Let’s Talk KonMari #5: ‘My Battery Is Low and It’s Getting Dark’

(Part 5 of a series on KonMari’ing my house. A why-to manual, not a how-to. The rest of the series is here: ClothingBooksPapers, Komono, Storage & Cleaning.)

The recent death of the Mars rover Opportunity seems like a particularly fortuitous time to talk about our attachment to material objects.

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How and Why We Love Things

Humans develop emotional attachments to material objects. We start young; according to Christian Jarrett, humans as young as two understand the concept of “mine.” Three to six year olds already connect with “my” stuffed animal in a way that they do not with an exact copy of that stuffed animal – and they even express horror at the thought that they might receive the copy rather than the original.

I’ll Love You Forever

This early attachment to things travels with us throughout our lives, as well. For instance, as a young child, my high school boyfriend had a doll called Marvin. He loved Marvin. Marvin was his constant companion, and after a few years, Marvin started showing the wear and tear you’d expect a soft toy to suffer from accompanying a young boy on his every adventure.

So my boyfriend’s mom sent Marvin to the doctor, promising “he’ll be home for Christmas.” On Christmas morning, Marvin reappeared under the tree, shiny and clean.

It wasn’t until my boyfriend was seventeen that his mother revealed the twist: the Marvin who reappeared on Christmas day wasn’t the original Marvin. He was a new Marvin, gifted from a family friend whose own toddler had been terrified of the toy.

My boyfriend’s mother was proud of having pulled this switcharoo, but my boyfriend was crushed. For days. And he hadn’t played with Marvin for about fifteen years at that point. In fact, I’m not sure Marvin was even in the house anymore.

Why My Marvin?

Some of this is the result of the “endowment effect,” in which we place more value on things we perceive as “ours.” But that value is multifaceted, and it doesn’t merely have to do with financial value. It’s also value created by the perception that the object is an extension of the self.

The fact that we tend to anthropomorphize our things adds to our sense of value, relationship and identity. The manufacturers of the Roomba, for instance, report that when their Roomba breaks down, many owners request that the company fix the device and send it back. They don’t want a new Roomba – they want their Roomba.

Seeing objects as a type of person means that we can extend our emotional bubble to include them even when they aren’t perceived as “ours.” As Dan Broadbent notes, one of the things that made it so easy to cry for Opportunity was that NASA anthropomorphizes spacecraft for us. We can follow craft like Curiosity on Twitter like they’re real people – and many of us have since the moment these spacecraft started tweeting.

“Why didn’t NASA try to revive Opportunity?” was a refrain I saw online several times after the news that the rover had gone dark. The answer, of course, is that they did. They tried for eight months and 1,000 unanswered wake-up messages. And when they accepted that Opportunity wasn’t ever going to answer again, they said goodbye by playing her a love song.

And thousands of us cried, because even though she’s a 400-pound hunk of steel and tech on another planet, we think of Opportunity as a being, not a tool.

If a Mars rover provokes emotions that intense, imagine trying to discard long-held personal items in your own home.

The Cull and What I Learned From It

Marie Kondo recommends leaving the “sentimental items” category for last, on the theory that once we start sorting these items, we’ll be sufficiently sensitive to joy to make it easier to go through them.

Specifically, I think, we get more sensitive to the difference between an object that sparks joy here and now, in the present, as a thing that exists in our lives, and an object that evokes memories that spark joy but that doesn’t itself, in the present, spark joy.

Discerning the difference is essential to discarding objects, and it reaches its peak in dealing with sentimental objects.

I, for instance, have always found myself particularly susceptible to the endowment effect. For me, every object becomes sentimental if I’ve owned it long enough. Objects I don’t even own become sentimental if I see them as part of my daily life long enough. “Long enough” has a life of its own; it can be anywhere from several years to a matter of minutes, depending on how intensely the objects sparked joy when I first encountered it. (I’ve developed an endowment-effect attachment to items I found in stores before I even reached the register.)

On top of that, I’ve also spent large parts of my life using objects not only to mediate my identity, but to reshape it – and, by doing so, to reshape my personal history.

