Writing, Yes. Fame & Fortune, Maybe Not

Let me tell you two things this isn't going to be about: getting published or getting rich.

I know almost nothing about how to do either. If you're reading this on paper, it's more likely you printed it from the web than that I have found a publisher. I write mostly for the enjoyment of putting my thoughts on paper. That's good because the sum total of my writing riches amounts to less than $500 over thirty years. I'm not here to guide anyone to the promised lands of fame and fortune. I don't ever expect to find my own way to those strange lands, but If I do, I’ll come back and tell you how. My guess is that it boils down to this: do the work.

But if I don’t know about publishing or becoming rich, what am I doing here? Is this just a waste of time?

I hope not.

It turns out there’s a third promised land named joy or contentment or maybe even enlightenment. I'm going to explain some methods to write your way into that place. The plan is simple, so if you're disinclined to read much more, I'll boil it down to five words: start writing and don't stop. In other words, do the work.

Sure, there are other things to think about. I've written about many of those and will share them, but it's really down to doing a lot of writing in a regular way and mostly for yourself.

I used to end every blog post with two words: write on. That's what you need to do. If you're good at writing, write on. If you're terrible at it, write on. If you are scared to reveal yourself, think you’re too boring, worry that you're not allowed to write, or think someone will be offended, write on. If you have any problem with writing or think you have no problems at all, write on and things will improve.

A character in the movie Finding Forrester puts it this way: "The first key to writing is to write." (It’s a great movie, by the way, so track it down and enjoy.)

Learning to write won't happen in a day. Improvement won't come quickly. Or rather, you won't feel improved though writing even just once changes us. The process reminds me of NASA's Voyager probe swinging around Jupiter to pick up speed. Jupiter's tremendous mass spun the craft around and hurtled it faster into space. That’s impressive, but what floors me is how tiny Voyager slowed impossibly-large Jupiter. The largest planet in our solar system spins slower now that Jupiter affected it. The difference isn’t so much anyone could notice, but it’s there. Writing is like that. Every time we do it, Jupiter slows down just the tiniest fraction. Do it often enough and the difference becomes noticeable. Write enough pages and you fly out of the solar system.

Improvement doesn't come in a day or a week, but after a month of writing there's a difference the same way there would be if we did a hundred push-ups every day for a month. It feels different and we find that we can do things that seemed impossible or at least beyond our abilities.

If you wonder how many pages the change will require, who the hell knows? Stop thinking that way. Cut it out. Just write. This isn't something that quantifies well. Joy, contentment, and enlightenment are qualities that don’t chart on spreadsheets. Writing toward them is about qualitative change over time. Quantity will play a part in that progress. The more we write, the better we become at writing. For now, let’s just start writing.

Some practical advice: Get pen or pencil and begin writing by hand. There are really fine writing tools out there, but most anything will do. There’s no need to worry about penmanship. Don’t buy anything special. That can wait. Use what you have. Write on whatever will work for ten minutes at a time. Find an old notebook with blank pages. Write on the backs of used copy paper. If you have a pretty new notebook just for writing, spill coffee or tea on it so you won’t feel bound to write pretty things. And if writing by hand is a problem, use a laptop. There are good reasons to write by hand, especially at this stage, but do whatever works, whatever gets you started.

Begin by writing only for you. No one else should see it. Save what you write, but don't share it. The fossil record may intrigue you down the line and the habit of saving writing can be useful, but showing your writing to others can and should wait. Write for you. Don’t even consider anyone else.

Ready? Got paper and pen or pencil? Good.

Go somewhere you won’t be disturbed, put on headphones, or send the family out for ice cream. Shut the phone off. Put it in the microwave. Have your family take it with them. Now set a timer for ten minutes, start writing, and, no matter what happens, don’t stop until it goes off.

Start writing and don't stop. Do the work. Write on. 

Borrowed Amplification

A friend asked me to write this. I'm a sucker for requests. He meant for me to send an email, but I bet this will do. It begins with my amplifier breaking down.

Writing yesterday about how I want things to last, my amplifier drastically lost volume in the right channel and cranked the left to distortion. This is what it did shortly after I bought it in 2015 when it was already forty years old. The Kenwood KA-5500 has beautiful power meters, more power than I'll ever need, a silver front panel, and a huge volume knob. I just loved the thing right away. I took it back the day after I bought it and the shop guy needed two different tries to sort the problem out. Turns out, he's a nice guy but can't fix hi-fi equipment. When the problem came back yesterday, I knew I couldn't take it back to him but didn't have a clue where else to go. Then I remembered: David will know a place.

David has a bunch of vintage hi-fi. He got me back into records by inviting me to his vinyl party a little over a year ago. He's been my friend for a dozen years and we have a lot in common: writing, teaching, records, and hi-fi equipment. I figured he would know a good shop and I was set to see him this morning. Sure enough, he had recommendations. Then he did me a favor, something I'm pretty used to from him. 

"I have a few extra amps if you want to borrow one."

My first thought was to thank him but decline. I have another amp hooked to speakers in the kitchen. I can get by until the Kenwood is repaired. I had "no, I'm good" ready to say when I remembered how alike we are. Situation reversed, I would like nothing more than to lend him something of mine. I heard myself say, "that would be great!"

