Undercomplicating

 At the beginning of the month, I shared my intention to set a small writing goal -- one that I hoped I could engage in consistently. 

Writing for 10 minutes each day.

I could write at any time or any place. I could type on my computer, write in a notebook, or jot things down on a random piece of paper (although I'm trying to avoid doing that last one). The only rule was that I had to spend the entire time on new words that were creative rather than contemplative, which meant no editing, revising or journaling. I could still do those things, of course, but they wouldn't count toward my ten minutes. 

So far this month, I've written blog posts and scenes for a novel that refuses to take shape (but whose characters I like quite a lot). And, on those days when I was drawing a blank, prompts from websites and books came in very handy.

And I have written every single day.

I know the goal seems like a small one, something I acknowledged at the outset. But it's small for one reason: consistency. No matter how busy the day, it's relatively easy to find ten minutes to jot down my thoughts and try to turn them into something. 

When we set goals, it's easy to make them lofty and impressive, but those kinds of goals are hard to stick to. It's humbling to make them bite-sized, but if we're creating a new habit (or re-starting one that has fallen by the wayside), bite-sized is sometimes what's called for.

As I close in on the end of the month, I need to decide what I want to do moving forward. Although it's tempting to nudge my goal a bit, perhaps moving from ten minutes to fifteen, I don't think the timing is right. May is one of the busiest months of the semester, and I fear that raising the bar is likely to backfire. 

So I'll stick to ten minutes, mostly because it's working, but also because I've discovered a few side benefits I wasn't expecting.

Creativity: Even my tiny ten has led to a trickle of creativity outside my writing time. Knowing that I need to write about something each day has my brain coming up with options in odd moments so that when I sit down, I have something to write about.

Efficiency: During those ten minutes, I'm much more focused, precisely because ten minutes is not a lot of time. I set the timer and then I'm off and I must not only get in the zone but stay there -- there's no time for foot dragging or procrastinating.

Productivity: On quite a few days, my sessions have gone longer than ten minutes. Once I got started, I wanted to finish that day's work so that none of the ideas or inspiration evaporated overnight. 

Enthusiasm: This might be the best one of all. I'm rediscovering the joy that comes with this avocation. I've given myself permission to just write, with no real expectations. If I create a blog post, great. If I rough out an article or a scene, also great. If I simply put words on the page that don't end up being anything that's also -- you guessed it -- great.

Any activity can hit a rough patch, and this is especially true for things we've done for a long time. Finding our way back in can be difficult, but that's often true only because we overcomplicate things.

Sometimes, all it takes is ten minutes.

Mindfulness

 As I write this, I'm taking a break from grading the mindfulness collages my positive psychology students created as part of a project on what mindfulness means to them. On Sunday, I began the final course in a three-course online certificate program on mindfulness.

You can see why it was easy for me to find a word of the day today. 

It's not unusual for the subjects I'm teaching to find their way into my blog posts. Not only am I interested in these topics, which makes writing about them enjoyable, but I also have a tendency to immerse myself in them when I'm creating lessons about them. 

This is especially true when I'm teaching a class I teach only occasionally. Because the material in these courses is less "old hat" than the child development content that's been a part of my career one way or another for decades, I find myself seeking out books and articles (or, in some cases, entire course sequences) that will enrich the material I'm covering. I want to freshen my perspective, deepen my understanding, and make sure I'm up to date. 

I had no idea when I was preparing for this class that I'd end up becoming a student of mindfulness myself but, when the information on the online course sequence popped up in my inbox as I was preparing a course that covered that topic (AI is scary -- but that's another post), I was immediately interested. 

The first course was largely familiar to me, thanks to several years spent planning, preparing, and teaching courses on positive psychology, but the various practices introduced in each module have kept me engaged. Some I liked, some I didn't; one I liked so much that I used it with my class. As the course sequence proceeds, I find myself going deeper into the material, enriching my understanding and, therefore, the knowledge I can share with my students.

Being mindful of our strengths and limitations helps us to keep growing regardless of how old we are, and learning mindfulness techniques helps us to be open to that growth. Whether we choose to pursue new avenues or not, well, that's a different story. 

Some days, I still run from place to place with my to-do list scrolling through my head, the world around me a blur. But, increasingly, I'm learning to call on the techniques I'm learning, whether it's to really notice the newly blossoming trees or to take a deep breath and slow myself down. What started out as a task-oriented pursuit meant to improve my instruction has turned into a set of practices that help me to appreciate the world around me.

And, to be honest, it's kind of nice. 