When the Past Sucks

Some people deal with shitty pasts by getting rid of everything that reminds them of those times. I dealt with mine by constantly trying to rearrange its artifacts.

I’ve been obsessed with photo albums and scrapbooking since I was a child. I regularly kept boxes upon boxes of photos, ticket stubs, report cards, newspaper clippings, stickers, candy wrappers, flyers, greeting cards, luggage tags, you name it. And I have spent hundreds of hours of my life arranging and rearranging these things in scrapbooks, pulling them out, starting over, never satisfied with what I had created and never able to keep up with the pile of things intended to go into those books.

Until I KonMari’ed that pile, however, I didn’t understand why I scrapbooked so intensely. I’ve never been interested in “scrapbooking” the popular hobby: I don’t ever volunteer to do scrapbooks for groups or teams I’m part of, I’m not interested in seeing other people’s scrapbooks, and and scrapbooking supply stores just make me feel tired.

My relationship to my scrapbooks was a deeply private obsession. It was a way to reorganize my past, to give myself the non-abusive childhood I have always so desperately wanted to have. If I could rearrange all these old little bits of paper just right, I would retroactively become the person that my survival had depended on my pretending to be.

This obsession got particularly bad when it came to photographs. I hoarded old photographs like a dragon hoards gold. I spent hours looking at them, trying to rewrite my own memories, trying to convince myself that I saw happiness in those photos and that that Kodak moment was what had really taken place.

…This kind of constant mental editing is exhausting, not to mention an Olympian feat of self-gaslighting.

When I threw those photos out, however, I cried. I cried because I had had to give up one of the most enduring projects of my life: my attempt to rewrite history, and thus to re-form myself, based on nothing more than sheer will.

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(Pictured: Two once-full photo albums and a box of photos.)

For the Record….

…I can’t tell you whether going through your sentimental objects will provoke a similar reaction. Mine comes from a nightmarish childhood; it’s the unearthing of a lot of outdated ways of attempting to salvage some part of myself in the face of a world that did its level best to turn me into someone else.

Mine is also another step on a years-long journey through therapy. These aren’t realizations I could have had a year ago, and I’ve been working on my closet full of demons a lot longer than that. We have the realizations about ourselves that we’re ready to have.

Post-tidying, my sentimental stuff is under much better control. I still have a scrapbook of sorts:

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It’s organized chronologically, and it’s a combination of various awards, childhood artwork, letters from loved ones that were particularly meaningful, and so on. It also contains the photos that aren’t going on our walls.

I also sorted through my box of non-flat childhood keepsake items:

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This one was particularly interesting because I had managed to stuff that box with items that I kept not because they sparked joy, but because the anxiety associated with getting rid of them was so high I couldn’t mediate it. And the anxiety items – all of them – were things family members had given me as a way of keeping me attached to our shared heritage of generational toxicity.

In Spark Joy, Kondo says that if you’re having trouble saying goodbye to an object even though you know it doesn’t spark joy, try tossing a few handfuls of salt into the bag to settle the spirits.

I’m not a practitioner of Shinto by any means, and I’m not even particularly religious, but whipping a few handfuls of kosher salt into the trash bags in this photo worked. I was able to carry them to the bin with a sense of peace I haven’t experienced…well, ever.

I don’t know if it settles any other kind of spirit, but it sure settled mine.

I also added a feature to my writing space of which I am particularly proud:

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Stuffed animals are perhaps the biggest victory of my childhood. My mother was constantly deciding by fiat when I had “outgrown” them and trying to dispose of them accordingly, and I was constantly rescuing them and buying new ones. That Popple is the result of the only fight of my childhood that I won.

For years, as an adult, I stored my stuffed animals in a plastic bin in the basement, believing that the person I was supposed to be wasn’t supposed to have them but too in love with them to simply throw them out.

On Kondo’s advice, they now live on this shelf, which is right next to my desk. I can look up and see them there, cheering me on, whenever I’m writing.

(The mother who fought me about owning stuffed animals, by the way, is the same woman who rescued her beloved stuffed animal Tigger from the trash on a half-dozen occasions when her own mother tried to unilaterally dispose of him. I think this is what they mean when they say you can either learn from the mistakes of the past or repeat them.)

