This is likely to be a work in progress, but a few things to start:

My name is Aaron McNally. I was born in 1980, when Reagan was president, and supercomputers were so big you needed an entire building to store one. The largest industries in my hometown of Waterloo, IA were (and continue to be) meat-packing and the manufacture of John Deere tractors. The town has an excellent newspaper called The Waterloo-Cedar Falls Courier, for which I have written arts and culture features. It also has an excellent Arts Center, complete with a community theatre and modern gallery.

My parents, a Lutheran of Norwegian stock and a Catholic with German and Irish makeup, make livings as a paralegal and an auto body repairman / business owner. They’re split and remarried, but I won’t get into that here. Suffice to say, I learned quite a lot about working hard from them, and think of my writing more as a trade than I do as anything fanciful.

I like to write sentences. Even more, I like to write sentences professionally.

A guitar player and singer, I’ve been in and out of bands since I was fifteen. Now I mostly play for pleasure at home. The meaning in my life comes from my Sangha — the Winding Path, as well as the recovery groups I lead. I lead Recovery Dharma meetings here in Iowa City, and am also a certified SMART Recovery leader.

I lied. Or, well, I misspoke. Those are not the only things that bring my life meaning. Another is work. I kid you not. Good, old-fashioned greasy, dirty, basic, meat and potatoes work. This blog is one manifestation of how I am attempting to channel that drive into something where I can serve clients faithfully, creatively, and profitably. (That’s profitably for my clients!, although I’m happy to enjoy a little myself, should they care to share.)

I’ll let you know how that goes!

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Welcome to the home of Curiosophy Now, and the personal site of Aaron McNally. We are a commonplace miscellany seeking to uncover Modern Meaning through Serious Play. Moon Day Musings, Freya Day Essays, Monthly Podcasts and Intermittent Poetry.


"The Valet in the Tempest."