Small Changes Over Time

I designed a piece of lined paper five years ago. I needed paper at school, had all sorts of copy paper used on only one side, and had been writing on them with a page of lines underneath, the faint shadow sort of guiding me. In Google Docs I created a sheet of lined paper, printed a test sheet, and copied it a hundred times on used copy paper. It was good.

Within two weeks I found problems with my design. Back in Google Docs I made changes, printed a page, and copied this onto more pages. I kept this design for a few months, then refined it some more. Every three months or so, as I used up the last of the copies, I refined the design. I've been using the design from May 2017 which was fine until Saturday morning when I noticed again that the date and page number lines were obscured by the clip on my clipboard. I moved those lines down, printed a test page, found that I needed space below those lines too, added iut, printed another test page and am satisfied. 

About two dozen refinements over five years have resulted in writing paper that suits my needs. Each time I think I've gotten things right and I have for that point in time. Times change. 

Refinement, small changes over time, evolving with my needs, means never being done. Each refinement responds to some new need. 

I've long believed in getting things right and giving the final answer, but being open to refinement beats the hell out of that. It encourages awareness, risk taking, and the understanding that though improvement will come in time, what I have created so far is good. 

Hasn't writing taught me this? I suppose it's something I'm still trying to learn. Funny that writing paper rather than the act of writing has been my better teacher in this. 

I have a page of my original lined paper, hundreds of pages of the design I've been using, and a page with my newest refinements. Each change has been small, but small change over time has led me to an excellent design that will get better. 

Maybe I ought to apply this to more than just the paper on which I write.

The Writing Life: Letters

I've just finished typing a letter to my friend Jerry. We've been corresponding for over a year on paper folded into envelopes that we stamp and send through the mail. I read an article about gratitude and, as is our habit, wrote my letter on the backs of the pages of it. I'll post it tomorrow on my way to work. 

I recommend the practice of writing letters to better learn the craft of writing. 

Writing directly to someone develops a sense of audience and reminds me that writing isn't just about me. When I write to Jerry, I think of him, picture him reading with his head held in one hand, a trace of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. I write for him and my letter is an act of giving. That doesn't mean it's selfless. Hell no. I get as much out of writing as  he does reading because I know my ideas will be read. And after writing to him, I write more like someone will read what I'm saying. I find myself trying to make them smile or nod and hoping they will write back. 

So why not just email Jerry? Letters are cumbersome, inconvenient, expensive, and slow.  

Email is too quick. I want things such as this to be cumbersome, inconvenient, expensive, and slow. 

It took time to print the article and roll each page into my typewriter. Jerry handwrites  because he's sensible enough not to own typewriters. The cumbersome printing and then writing is time away from television, news, Facebook, Twitter, and so on. Where's the loss?Most time I "save" through email is time I waste elsewhere. 

The inconvenience makes it special. Writing a letter requires focus on my ideas and on the person to whom I'm writing. Inconvenience such as that is too good to waste. 

Letters cost the price of a stamp and envelope, something I can offer and which makes it more valuable to receive than email, most of which is less than worthless because it's so cheap. We often spend to get value. 

The best part about writing the letter is the speed at which it moves. There's no immediate feedback other than maybe a paper cut when I lick the envelope. I let the writing go as a gift to Jerry rather than as some way for me to receive approbation. Jerry won't get the letter before Wednesday and may wait to read it and wait some more before writing back. Time passes. What a lovely novelty. 

I still write email, but not as much as I used to and most falls into two kinds. One, the quick response, businesslike and clipped, mostly saying yes or no. Two, letter-like messages I take time to craft and in which I'm thinking about the person at the other end. Letters are still better for that second kind of writing. 

Letter writing _feels_ better in part because it's a more writerly way of communicating and being in the world. Letters make me a better writer. They might even make me a better person. They certainly make me a better friend. 

Who is your next letter going to? 

Focus

“All we can do is one thing at a time. All we have is this moment, this day.

Each moment, we can do another one thing, giving it our full attention, giving it full weight, acting as if it might be our last act...”

— Lao Babauta, zenhabits.net/scarcity

I read those lines at school while students read their books. I told them I would join them in my own book after I finished an article I was reading. Beside me sat my book and writer's notebook stuck with four blue post-it notes, ideas to write. There were students in the room, movement in the hall, and traffic outside the windows. I was anything but focused on one thing. 

My students brag of their mad multi-tasking skillz. I used to argue except I multi-task too (though without skillz mad or otherwise). I'm listening to music as I write, thinking thoughts and typing them, and I occasionally walk and chew gum without falling down. As a teacher, I do many things at once. I no longer argue about multi-tasking, but doing two things at once never feels good because I'm not focused on either one. I read the article distracted and it was a lousy experience. After class I cleared my desk and focused on reading it again. It opened for me because of my focus and I savored it. That's a lot of how I want to live.