Next time: Storage and Cleaning.

 

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Let’s Talk KonMari #3: Paperwork Makes Us Adults

(Part 3 of a series on KonMari’ing my house. A why-to manual, not a how-to. The rest of the series is here: Clothing, Books, Komono, Sentimental Objects, Storage and Cleaning.)

“My basic principle for sorting papers is to throw them all away.”

This line endeared me to Marie Kondo forever.

In The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Kondo says that many of her clients have rococo-level elaborate paper filing systems. These systems, of course, never work (or these people wouldn’t be Kondo’s clients); they merely guarantee that their owners are drowning in paperwork and in the task of filing that paperwork.

There’s something compellingly “adult,” at least in my mind, about a well-ordered filing cabinet in which every incoming piece of paper automatically belongs somewhere. And like a lot of compellingly “adult” things, it’s one I never once managed to achieve, although I’ve spent my entire adult life trying desperately to do so.

Instead, I’ve simply lugged piles of paper from house to house, some of it for twenty years or more, telling myself that “someday” I would get it all filed. Yet the moment I try I get instantly overwhelmed: What goes where? How long do I need to keep something? What if I need this just in case?

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Why Do We Own So Much Paper?

In the US, we tend to generate a lot of paperwork because we’re a legalistic society. Everything comes with a long trail of fine print on it, because we structure so many of our relationships according to contract principles.

We’re pretty cool with this when pressed about it from other angles. We see our court system as the basis of our fundamental freedoms (not without reason), and we’re willing to get into angery Internet conversations about Teh Constitution(TM) at the drop of a hat.

On the other hand, we also think “Kill all the lawyers” was good advice, we’re convinced that tort claims are just “whining” until they happen to us, and we never read the fine print on all that paperwork we get anyway.

And we really don’t read the paperwork we receive. The argument I repeated more than any other during my time at the law firm was “Plaintiffs had a duty to read their insurance policy.” It was rarely a case of incomprehensible jargon making that task futile, either; I handled multiple cases in which the plaintiffs had sued for coverage on outbuildings, which they referred to as “outbuildings” in conversation, when the policy said in bold all caps “THIS POLICY DOES NOT COVER OUTBUILDINGS.”

We do not read the paperwork we are handed. Somehow, reading it isn’t the adult thing to do. Storing it is.

Throw It All Away

I’m a bit surprised at the lack of negative response to Kondo’s “throw it all away” statement. Most of the sources I’ve found online embraced this idea as a relief.

It’s not the relief I find confusing; it’s the fact that “just throw out your paperwork” is seen as an extraordinarily juvenile thing to do, if not an outright dangerous thing to do. Yet no one seems to have pointed that out on the Intertubes as yet.

In Spark Joy, Kondo clarifies that she doesn’t want you to simply gather all the paperwork in the house and chuck it in the bin. Rather, she recommends that you approach the pile with the assumption that “This is all going in the bin anyway, so let’s see what is important to keep.”

To that end, Kondo recommends keeping three categories of papers:

  1. Things you need to handle in some way (bills, invitations, appointment reminders, etc.)
  2. Things you need to keep for a limited period of time (warranties, taxes, etc.)
  3. Things you need to keep indefinitely (birth certificates, passports, vehicle titles, etc.)

Anything that you can deal with on the spot while cleaning out the paperwork, Kondo says, do so. Don’t let that first folder get too big.

The Cull And What I Learned From It

This was my oh-so-adult filing system when I began:

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(I tried with those file folders. I really did.)

Figuring out what I needed to handle was pretty simple: it was mostly all bills. Figuring out what I needed to keep indefinitely was also pretty simple: it was mostly in the fire safe already.

The second category stumped me. A few things with obvious expiration dates, like current insurance dec pages and the last seven years’ worth of taxes, were obvious. But I found myself with a growing pile of things that I couldn’t put a date on, but also wasn’t certain I could simply dispose of.

Here, the concept I started forming in the “books” phase of book-as-object versus book-as-experience, became extremely helpful. I asked myself, “Do I need this piece of paper, or do I just need the information on it?”

If I only needed the information, I scanned the document and then tossed it. Otherwise, I kept it. (I ended up keeping none of them.)