Inertia and Setting Things Right

Image by Magdalena Kulczyk from Pixabay

 There is a piece of artwork on the wall in my family room that has been crooked for weeks now. I see it every night when I watch television, and yet have not managed to take the ten seconds it will take to correct it. In part this is because while the act itself will take ten seconds, accessing the item in question requires me to pull out a step stool, drag it over, reach above the television, and set the piece right. 

Oh, and then I have to put the step stool away.

None of this is difficult and yet...the piece is still crooked.

Perhaps you think I'm incredibly lazy; sadly, I have zero evidence to rebut that hypothesis. Perhaps you're feeling a bit more kindly toward me and assume I'm too tired to do it -- but 24/7? Or maybe you're really giving me the benefit of the doubt and you've decided that I've grown to like the piece's crookedness, that it somehow adds panache or character to the wall and, by extension, to the room it's in.

That's really lovely of you. Thank you. 

Why is it that we put off doing seemingly simple things? The artwork of which I speak (created by my daughter in middle school, by the way) is only one example of several things in this house that would take me one minute or less to set right and yet they remain right where they are.

I'm not a scientist, but I'm kind of liking Newton's First Law of Motion as a fancy-schmancy explanation here: an object at rest remains at rest...unless acted on by an unbalanced force.

Yes, I had to look that up. And no, I don't know what an unbalanced force is. If you do, feel free to share it in the comments.

Maybe it's all that step stool dragging that's keeping me from taking action. Or maybe it's the fact that I forget all about it until I'm once again comfy in my chair. Or perhaps I suspect that the piece will only end up crooked again, so why bother?

I don't know. All I know right now is that I've expended more energy writing about the crooked artwork than it's going to take me to fix it. And, now that I've told you all about it, I'm going to pull out the step stool and fix it as soon as I finish typing this post.

I might not know much about the law of inertia, but I do know about peer pressure, so I know that disclosing this publicly makes me more likely to take action even if you'll never see the piece, crooked or otherwise.

Thank you. Now go fix that thing in your house. You'll thank me later.

What Do You Really Want to Accomplish?

 Recently, I got an email about a writing challenge in which I've previously participated. The goal is to write 1000 words each day for a week. In the past, it's been a great way to nudge my productivity forward, so I immediately considered signing up.

Then I started to think about it. Right now, writing is a bit of a struggle. I'm at a point in the semester where planning and grading take up a big enough chunk of my day and my mental energy that, most days, I'm lucky if I get any writing in at all. In addition, I don't have an active project that requires adding words; the project that's supposed to be top-of-list involves editing and revising, for a net loss of words each day.

That said, I'm not making much progress there, either. Editing and revising are my least favorite parts of the writing process, and even more susceptible to being abandoned in a Scarlett O'Hara "I'll think about that tomorrow" fashion. 

But the 1000 word challenge had gotten my attention, so clearly I was feeling the need to do something to get things moving. Equally clear was the fact that I had to keep things small if I wanted to achieve success. But before I could set a goal, I had to decide exactly what it was I wanted to achieve.

That was easy: I wanted to put new words on the page. That's the part I find most exciting, and the reason the 1000 word challenge had appealed to me, and the thing I miss the most when it falls by the wayside.

As writers, we can measure output in words, or in time spent actively working (as opposed to time spent sitting at the computer, which can also encompass daydreaming, web-surfing, and asking AI what it thinks, among other things). If words weren't the answer, then maybe time was.

So here it is. My April goal -- the one I'm putting out here to keep myself honest. The one I no sooner created than I started to judge harshly, fearing that it might sound like nothing, that it might, in fact, be too small.

There is nothing useful about that sort of judgment. But, more to the point, there's no rule that says I can't blow a too-small goal out of the water, sailing past it when conditions are right. In fact, that can be preferable to setting a goal that's too big and too far away, especially when the goal-setter is frustrated to begin with.

The goal? Ten minutes. I will write for ten minutes a day every day in April. The only rule? I have to write something new. It can be a blog post, a scene, a response to a writing prompt, a character exploration, a new way of looking at an old project.

Anything that can be defined as a creative pursuit. (In other words, grocery lists and to-do lists don't count). When my ten minutes are up, I can stop.

Or I can keep going.

I figure that the only way to get out of a rut is to forge a new path, and that's what April is about. I might end up with a path to something new, or a messy configuration of scattered bricks. It doesn't matter. The goal is not to finish anything, to polish anything, or to adhere to rules. 

The goal is to create. To put words on the page, to put phrases together and see where they lead. 

To build a habit. 