“What we can’t do is concentrate on two things at the same time. When I talk about being present, I’m not talking about doing only one thing at a time. I’m talking about being focused on one thing at a time. Multitasking itself is not the enemy...; pretending we can ‘multifocus’ is.”

— Greg McKeown, Essentialism, 220

However, I don't focus as if it might be my last act. That's too much pressure and becomes my focus. Sure, life is short, but acting as though it is hanging by a thread distracts me. It's like someone holding a gun to my head demanding I enjoy fully and am present in this moment or else. That's not my way of living.

As much as I can, and more each passing year, I focus on one thing at a time: the person with whom I sit, the book I read, the food I eat, the words I write. Most often there are distractions and my habit is to go with them and then curse myself for lacking focus and discipline. But it turned out today that the article was the distraction. I needed to focus elsewhere. I figured that out when I set the article aside and took care of those other things. I focused on each task one after the other rather than two at any one time. When I read the article focused it was a wonder and led to a draft of this. Between paragraphs I took spoonfuls of yogurt, tasting and savoring it as much as these words. 

Done with the draft, I looked out the window and focused on nothing until I felt ready to revise. I'm moments from finishing and am allowing my focus to shift now, wondering where it will land next and if I will focus on it as the one thing I'm doing in that moment.  If so, that's more than enough. 

The Writing Life: A Paper Dictionary

Dictionaries are quaint relics. Most people haven't cracked a paper dictionary in years and instead Google what they need to know. But a writer needs that quaint dictionary lying open within easy reach while writing. It transforms the writer for the better in a way that can't happen online. 

Consider two people looking to listen to music. The first opens his phone to an app. Maybe he searches for a specific album or artist, but more likely he lets the machine decide. The algorithm does the thinking and the listener almost immediately lets the music drift into the background. 

The second person has a turntable or CD player and a shelf of albums she thumbs through. Maybe she searches for one in particular, but along the way notices other possibilities triggered through browsing. She chooses an album, puts it on to play, and  listens. She may let the music fade to the background eventually but begins engaged with the process and experience.

Writers must engage. Creation demands it. Writing this, I'm thinking about words and usage and ideas I want to convey. I'm open to the unexpected. To be engaged, I'm typing in a minimalist editor, full-screen, with my phone turned off. To engage with words, I keep the dictionary open, close at hand. Today I looked up "enmity" for spelling. On that page I encountered ennead, enjoinder, enkindle, enkephatin, and enophile. I didn't read all the definitions -- I wanted to get back to writing -- but the words caught my eye and intrigued me. The language had a tighter grip on me. I felt writerly.

Googling definitions doesn't do that. It's too efficient. I look up words online when necessary, but prefer the inefficient paper dictionary which brings me into contact with other words. I keep the dictionary open next to me so I'm not having to cross the room to find it. Paging through the dictionary enhances my writing. Looking for the dictionary takes me away from writing. Keep it close and open. 

At home I have two writing spaces, my basement nook and a desk in the living room. In the nook, the dictionary is open and waiting. I have yet to create space for an open dictionary in the living room and although it is in reach, I don't use it often enough. I'm sure that hurts my writing a little. It's something to fix. 

Besides having it near at hand and keeping it open, I mark up a dictionary. I draw a dot next to each word I look up. Looking up "enmity" today I saw dots next to "en masse" and "enormity" in the same column of page 576. It's not every day I come across a dotted word. Today, finding two, I felt connected to the past, the language, and the dictionary. A dictionary is a kind of history of language and our personal dictionaries are the histories of our language use. 

Which dictionary a writer uses may come to matter in time, but almost any hardback that lies open will do. At home I have _Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary_ that Mom gave me for college. It's a good dictionary and has become _my_ dictionary, familiar and comfortable. At school I use a large _New Oxford American Dictionary_ that is open within reach of students.

A dictionary can be had for cheap at garage and library book sales. Post to Facebook and a friend will likely give theirs away. Thrift shops have them for next to nothing. Buy one at the bookstore or ask for one for your birthday. It will last the rest of your days and once you've marked it and made it yours, you'll never want to let go of something that has made you the writer you've become.

The dictionary may seem quaint, but it's an essential tool. Writers should dip into it often, scanning for the word they need or aimlessly wandering. Dotting the words makes them ours and leaves a trail as we delve deeper into writing with language particularly suited to our thoughts, ideas, and dreams. If that's quaint, then I'm all for being a quaint writer.