Scanning: Are We Just Moving the Clutter?

One of my friends brought up a worthwhile point during this process: “Am I really tidying, or just moving the mess to my hard drive?”

Kondo provides advice in Spark Joy about how to tidy your digital files (again, focus on what is worth keeping), but I found myself not too concerned about this question as I scanned.

Having access to the information in my paper pile actually does spark joy. Having papers lying around my workspace stresses me out. The scanner and the hard drive are the answer to this particular dilemma.

My external hard drives are relatively well organized. Sure, there’s a ton of stuff on there that’s probably worth deleting, but at least I know where it is and I can quickly distinguish it from stuff I continue to use.

Your mileage may vary, but for me, moving this huge stack of information from paper to digital was a massive relief.

The Other Papers

I’m an academic and a musician, and I’m also nostalgic, so getting through the pile of papers in my filing cabinet wasn’t nearly as daunting as getting through the other pile of papers: portfolios, scrapbooks, research and sheet music.

This used to be three full shelves:

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A large chunk of it was old photocopied sheet music or pieces my husband and I had composed in Noteflight, Sibelius, or (in one case) Forte. Yes, Forte. Do you remember Forte? I sure didn’t.

I scanned all the photocopied sheet music. The not-photocopied stuff went on the shelf.

The bottom two shelves (one of which you can see at the bottom edge of this photo) are full of scrapbooks, photo albums, and my research from graduate school, the last category of which covers an entire shelf and a half.

Confession: I did not actually touch the research during the papers phase of tidying.

At the time, it was because I spent an entire day last year organizing it into binders by topic, sorting it by author’s last name, and typing out little bibliographies in MLA format to go in the front of each binder. And I thought, when I started this process, that I didn’t want to disturb that research.

Now, at the end, I’m rethinking that approach. Especially since I know I haven’t even read quite a few of the articles down there – and, four years out of grad school, I’m probably not going to.

Paper As Object

Here’s a whole lot of paper I kept as-is:

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The smaller journals on the right date back to 1988; the notebooks on the left start in 2010.

I’ve kept notebooks since I was about ten. In 2009, I broke down the entire collection, sorted out what I thought was “important” (story chunks, journal entries, etc) from what I thought wasn’t (to-do lists), and put what I kept into a binder.

I’ve regretted it ever since.

The notebooks as objects spark joy, a fact I didn’t realize until I’d gotten rid of the first batch entirely. Scanning what’s in them, even if I did every page of every notebook, simply wouldn’t be the same. It’s not that I want easy access to the info; it’s that I want the presence of the notebooks themselves in my life. So here they are.

This Isn’t Even My Final Form

This is the pile on its way out to the recycling bin:

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My filing cabinet now has 8 folders in it: One for each tax year and one for things I need to deal with this month (mostly bills). Once a month, I clean out last folder, deal with its contents, scan anything I need to keep and toss all the paper. The rest of the space in my filing cabinet holds office supplies.

And this approach feels a million times more adulty than what I tried to do before.

I know where everything is. I can find anything I need, either in the filing cabinet or on my external hard drive, in a matter of seconds. I’m not losing bills or paperwork anymore.

Thanks, Marie Kondo. I will happily throw it all away.

Next time: Komono.

Why I Hate the Words “Should” and “Just”

I hate the word “should.”

I also hate the word “just” (as an adverb).

In my book, these two words are profane. They’re worse than any number of slang terms to describe the reproductive or execretory organs or their outputs. They’re shamey, they’re harmful, and they have no place in the vocabulary of anyone who cares about their own or anyone else’s mental health.

I would like to punt them both directly into the sun.

But here: Let me tell you how I really feel.

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“Should”

“Should” is the Borg Queen of unhelpful words when it comes to mental or emotional health. It’s worthless because it describes a place you are not at. It describes a state of being that you do not have. By definition.

“You should get out more.”

“You should quit worrying so much.”

“You should quit drinking.”

…No, see, that solution is for a different problem than the one I have.

Think of “should” in terms of a map. “Should” isn’t where you are. It’s a different place than the place you are. Maybe that place is awesome! Maybe everyone wants to be there! But you are not there.

