from the studio.