You know how they say you can finish any writing project if you just work on it for ten minutes a day? My new writing partner and I are testing that theory. I type furiously for ten minutes and then we go do something else for a few minutes (or hours or days…) before returning to the work.
I’m hoping this will help me be more efficient and write “ugly first drafts” faster. Even if it doesn’t, I love our new system. It might not be the best way to get writing done, but it’s certainly the cutest.
Recently, I joined a writing group with a reward/punishment system to create accountability. It started out simply enough. We each had to create punishments to give ourselves in the event that we did not meet our weekly writing goal (most had to do with bringing snacks for everyone else in the group). But then someone had the idea to ring a shame bell every time someone failed to meet their goal. And someone else decided that it would boost morale if people got to ring a success bell every time they did meet their goals. So we unwittingly became a writing group centered around ringing bells and snacks. No, the Pavlovian connotations are not lost on me. Yes, I am cringing a little. No, I won’t give up the bells or the snacks, thank you very much. The man was clearly on to something.
This week two of our members had to drop out of the writing group, and when I heard the news, my first thought was, “But how will they write without bells?” I made it my mission to find some for them, and luckily, I found a whole shelf of bells at the thrift store. The hard part, it turns out, is not finding bells but finding bells that don’t commemorate a significant wedding anniversary. Most of them say 25th Anniversary or have 50 written in huge gold cursive letters, and why is that?
Were they gifts exchanged by couples to symbolize their undying devotion? After all, nothing says love like, “You can ring this bell anytime you need something but don’t want to get out of bed.” (Maybe this seems particularly romantic to me because it’s cold in the mornings now, and the thought of being able to ring a bell and have Devin bring me a warm fluffy robe to make getting out of bed slightly less painful, makes me want to fast-forward to our twenty-fifth anniversary tout de suite, even though, now that I’ve admitted this, I’m pretty sure I’ll never get an anniversary bell.)
My other theory is that these bells were gifts for guests at anniversary parties––ceramic precursors to the dreaded-but-somehow-omnipresent commemorative t-shirts. (What’s the deal with those? Related: what happens to shirts that commemorate something that doesn’t end up happening.)
I don’t think we know enough about the fine American tradition of commemorative consumer goods, and maybe that should be your next writing project? Let me know. I’ll send you your bells.
It’s best not to count your chickens before they hatch, but I’m confident that, unless the internet breaks irreparably, my blog will turn three years old on Monday; and I probably won’t have time to write anything then because Devin and I have a date with the great outdoors. Blogging in the woods is decidedly not romantic, so here we are!
I started this blog right after graduating from college, and it’s weird to think about how much has happened since then. It doesn’t feel like my life is that different, but the stats say otherwise. In three years, I have said goodbye to Portland, moved to New York, and gone to Texas and Chihuahua, Mexico a bunch of times (note to self: blog about that more!). I’ve become an aunt and a married person. I’ve also had a lot of jobs and meals and little adventures.
I’ve been thinking lately about what kind of writer I am and realized, to my dismay, that I am a chronicler of small moments. I have some blog posts up my sleeve about Carnegie Hall and Chicago and a perfect little farm in Wisconsin, but for some reason, it’s always harder for me to write about the exciting than the mundane. It’s a bummer because I would like to write about all the exciting things that I’ve been able to do by some lucky coincidence, but I usually end up writing about grocery shopping instead. Really. I could have blogged about having a sleepover at the Waldorf-Astoria, but instead I wrote about smiling. I could have blogged about going to a star-studded event, but instead I wrote about dropping something. My blog posts aren’t usually premeditated, and I’m not sure what it means that these are the things I focus on, but I guess I can feel better about it if I tell myself that I am writing about things that are relatable. After all, I bet most people like the thrill of eavesdropping, and even more of us have waited in line to go to the bathroom.
Another thing that’s true is that I like writing personally. Three years ago I started a blog because I wanted to write about my whole life–not everything that happens to me but every facet of myself from silly things like making food to things that are possibly more controversial like my views on borders, September 11th, and activism. I wrote about these things because politics and ethics are just as integral to our selves as opinions and preferences. I didn’t want to shy away from that, and I’m proud that I haven’t. There’s an old feminist slogan that says “the personal is political” meaning that there are bigger issues affecting our everyday lives (how much we are paid or whether we are harassed on the street, for example). Conversely, I believe that it’s important to consider how the political is personal and to think about our role in making those things better. (For example, my little cousins almost didn’t make it to my wedding because their visas didn’t come in time, and you need a visa to come from Mexico to the U.S. but NOT vice versa. I don’t think that’s fair, and my first step in changing unjust border policies is simply sharing my story). I suppose if I had a blogging mantra, it would be “The personal is political. The political is personal. And the mundane is universal.”
Writing here is by far my favorite hobby, and I never cease to be surprised that my friends and family care enough to read my rambles, so thank you. It really means a lot.
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