“You should get out more” in response to depression, or my all-time favorite “you should get more sleep” in response to insomnia, are exactly as helpful as if you were standing on Woodward Ave. in Detroit and someone said to you, “You should be in Chicago.”

Okay. Maybe Chicago is great. Maybe Chicago has everything you could possibly want or need. But right now, you are in Detroit.

Telling people about Chicago while they are in Detroit isn’t helpful. Here’s what would be:

  • Asking about their satisfaction with their current location. (“Do you like it here in Detroit? Would you rather be in Chicago?”)
  • Helping them identify the steps needed to get to Chicago. (“You’re headed east, and Chicago is west of here.”)
  • Working out a strategy to get to Chicago. (“You can get on I-94 and go straight there, or Amtrak also has trains that go that way.”)
  • Providing resources to help them get to Chicago. (“Do you have a car? Can you afford a train ticket?”)

The same is true when talking to someone who is struggling with their mental or emotional well-being. Saying “you should….” doesn’t help. If they were already where your “should” is trying to send them, they wouldn’t be struggling in the first place.

Instead, find out where they want to go, and see if they want your help to find ways to get there.

“Just”

“Just,” the adverb, often rides along with “should.” Whether it’s together or alone, though, it’s crap.

“You should just get out more.”

“Just stop worrying.”

“You just need to get more sleep.”

If a mental or emotional health hurdle has gotten big enough to negatively affect someone’s ability to function – and I guarantee you aren’t hearing about it unless it’s distressing them in some way – they’re already past “just.” “Just” is somewhere on the other side of the horizon.

If fixing it were “just” that easy, they’d have fixed it already.

To return to the previous analogy, if I’m standing in front of the Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament on Woodward Ave. in Detroit, and I’m distressed by how badly I want to eat some Church’s Chicken, I can “just” walk two blocks and solve my problem. Walking two blocks is not a problem for me, so chances are good that by the time you’re done saying “you can just walk down there,” I’m already in line ordering my lunch.

But if I’m standing in front of the cathedral and nothing will satisfy me except a giant bowl of ice cream from Margie’s Candies in Chicago, telling me to “just walk down there” is not helpful. That’s a 273-mile walk, or about 90 hours, assuming I don’t get hit by a car on M-60.

Instead of “just”:

  • Ask how they’re doing. (“Are you hungry? Do you need lunch?”)
  • Find out what might help. (“Does chicken sound good, or are you in an ice cream mood?”)
  • Offer ways to get it. (“We can drive there, but it’ll take a few hours. Are you up for the trip?”)

I’ve been dealing with mental illness literally as long as I can remember, and one of the hardest parts of recovery for me has been eliminating the words “should” and “just” from my internal and external vocabularies.

They’re tempting to reach for in tough times, because they’re easy. They feel like helping without actually doing the work required to be present in the moment, to understand the problem, and to find and implement adaptive responses.

That’s also precisely why they suck.

 

 

 

Three Ways to Become A Writer

Disclaimer: Despite having become a writer, I’m still not sure I know how to become a writer.

That said, here’s the stuff I did that, in hindsight, was the most helpful in getting me to the point where my first book is a Real Thing That Exists in the World, my second book is in editing, and I have lost count of the number of non-book things I have published and where I have published them.

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1. Read obsessively.

Forget reading like it’s your job: Read like it’s the only thing standing between you and the gaping abyss of death. Read like your brain needs words and not oxygen molecules to survive. Read in bed. Read on the toilet. Read in the shower. Read while walking the dog. Read while standing in line at the grocery store.

It matters what you read…kind of. An understanding of novel structure and character development, for instance, is hard to get from Washington Post articles or the back of shampoo bottles. So if you want to write in a particular genre, keep a good mix of that genre in your reading.

But read other things too. Restricting yourself to one type of reading material will burn you out and limit your vision. Read ALL THE THINGS. You’d be amazed at how often my reading of technical articles on blockchain management, treatises on late 17th-century sailing, or academic tomes featuring modernist interpretations of child psychology appear in my neuroqueer sci-fi.