I'm not holding myself to a schedule. I have from the time I get up until the time I turn out the lights and call it a day to get my ten minutes in, and I can work on anything I want.

Undisciplined? I prefer to look at it as just disciplined enough to let creativity in.

Seven days in, I'm doing well. I had to do a little make-up time one day last week to get caught up when a writing session got interrupted before the ten minutes were up, but otherwise, it's been ten minutes a day.

Or more.

I've written blog posts, responses to prompts, and notes on a new treatment for an old project. I don't know what, if anything, any of it will become, but that's a project for May.

Or later. 

Today, my ten minutes turned into 24. 

I'm going to take that win.

Winning

Pixabay

 As much as I love teaching developmental psychology, there are some topics that prove challenging. At the top of that list is developmental theorists.

I joke with my students that the first chapter of all development textbooks is set up the same way. First, a few pages about how cool development is and why we should study it, followed by some overarching themes that make little sense out of context. Then, a chunk of pages about how a bunch of dead white guys (truly, not a woman or person of color in the bunch -- thanks, history) explain development. Finally, if the book hasn't already lost you, the rest of the chapter covers research methods. 

I used to teach the chapter in order but, over time, have fallen into a nice rhythm that takes things a bit out of order. I expand those first few pages into the first two weeks, creating a contextual framework. Then, I leap over all but one of the theorists and spend a week on research methods.

Which leaves me with the rest of those dudes.

I've tried at least six different ways to tackle this content. First, I used a traditional lecture method, following up with a traditional (mostly multiple choice) assessment. You're probably not surprised (nor was I) that, after being tested on a big blob of theory, students really don't remember who's who for more than a few days beyond the test.

So, I changed the methodology, moving from Plan A to Plan B to Plan C....

You get the idea. 

While each plan was an improvement over the one(s) that came before, none checked all the boxes. What I needed was a plan that made the theorists interesting and memorable (at least as much as possible). Selfishly, I also wanted something easy to grade. Lecture and multiple choice tests, which fulfilled the second criteria, did not meet the first. Creative projects, which fulfilled the first criteria, did not meet the second.

So, this semester, I tried something new (again). I assigned each student one of the theorists, making the student responsible for reading a section of Chapter 1, along with some narrated slides and any other resources they might want to use (including ChatGPT, as I'm working on finding its place in the classroom). Then, at some point in the semester, they'd dust off their notes, and begin the conversation about their assigned theorist. I'd facilitate, and create slides with the key points so everyone could access the basics about every theorist. 

Read about one, learn about a bunch.

Yesterday was the fourth class we spent on this incarnation of learning about theorists, and it was about as wonderful as a lesson could get. In short order, my students were applying contemporary concepts to 20th century theorists, and we were having an actual conversation about what is among the most uninteresting topics in developmental psychology. We leaped from basic knowledge to application, weaving one into the other and developing a deeper understanding than any cursory reading of the text or classroom lecture could provide.

From my perspective, it was a huge win. And, while every single student was not completely engaged, most were, as evidenced by the connections they made and the questions they asked.   

In the classroom, some days are a win, some days are not, and most fall in between. And so, when a win hits, we are wise to acknowledge it, but savor it as well. 

And savor it I shall. 

Finding Flow

  A year or so ago, I used a book called Happier Hour with my freshmen. Though some students liked it, it wasn’t a resounding hit and I ended up changing books the following fall. I liked it, though, and it still holds a place of prominence on my bookshelf so I can easily reference it.

This semester, I’m teaching positive psychology and I’m getting ready to address the idea of flow, a lovely state that graces me with its presence all too infrequently. When it’s absent for too long, I get cranky. This afternoon, feeling tired as well as frustrated that the opportunity to post here yesterday slipped through my grasp and shattered on the ground beneath me, I went in search of a “Way Back Wednesday” post to salvage the week and fill the void. This one felt just right.

In her section on "flow" (often called being “in the zone”), in the book Happier Hour, author Cassie Holmes offers seven conditions for achieving this elusive state of happy productivity:

1. Clear your space of threads for other tasks on your to-do list.
2. Clear your schedule for at least several hours.
3. Create this space during the time of day when you're most alert.
4. Shut the door.
5. Put in earplugs or put on headphones.
6. Close out of email.
7. Put your phone away.

I have had this post floating around in my head for about an hour. When I sat down to write it (alone in the sunroom where it's quiet), my husband was happily ensconced in front of a football game. I hadn't finished typing even three of the seven conditions above before he was wandering around making noise, rattling a bag as he put it away in the kitchen, opening and closing the refrigerator door....

