# Every Lighthaven Writing Residency

*In which you attend Inkhaven II and learn that a trifle is sort of like a Giga tiramisu*

*\[not previously in any series, because you have never finished one\]*

There is a compound in Berkeley. It has whiteboards in the hallways, houses named after dead mathematicians, a podcast room, and weighted blankets. The kitchen is heavily stocked in a way that suggests both abundance and a particular theory of human optimization: fresh fruit, labeled leftovers, and industrial quantities of Soylent.

You have been accepted to spend April there, writing.

The first cohort wrote 1.7 million words and all 41 finished, a fact prediction markets priced so thoroughly that one resident who tried to fail was overruled by collective certainty. You are hoping to do slightly worse, to preserve the mystique of human free will.

You arrive on a Wednesday. The architectural theory of the place becomes clear almost immediately: someone built the nooks first and constructed the house around them. Every room is organized around a corner, an alcove, a recessed seat, a window ledge wide enough for two people and a laptop. The nooks are the point. The walls are load-bearing in the structural sense only.

The lobby has the energy of a place optimized for small, quiet conversations in those nooks. You recognize it immediately: the architectural equivalent of a first message on Manifold.Love. *I’m quirky but approachable. I contain multitudes. I have whiteboards.*

You find yourself wondering, not for the last time, how nerd bloggers afford a zillion dollar property in Berkeley. You do not ask. There are many things you do not ask.

“Hey!” says a guy whose lanyard says BEN. “Welcome! Have you published today?”

“I just got here.”

“Right, right. Just checking. The deadline’s midnight. Some people like to get Day One out of the way early.”

You will in fact not get Day One out of the way early. You will hit publish at 11:47 PM every single night for 30 consecutive nights, each time swearing it will be different tomorrow, the way someone swears she’ll start going to the gym after just one more week of not going to the gym. In the meantime, the Slack will fill with evidence that everyone else is having a richer, more interesting residency than you are.

****#activities****  
*BOTC tonight*  
*Shake & Bake (Shakespeare puns + bread)*  
*Wine, cheese, poetry*  
*Ecstatic dance*

You attend none of these. You are writing about mechanism design in potluck coordination while others produce both Coriolanus and rye bread.

\* \* \*

Breakfast is self-serve. The kitchen has the faintly sacred aura of a place where Eliezer Yudkowsky has once microwaved something.

“Do you want to help settle a scientific question?” someone asks. “Gwern claims microwaved water makes bad tea. We’re doing blind taste tests.”

“You’re replicating a Gwern experiment.”

“Blind taste tests, then crossover with boiling chips. Seven people so far. Also someone’s organizing a full Replication Club—pick a famous psych study, replicate it in under 24 hours, write about it. The replication and the write-up each count as separate blog posts. Two days of content for the price of one day of actual work.”

“That’s gaming the system.”

“That’s literally what the organizers say. They call it Goodharting on the correlation. It’s on the website. The system was designed to be gamed.”

A woman nearby is typing with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb.

“Fractals,” she says, not looking up.

“Mathematically?”

“Emotionally. Grief is self-similar at every scale.”

“That seems like a claim you’d want to be careful about.”

“I have 500 words and fourteen hours. Careful is a luxury belief.”

From another room: “First of all, making bank is incompatible with human dignity. Jot that. No, that’s a joke.” You check Slack. It’s already in #inkhaven-quotes.

\* \* \*

You head to the garden to write. The gardens are beautiful. They are exactly the kind of gardens that make you think “I could write something beautiful here,” and then you open your laptop and stare at a blinking cursor for forty-five minutes while a hummingbird judges you.

A man sits down on the next bench. He has a physical notebook. With a pen.

“Aren’t you going to need to type that up?”

“No. I photograph each page and upload the images to Substack.”

“Can your readers actually read your handwriting?”

“The ones who deserve to can.”

He’s gathered a small audience. “Have you thought about using Claude to transcribe it?” asks a woman in a Lighthaven hoodie.

The notebook man winces as though she has suggested he microwave a kitten. “Claude *is the thing I am warning you about*. You feed it everything the blogosphere has ever written, it averages it all out, and now anyone can produce text indistinguishable from a mid-tier Substack post. We’re not training writers here. We’re creating training data.”

\* \* \*

Lighthaven is approximately 40% nook by volume. The nooks are not quiet. They only look quiet.

In the first one: two people are debating whether the Voynich manuscript represents a constructed language, a natural language with unknown orthography, or an elaborate hoax. “The statistical properties make a simple hoax unlikely,” one says. “The entropy signatures look like natural language.” “Unless the hoaxer knew enough about natural language statistics to fake that.” They both go silent, considering this.

In the second: a woman is explaining medieval Chinese maritime trade networks to a man who keeps saying “wait” and drawing invisible diagrams on his knee. “So the Song dynasty is essentially running a navy to support and extract from private merchant shipping—” “No, not supporting. Taxing. The protection is incidental to the revenue model.” “That’s just a state.” “That’s just a state,” she agrees.

In the third, you sit down because there is nowhere else. A man is mid-sentence: “—which is why the fine-structure constant being dimensionless is either a deep fact about reality or about how we parameterize it, and you can’t fully disentangle that from inside the system.” The woman across from him nods. “Same problem in historical linguistics—you can reconstruct Proto-Indo-European phonology, but there’s underdetermination. You can’t tell how much is the language and how much is the method.” “So the map is always the territory.” “The map is always partly the territory.” “Which is what the constant is telling us.” “Which is what Wittgenstein was telling us.” “Wittgenstein was telling us everything.” “Wittgenstein was telling us nothing expressible.” They both write something down. You have been there four minutes and cannot identify the original topic. You are not sure there was one.