2. Write even when you’re not supposed to be writing.

First: write when you’re supposed to be writing. Pick a time every day you will sit down with your writing tools of choice, and then BE THERE ON TIME READY TO WORK. Hiss angrily and throw things at anyone who tries to distract you. Be there even if you feel like you have no ideas and never will have any ideas. Be there especially if you feel like you have no ideas and never will have any ideas.

But: also write even when you’re not supposed to be writing. Taking a class where the lecturer repeats things you’ve already learned? Write instead of taking notes. Boring meeting? Write. Have six loads of laundry to fold? Write. Kids have a recital or soccer game? Write. (Okay, this one might be kind of mean. Don’t be mean to your kids.)

Over the course of my tenth-grade history class alone, I wrote over 300 pages of fiction. It’s all terrible fan fiction and I will never let anyone read it, but I wrote it. And it taught me a lot about how to write.

3. Practice courage.

Courage isn’t a character stat. It’s not an inherent quality that some people are born with “enough” of and the rest of us are doomed to deficiency in.

Courage is an act. Courage is what you are doing when you say, “Hey, I’m scared of this thing, but accomplishing X by doing the thing is more important to me than my fear,” and then you pursue the more important thing.

I didn’t link this one to writing until I started my first novel. But by that time, I’d been practicing courage for years as a figure skater, a colorguard performer, a litigation attorney, and a teacher. I’m still scared every time I submit a piece of writing to an editor, even if that piece was specifically commissioned and I know they won’t reject it. I submit it because getting the work out there is more important to me than indulging my fear of criticism.

There are lots of ways to practice courage, and courage is an essential skill. You can write for years (I did), but putting your work out there is what makes you A Writer.


4. Drink a lot of coffee. Buy it for friends. Friends like me.

How to Get Motivated to Write Your Novel

Many writers struggle with motivation. Motivation is a fickle thing; it comes and it goes, and its visits rarely coincide with several free hours in which to focus on writing.

Yet people do, in fact, manage to finish writing entire novels. Or stick to an exercise plan. Or build a house. As someone who has managed to complete two of these three goals, I frequently get asked, “How can I maintain the motivation to write a novel?”

My answer: Don’t try.

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Motivation is the drive to complete a certain action. That drive can result from a number of factors, whether internal (like interest, hunger, or pain) or external (rewards and punishments). For most writers, the trouble lies not in the drive itself but in channeling it in the ways and means most effective for writing.

In order to goad ourselves into writing, we often turn to extrinsic motivators. “If I write for half an hour, I can have two cookies.” “No video games until I finish this chapter.”

It’s common to turn to rewards and punishments; after all, they’re a pillar of our educational systems and workplace environments. The problem is that they not only don’t work, but they actually degrade our intrinsic motivation over time. In other words, giving yourself a cookie or time on the Playstation in exchange for writing actually makes you less likely to want to write – and it makes you less likely to turn out quality work when you do write.

If you’re seriously considering writing a novel, however, you already have some intrinsic motivation. The key, then, is to provide yourself with the support you need to move from motivation to a finished product.

Planning: The Key to Motivation

Motivation is a primarily internal sense, feeling, or drive. To create tangible results, it needs to be focused into action. That’s where planning comes in.

A 2002 study in the British Journal of Health Psychology split 248 adults into three groups. The first group was given motivation to exercise in the form of a pep talk and a pamphlet on the benefits of exercise in reducing heart disease risks.

The second group received the same pep talk and pamphlet. However, before Group 2 left the talk, each member was asked to complete the following statement: “During the next week, I will partake in at least 20 minutes of vigorous exercise on [DAY] at [TIME OF DAY] at/in [PLACE].

The third group got none of the above, thus serving as the control group.

Each group then tracked their exercise: day, time of day, and place. The control group, who had received no motivational materials at all, saw 38 percent of its participants exercise at least once a week.

The first group, who got the pep talk and pamphlet, had a 35 percent exercise rate – actually lower than the group that got no motivational materials at all.

And the second group? Ninety-one percent (91 percent!) of its participants exercised. By writing down what they would do and where and when they would do it, this group managed to boost its ability to achieve its goal by more than both of the other groups combined.

The takeaway? Motivation doesn’t matter. Planning matters.