You know. Living in his own house.

But reading about flow today made it abundantly clear to me why this is such a big deal. It even alleviated some of my guilt over being annoyed by it, often out of proportion to the interruption itself. Being on the cusp of flow only to have it shatter through a noise, an innocent (albeit poorly timed) request, or, y'know, life is like finally drifting off after a sleepless night only to have the alarm go off minutes later. 

Living in a house with other people is not conducive to flow, yet flow is an essential ingredient in creativity and, for may of us, concentration. The older I get, the more I feel the need to protect flow. Not only do I get in my own way when it comes to getting on the flow on-ramp, but, with age, I find it harder and harder to get back on the flow highway when an unanticipated red light jerks me to attention and makes me slam on the brakes. 

This concept flows (pun intentional) ever outward. Why I get distracted by everything but the thing I've promised myself I'd do, and frustrated by days that feel like a succession of meaningless tasks (#1). Why I love blank pages on the calendar (#2). Why I get frustrated when important tasks get pushed off into the evening (#3). Why I so desperately needed a door for my office to signal times when I really needed not to be interrupted (#4). Why every little noise (#5), email (#6) or text chime (#7) pulls my focus, even if only for a second.

FoYu via Pixabay

Holmes points out that flow usually occurs when we're doing something we're good at. This makes it so much more than happy productivity. If you've ever been in flow or ("in the zone"), you know that it can bring with it a kind of joy and fulfillment unlike anything inspired by a completed to-do list. Its very elusiveness is part of what makes it so desirable, and what makes it so incredibly frustrating when it shatters and we find ourselves trying to reassemble its shards to build a pathway back to where we were only a few minutes previously.

Achieving flow can nurture the soul, and coming out on the other side of it can make us more fun to be around. Having been nourished by a task we enjoy so much that we lose track of time while we're doing it, we feel a sense of peaceful accomplishment, along with a boost in confidence and a sense of gratitude, hopefully directed at least in part to those who made it possible. This a fortunate counterbalance to the grumpiness and frustration we feel in its absence.

For some, flow arrives with the endorphins that accompany a great run or athletic endeavor. For others, it comes through daily pursuits like cooking or knitting, or perhaps through spiritual practices like prayer or meditation. Getting lost in a book or music or art (whether listening, looking or creating) can inspire flow as well.

Sometimes we seek flow, and other times it finds us. Either way, we'd do well to invite it in as often as possible.

Meandering Back

Image by Steve Johnson from Pixabay

 In case it's not clear from the fact that I actually wrote (and posted!) three posts in the past ten days, winter break (yeah, weird name for a break in MARCH) was the week before last.

It felt really good to write those posts, and to put new material up, something I seem to be struggling to do these days. Writing -- when I manage to make time for it -- has not been feeling great, and writing those posts was a great reminder that writing can be fun.

But not all aspects of this writer job are created equal.

I love creating new material, filling white space with words, and telling stories. 

I hate revising large swaths of old material, getting in the weeds, and rooting out stray words and unkempt phrases. 

And I'm growing to dislike the submissions process even more.

For writers, writing is only part of the job, and for me, it's the part I love best. I love coming up with new ideas and characters, shaping them, and putting them on the page. It's great fun to meet new characters, mess with their lives and relationships, and create complications.

You know -- the kinds of things civilized people don't do in real life. 

Once I've created these worlds, I do not enjoy re-entering them and undoing what I've already done. Sure, it can be fun to ratchet up the tension, but there's often less of that and more pruning of the verbal shrubbery instead.

Trying to convince other people to love my characters as much as I do is hands down my least favorite part of the job. Convincing an agent or editor that they want to take me and my characters on is overwhelming and time-consuming. In addition, it takes time away from writing, not to mention poking little holes in my writerly self-esteem when rejections (or radio silence) inevitably arrive. 

But that's the way the game is played.

Lately, I've been trying to counterbalance the seeking representation part with writing just for fun, doing more playing with prompts and ideas and less worrying about where that writing is going . New projects can be a balm to the writerly soul, but they can also pull me in, creating a great excuse to stop doing the thing I don't enjoy, which is a surefire way to make sure my latest novel stays buried in a drawer.

Not the result I'm seeking.

Sometimes, I forget that writing is a job, which can be a good thing, but it can also be the thing that pulls me up short when the writing task du jour feels like work. (I already have a job, thank you very much!) Seeking that jolt of creativity from writing whatever or just because can be, I hope, the thing that reminds me why I do what I do.

And how much fun it can be if I can just get out of my own way.