Your friend Nate is in the fourth nook, reading Slack. He is not a resident; he has simply materialized, the way people at Lighthaven do. You’ve learned not to ask how people got in.

“Someone’s looking for hermeticism, Gnosticism, or Neoplatonism,” he says. “Also linear algebra. Also someone lost a MacBook.”

“Do you know about any of those?”

“I’m a Bay Area house party regular. I’m approximately four conversations from knowing about everything.”

\* \* \*

Lunch is communal. Someone rings a bell and there are announcements.

A woman raises her hand. “What’s the best place to get feedback on a draft?”

The advisor does not hesitate. “Claude.”

The man who winced in the garden stares at his soup.

\* \* \*

After lunch there is a workshop, placed directly between the kitchen and bedrooms so people will attend accidentally. Gwern is speaking.

“The blog format is wrong.”

“We are at a blog-writing residency.”

“Yes. You are producing date-stamped ephemera. This is not how knowledge should work.”

“How should it work?”

“Like a wiki.”

“You agreed to be a writing coach here.”

“And as your coach, my advice is that this format is wrong. You’re all free to leave at any time.”

Fifty-five people stare. Nobody leaves. The sunk cost of six published posts outweighs any argument.

In the hallway afterward, someone is explaining Rationalist Monopoly with intense conviction. “The main thing about Boardwalk is that there’s a card that sends you directly to Park Place, and then you just die.” You do not ask questions. It is already 4 PM and you have 112 words.

\* \* \*

Slack has become a parallel residency.

****#activities****  
*Meditation: Is anyone willing to lead us along the path of spiritual and/or neurophysiological enlightenment?*  
*Jiujitsu: I notice a few BJJ people. Not sure whether Lighthaven has mats.*  
*Does anyone want to go out for 45 minutes and talk to strangers?*  
*Goth night at DNA Lounge. We have 1 or 2 spots.*  
*Diplomacy: 7 players in the Winner’s Lounge. One move per day. (Warning: may lead to genuine IRL beef.)*

They are playing a game specifically designed to destroy friendships, in a shared living space where they cannot escape each other, under daily deadline pressure. This is the most interesting experiment at the residency and nobody has thought to write about it yet.

Someone proposes a “Posting to Policy Pipeline”—described as “making our political dreams memes, AKA Demosthenes & Lockeposting.” Someone else organizes a Nathan Fielder discussion group—one-time, they stress, “with the intention of developing ideas for posts.” The careful hedging tells you everything about how Inkhaven has restructured these people’s relationship to leisure. Nothing is recreational anymore. Everything is content. 

You notice the Slack interface looks slightly different than it did this morning. The profile icons on the blog site begin each day in the color white. People who have posted today: gold. People who haven’t: a pale amber. By 6 PM the amber has deepened. By 8 it is orange. Lucie has updating the UI throughout the week - making the accountability visible in real time. By 9 PM the people who haven’t posted are glowing a red that could charitably be called coral and is in practice closer to warning. By 10 it is simply red. By 11 it is a red that has opinions about you; it begins to drip blood. Nobody has asked for this feature. Nobody wants it removed.

\* \* \*

10:30 PM. You have 247 words. Your icon is red.

In the kitchen, four people are writing. The fridge hums. A row of identical Huel cups stands like lab equipment.

“I started with information cascades,” says a man with bloodshot eyes. “Now it’s a memoir about my father teaching me to ride a bicycle.”

“How does that connect?”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“For what?”

“I’ll figure it out in the next 160 words.”

J walks through in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses. “Another beautiful day at Lighthaven Resort & Spa.” The quotes channel pings.

\* \* \*

You come to understand that #inkhaven-quotes is the real literary output of the residency. It is the accidental novel being written in the margins of the intentional one.

****#inkhaven******-quotes**  
*“Are they toaster license libertarians, or are they cool?”*  
*“Tax fraud is a moral obligation in our society.”*  
*“Is bubble tea cereal?”  “Yes. Obviously.”*  
*“The stick will help you.”  “The stick will help me.”*  
*“The glasses with two lenses in each lens, what’s that called?”  “Bifocals?”  “No, the woke version.”  “…Progressives?”*  
*“This is quite acceptable, as a bread product.”*  
*“A trifle is sort of like a Giga tiramisu, right?”*  
*“There’s a different accordion here today than there was yesterday.”*  
*“I met the beast. The beast defied me coming in.”  *

The residency’s insight clarifies: the 500 words are not the product. They are the forcing function that keeps fifty-five writers in the same building long enough for the real things to happen.The writing is the excuse. The living is the content.

\* \* \*

You publish just before midnight. 503 words. It is not your best work. It exists. Your icon goes golden.

Slack pings once more. Someone updates their self-description from “somewhat online” to “very online.” Someone else says this place is “like Beverly Hills but with cool celebrities instead of pretty celebrities.” Neither will make it into anyone’s 500 words. The best observations never do. They go to the quotes channel, which has no word minimum and no deadline, and is therefore the only place at Inkhaven where anyone writes freely.

Tomorrow: breakfast, cursor, hummingbird, nook, deadline, publish. Again and again. Fifty-five people. Thirty days. 500 words minimum. The prediction market has you finishing. Your free will is a rounding error.

*Thanks to Ben Pace for running a second cohort after the first one somehow worked; to the fifty-five residents of April 2026, currently seven days in and still standing; to Gwern for returning to coach a format he considers wrong; to Lucie for the accountability gradient nobody asked for; and to whoever left their MacBook in the Winner’s Lounge. The machine needs to know its place.*