How to Plan to Write an Entire Novel

Writing an entire novel is a big task. Getting it published adds additional challenges. But since your manuscript has to exist before you can pitch it to publishers, let’s start with how to get it written.

1.  Break down the goal.

Your ultimate goal is “finish the novel,” but that’s a big task. Broken down into smaller pieces, that task might look like:

  • Create character profiles.
  • Create a timeline.
  • Choose major plot points.
  • Outline the novel.
  • Outline a chapter.
  • Write a chapter.
  • Write a paragraph.
  • Write a sentence.

Every item on the list should be something that leads in a concrete way to the goal of writing an entire novel manuscript. “Research cover artists” won’t help you get anything written. Neither will “buy the perfect notebook.” If it doesn’t lead to you putting story words on paper, save it for a later list.

2. Work out timing.

How much time do you have to devote to writing each day? Write it down, whether it’s 12 hours or 12 minutes.

At what time of day can you take this time to write? Write it down, whether it’s 2 p.m. or 2 a.m.

On what days of the week can you write? Write these down, whether it’s “all seven” or “just Tuesdays.”

Congratulations: That’s your writing time.

Put this time in your calendar. Right now. And treat it as scheduled time. When something or someone else wants that time (and they will), say, “Sorry, I have something scheduled then.” You don’t have to tell people what it is or why it’s more important than their yearning to binge-watch Seinfeld or rinse out their socks in public drinking fountains with you. “No” is a complete sentence here.

You may find yourself adjusting this time period, and the days of the week in which it occurs, as you write. That’s fine. The focus is to find your time to write and guard it against all other possible intrusions.

3.  Slot #1 into #2.

You might get profiles for every character written in 12 hours. You might get a sentence, or even two, written in 12 minutes. Once you know how long your writing time is and on what days, you can break down the first list into chunks that are as large or small as you need in order to spend your writing time on writing.

Voice of Experience: I recommend being flexible here. Show up to your writing time intending to outline a chapter, only to have a character in your head insist on spilling their life story? Write it out. Tempted to skip writing time because you don’t know what comes next? Show up anyway and freewrite about the worst things that could happen at that moment.

The point is to land your butt in the chair during writing time and to put down words that directly relate to the story, whether those are plans and outlines or the story itself.

4.  Save other plans for later.

The urge to edit while writing overwhelms a lot of writers, especially on their first novel. If it arises, remind yourself that you will plan the editing and revision phase after you are done with the writing phase – not during the writing phase.

Then, do that. Once you have a novel’s worth of story on paper (or in pixels), follow the same steps for your revising and editing time. Then for publishing. Then marketing.

By building a plan and sticking to it, you eliminate the need to “feel motivated.” Instead, you turn writing into a habit – allowing you to focus your energy on the story itself.

How I Wrote a Novel in 10 Months With Untreated ADHD, Part 3: The Notebook

Part 1, I talked about how I organize my schedule, or when I write. In Part 2, I talked about my workspace, or where I write.

Now let’s talk about how.

ADHD III

Part 3 is the story of the heart of this entire operation: The Notebook.

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“The Notebook” makes it sound portentous, like I spend hours searching for just the perfect vessel to hold my Great American Novel(TM) and I might die without it.

Not going to lie: I went through that phase, in my late teens. I still have the two Moleskines I filled back then. But it was only about eight months before I realized that putting The Notebook on that kind of shrine was actually making it harder for me to write.

These days, I use single-subject college-ruled notebooks I pick up during the back-to-school sale at my local big-box store for about $0.25 apiece. I buy at least a dozen every year, and I keep the unused ones within easy reach:

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Back in the days before I published the vast majority of my work on the Internets, I filled a notebook a month. These days, it takes 1-3 months for the same amount of handwriting.

The used ones occupy several different shelves. This photo is the central repository but by no means the only one:

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Once, in 2009, I went through all the notebooks I’d filled since 1998 and broke them down, discarded everything I thought wasn’t “useful,” and put the rest in a giant three-ring binder. I have regretted it ever since, which is why I will not be repeating the process anytime soon.

