@accidentallywise: A handle, a book, and a minor meltdown

Because apparently, writing the book was the easy part.

There are life decisions that warrant serious contemplation. Getting married. Quitting your job. Naming a child. And then there are decisions that should not, by any reasonable measure, require the same level of inner turmoil—like choosing a font for Instagram, or deciding whether your first post should be sincere, ironic, or narrated by your inner teenager.

And yet, here I am. A fully grown adult with taxes and an insurance plan, sweating over a 15-second Story that disappears faster than my motivation to use the bicycle I bought several years ago. A bicycle that spent most of its life indoors, functioning as a very expensive hanger for bags and damp towels, before I eventually donated it to someone who might actually ride it.

Let me explain.

My personal Instagram account has been dormant since January 2023. The last time I posted, I was wishing people a Happy New Year—and meant it. Since then, I have watched from the shadows as friends posted reels, transformations, sunsets, and suspiciously well-lit “candid” shots. Meanwhile, my own relationship with the app hovered somewhere between “barely tolerated” and “frequently forgotten.”

But now, with Accidentally Wise (yes, that is the book’s name in case you did not figure it yet) heading toward launch, I found myself back on the app. Not just reopening my old account, but trying to figure out how to show up through the book’s official handle.

And it turns out, that first post about what it should say, what it should look like, what tone it should carry became an unexpected challenge. Do I start with a straight-laced intro? A cheeky caption? A secret whispered to the algorithm? The options were endless. And each one somehow felt like it would set the tone for all eternity.

First up: picking a handle for the book.

Now, naming a child is hard, but at least there are baby-naming books and grandparents to offend. On Instagram, all the names are taken. I started optimistically.

@wildlycurious — taken.

@wise — taken. How unwise of me to think that might be available.

@maybejustleave — somehow, also taken.

Eventually, I typed in accidentallywise—tentatively, like I was testing the temperature of bathwater or trying out a new nickname that no one had approved. I fully expected the app to reject it. Surely someone had claimed it, or Instagram would flag it as a philosophical cry for help. But it went through. No warnings. No suggestions involving underscores or unfortunate numbers. Either divine intervention was at play, or this was proof that no one in their right mind would name a book that. Naturally, I took it as a sign. From who, I do not know—possibly an algorithm with a sense of humour.

Which reminds me—if you are reading this and happen to work at the publishing house that greenlit it: thank you. I do not know whether to applaud your open-mindedness or gently ask if everything is alright at home. Either way, I am grateful. And mildly alarmed on your behalf.

Anyways, back to Instagram. This is where came the real problem. The first post.

This should not be hard. People do it every day, sometimes while brushing their teeth or watching true crime documentaries. But I am not “people.” I am someone who wrote out seven potential captions in a notebook and ran them by friends, a coffee mug, and a nearby light pole. The light pole judged me the least.

“Should it be a quote from the book?”

“Too earnest.”

“A behind-the-scenes photo?”

“Too try-hard.”

“A meme about writer’s block and caffeine dependency?”

“Too real.”

I considered posting nothing and claiming it was an avant-garde performance piece. Then I remembered I had a book to promote and not a degree in postmodern angst.

Eventually, I posted a photo. Just one. A quiet, humble return. Not a reel, not a montage, not a lifestyle aesthetic—just something that whispered, “Hello, I might be back. Please clap.”

I also learned that one must think about “the grid.” Not the power grid, though I care about that too. The Instagram grid. A curated mosaic of posts that tell a coherent visual story. My grid currently tells the story of a person who forgot the password, came back after a year, and might leave again without notice. An emotional thriller in nine squares.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the existential freefall of posting a Story.

Stories, by design, vanish after 24 hours. But when you have been Insta-silent this long, every frame feels like a public declaration of your soul. I stared at the Story circle like it was a red button marked DO NOT PRESS.

Instagram offered me filters. I did not want filters. I wanted emotional armor and an Undo button for the human experience. I wanted a caption that said “Socially rusty but trying.” I settled for something short. Something that said: I have emerged from hibernation, blinking into the ring light.

After posting it, I closed the app immediately. Like it was a mic drop. Or a crime scene.

Since then, I have not done much. A single post. Maybe two. Or three. A couple of Stories. A lingering sense of digital vertigo. The handle, in case you missed it, is accidentallywise. That is also the name of the book, though you would be forgiven for assuming it is a lifestyle brand for clumsy philosophers.

So if you are on Instagram, come say hi. Or send a meme. Or just follow and watch me fumble through this brave new world of fonts, filters, and flashing notifications. I promise not to post food pics. Unless I accidentally make something wise. Like toast with insight.

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PS: Audio version generated by Google NotebookLM