Page Practice At The Office

At the office I've started reflecting at the end of the day by writing responses to these four questions:

1. What has gone well?
2. What was my part in that?
3. What would I have changed?
4. What three things will I do tomorrow?

I've committed to thirty days of this practice. Written reflection has long been a good tool for me. Today was the second day it.

I'm already up for a change.

Usually this would mean that things have gotten challenging and I am folding the tent, but this time I have an idea. I'll keep the questions in mind but follow simpler instructions:

1. Fill a small page (A5) with recollection of the workday and my role in what happened.
2. On a sticky note, list three things to do tomorrow.

Done. Boom.

I feel good about this because I'm used to using written reflection in Morning Pages and my Writer's Notebooks. I've done the one for six years, the other for three decades.

But what's the goal?

I don't care. Or rather, I'm putting that question aside for a couple reasons:

1. I hate goals and feel obligated to them which makes me hate them even more.
2. I want this to be a practice, the goal of which is _do_ the practice.

What comes of is almost none of my business and beyond my ability to predict. Doing the practice is goal, reward, plan, and everything else. It's also a reason to use more ink which, for me, is the answer to almost all my questions.

The Way Of Nothing

I've come to the pages this morning with nothing to write. I'm sluggish but have three pages to fill. I know I'll fill them, but part of me wonders how.

As always, it begins with the decision to just fill them. That's not a goal, though if it helps to think of it that way, go ahead. For me it's a plan or map, a boundary for the game I'm playing. I have exactly three pages to fill and there's no requirement for what goes in them so long as I put ink down.

That's the second part: putting ink down. For the thousandth time, I'm vaguely considering the volume of ink these three pages will absorb. That thinking keeps me from worrying much about what I'll write or what I shouldn't write. Thinking what not to say is a trap to avoid.

I am drafting this on pages with numbered lines. I'm on line twenty of page one with about two and a half pages remaining. I balance thoughts of how far I have left to go with appreciation for how far I have come. I hold that balance by keeping the pen moving and noticing how I'm moved forward by it. By the time I consider how far I've come, I'm even farther along.

Yeah, but you still have nothing to say, says a small voice.

That voice used to boom and echo and I know how dominant it is for others, but it has become a pitiful squeaking for me. I smile at the sound of it because I know that I started with nothing to write and have filled half my three pages with ideas to help other writers.

It reminds me of this Aaron Sorkin story:

This guy's walking down a street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, "Hey you! Can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole, and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, "Father, I'm down in this hole; can you help me out?" The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me out?" And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you stupid? Now we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out."

I've been stuck down this hole more often than most people and I know the way out. I was down here two pages ago, yet we aren't stuck anymore.

How did that happen? This quote from Finding Forrester is a good answer:

"The first key to writing is to write, not to think."

The thinking writers do before they begin moving the pen is self-centered anxiety about what others will think. Not thinking is one way through that. I achieve that by writing only for my own amusement, expecting that no one else will read what I've written. That helps me be less anxious about what you (whoever you are) might think of me.

In practice this boils down to keeping the pen moving. It's tough to think while the pen is moving. It's tough to give into anxiety when the pen is moving. The way out of the hole reveals itself through the pen's movement.

The moving pen generates ideas. I've come to the pages this morning with nothing to write becomes three pages (revised to 700 words) through the simple act of deciding to write three pages just for me and keeping the pen moving. Ideas come out in blue ink as if by magic which is a pretty good name for this writing game.

I'm out of the hole now. Maybe you are too. I'll probably see you down there again. Or maybe not. You know a way out now and maybe your pen is already moving.

Woke Anxious, Walked To Work

This morning I woke anxious, afraid. I read the news and moved toward panic. What if he steals the election? What if no one stands up to him? What if this is the end?

I sound paranoid, pathetic, whining like a child, but that's how I felt this morning. That's the accurate reporting of the beginning of my day.

Then I walked to work listening to a podcast. Two wise people counseling me, prompting good thinking in me. I walked two miles across town one step at a time.

At the office I poured a cup of cold water and sipped, turned on the air and wiped my sweaty brow, unpacked my bag and sat at the desk to begin my day's work.

I'm still worried. I'll admit that. But I have work to do. In three months I'll vote. I'm giving money to candidates in whom I believe. I'm writing these words. I'm sipping the water and have walked across town listening to smart people offering help. And I'm starting in on the work needing to be done. Good work that will help others.

And help me. To believe. To hope. To keep going.

Good Night

A terribly hot evening. I shoot baskets in the driveway. But it's really hot. I go sit in the backyard, read a book, sweat on the pages. Eventually, I shower, the water turned all the way cold. Drying off, I see myself in the mirror. Hey, I know that guy.

Downstairs I set the laptop on the coffee table before the seat between the speakers. I slide a record from its sleeve. Pat Metheny Group's Offramp. I place it on the platter, clean it, drop the needle, and turn the volume up two notches.

On the couch, I respond to email from friends. Hey, I write. How are you? Here's what's doing with me. Pat Metheny Group asks, "Are You Going With Me?". I certainly am.

The window air conditioner rattles cool air across me left to right. My friends' words rise from the screen and pass through me. My thoughts tap out of my fingers. The kitten attacks. Music plays. I open a blank page on the computer and write these thoughts. The sun sets slowly. The heat comes down a degree. Storms arrive tonight. More heat tomorrow.

The dog comes to see me, her panting tongue lolling from her smiling mouth. I smile back and say, "it's a good night, isn't it?" We both know the answer.