That's David's 1975 Onkyo TX-670 above. It is a beast and a half and just too damn pretty. Check out that illuminated tuner scale, those knobs, the buttons. That's classic design right down to the woodgrain top. It weighs thirty pounds. The sound is good. A bit of crackle when changing volume or balance, but that settles down and there are fixes for that. It can handle three sets of speakers, two turntables, two tape decks, and an auxiliary device. There's even a bypass for using a power amp instead of the 56-watt internal amplifier. Like I said, a beast. 

I cleaned it and got set to hook things up. There are few tasks I enjoy more than hooking up stereo equipment. I pulled the Kenwood out and rested on the arm of the couch, all wires still in place. (This is why I leave slack in the wires.) I lifted the Onkyo onto the shelf and turned it ninety degrees so the connections were easy to see. One by one, I transferred each wire and line from the Kenwood to the Onkyo. Simple work done right, methodically and with care. I rotated the Onkyo into place and powered it on. I dropped the needle on a record and there was music. It sounded just right.

This whole thing has me thinking again about self reliance which doesn't mean going completely alone like Chris McCandless heading into the wild. Self reliance is about taking care of myself and knowing when to rely on others. I knew David would have a repair shop and knew also that when he offered an amplifier, he wanted me to borrow one. He knows I'm a good caretaker. He knows I'm grateful for the loan and for our friendship. 

I'll call the shop Monday and see about getting my Kenwood fixed. I appreciate David's loan but want my Kenwood working. Until it is, the Onkyo sounds just right, looks beautiful, and reminds me that I have good friends. 

Thanks, David. This is great. 

How To Go Through Life

Life is a downhill ride. Gravity wins. But it can be a good ride. There's no need to rush, do tricks, try to impress. And there's music. Just listen. Beautiful. Just look. So beautiful. Be in no great hurry to get to the bottom, to the end. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. So I'm told. But there's someone else there. With you. Following. Sometimes going ahead. Watching. Listening. All the way until the end. It's really such a lovely ride. Let's go again.

Video linked by Austin Kleon in his newsletter which is worth subscribing to. 

Originally from The Kid Should See This.

Inbox Zero

There are loftier ambitions than emptying my inbox, but I take what I can get. I hear of people who get hundreds of work emails daily and spend hours answering them. That sounds terrible. A year or two ago my inbox was a depressing weight on me. Seeing thirty five emails there, knowing each was an obligation, made me want to run and hide. 

I'm not preaching any productivity and efficiency gospel here. I actually prefer inefficiency. However, depression and feeling obligated do me no good. The less of those, the better. 

Rather than preach, I want to tell about reaching inbox zero and trying to work that elsewhere in my life. My story begins with a lot of email, something with which we're all far too familiar. 

I averaged thirty to fifty emails a day in my home account, the one I care about. All of it felt important-ish and shouted at me. I hate being shouted at. I started clearing the inbox. 

First, I ruthlessly unsubscribed from automatic and sales emails even as I worried about missing out. It took an hour and each day's mail brought new junk. For weeks, I opened those messages and clicked "unsubscribe" and that has taken me down to just over a dozen emails daily. 

I have been just as ruthless with those emails. I try not to email when I can contact another way. I see friends in the neighborhood. I call Mom and my brother. I also archive messages based on subject lines. I try to deal only with stuff that matters and do so right away. 

This morning, after writing, packing lunch, and writing a note to my wife I found three emails in my inbox. One asked me to review a package my daughter had received. I went to the account, changed it to her email address and archived the message. A second asked for a quick review of service. I clicked "good," wrote a one-sentence note, and archived that. The final message was from a friend. I wrote a short response and archived that too. Inbox zero achieved. 

Inbox zero is no nirvana, but it is slightly life changing. I'm free of those obligations. When I check later today, there will be a message from my wife that I'll enjoy without distraction. Then I won't worry about email for hours. 

I do the same with bills, paying them as they come in. It might be more financially sound to pay later, but the pressure of obligation costs me more than the money might earn. Bills don't make it past the kitchen table before I pay and recycle them. I could automate this, but I like knowing where our money is. This system, another kind of inbox zero, works for me. It clears my mind. 

This morning at school, I sat to read an article. Next to those pages were my writer's notebook with a note about a story I want to write, a draft of a poem to edit, handwritten pages to transform into a blog essay, and a book I've been not reading for two weeks. There was also a draft of this essay waiting on the computer. My monkey brain kicked hard against its cage. The article I was reading was long and not very good. My mind turned to all those other things and I had to work to keep my eyes on the article. The struggle, as my students say, was real. 

I looked at the book. I was on page 101 out of 489. There is no chance I'll finish it today. I looked at all those things on the desk, thought how much I wanted to do them all, and then realized that I didn't want to do them, I wanted to be done with them. I wanted inbox zero. But what then? And really, is there an inbox zero?

Life is a desk with more things on it than I can attend to at once. Since this morning, I've had five more emails. When I get home, there will be bills and other mail on the table. I accept that as well as I can and then work back to inbox zero. 

I finished reading the article and dropped it in the bin. I worked the poem with a felt-tip pen and typed my revisions. I wrote enough of the story in my writer's notebook to be able to finish it later. Then students arrived. I set the unread book on top of the handwritten pages and pushed them aside. No inbox zero, but my mind felt clear enough to go forward. And so I did.