It took me quite a while to make the notebook work for me. I loved it from the start as a writing tool, but like a lot of folks with ADHD, I really didn’t grasp how to make it work as a planner and an extension of my memory. For years, I juggled The Notebook, notebooks for work, notebooks for school, a day planner, a to-do list, you name it.

I tried a Franklin planner. I tried OneNote. I tried bullet journaling. And it all made me even more confused.

Then, while browsing the Intertubes one day late in 2015, I stumbled across a system that was far simpler than keeping a bullet journal. The blogger I read this from claims to have learned it from a Japanese businessman he was sitting beside on a flight once.

I just know it works for me. Here’s how:

The very first thing I do with any new notebook is flip to the back side of the final page.

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Here, I write the major categories of stuff in the notebook, and make a little “tab” by blacking in the edge. I like to space my categories widely because it makes the tabs easier for me to find.

Often, I’ll start with the first thing going in that particular notebook. This one, for instance, has outlines for Nahara and The Ambassador on the first few pages, so the top tab is “novel.” The first not-novel page I used had a to-do list on it, so that went under “personal and journal.”

You can tab as many things as you like, or as many as you have lines for. In theory, you could also flip to the second to last page and tab again in different colors, too. I rarely have more than five tabs in any notebook, and these four are always on the list.

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Each page then gets a corresponding tab. Here are the first three pages in this notebook, all of which are outlines.

(I am sorry to report that the rumors are true: Nahara does not feature fully automated luxury gay space communism.)

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Every time I start a new page, it gets a new tab. This is the page I started for the outline for this blog post series.

I love this system for two ADHD-y reasons:

  1. It cut me down to one notebook. Much harder to lose, especially since it lives with my wallet and keys on my desk. (Not impossible to lose, though, which is why my name and email address are always on the inside of the front cover.)
  2. I don’t have to care what order the pages are in anymore. I used to juggle two notebooks because I cared about page order. A lot. I hated having a to-do list pop up halfway through a chapter I was drafting, for instance. I found it super distracting.

Now I don’t have to care, because every page has its tab:

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I also appreciate how the tabs help me see where my time went over the past month or two. This notebook, for instance, makes it obvious that I spent a huge chunk of time on marketing and “outside” writing smack in the middle of it, taking a pretty obvious hiatus from the novel to do so.

Those chunks, btw, include both the pieces I submitted to Spoon Knife 3: Incursions, which you’ll all get to see in a few months.

Here are two pages from the draft of Nantais:

 

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When I sit down to write, I date the margin, just because I like to see my own progress. I tab each page as I start it. Notes about things I need to go back and fix, scenes that are relevant to this scene, or character background I don’t want to dig into here but that I’ll need for consistency later on all goes in the margin as well.

My goal, in my nightly two hour writing slot, is 350 words. That’s it.

They don’t even have to be story. If I’m particularly stuck on the story, I’ll spend time sketching what could happen next, or working out character motivation, or detailing someone’s history or mythology. As long as it’s related to the novel and written with the intent of helping me get unstuck, it counts.

After the Notebook But Before Editing: The Typing Stage

Approximately every ten pages, every chapter, or just when I’m starting to get a little lost as to what the heck happened to get me to this point, I’ll take the handwritten draft and type it up. But the first draft of all my fiction is always written longhand.

 

The reasons are a mix of practical points and straight-up “I like doing it this way so there”:

  • I find the Intertubes distracting as heck. “I went to look up one thing and eight hours later I realized I had 422 Wikipedia tabs open and also it was Tuesday” isn’t a meme; it’s literally my life. If I drafted on the screen, nothing would ever get done.
  • I revise as I type. The first typed draft is always my second draft. Rewriting the entire draft this way allows me to address a lot of mistakes and clunky text. It also lets me do things like write “[nearby star with habitable zone]” in the draft, then Google that when I get to the typing phase, saving me from the Wikipedia hole.
  • I feel free to screw up. Since I know no one will ever see the handwritten draft, I can cross things out, rewrite entire sentences mid-draft, draw giant arrows to move pieces from one place to another, and write things like “FIGHT PIRATES, DO A SCIENCE” or “THIS BOOK DOESN’T EXIST WTF IS HE READING” in the margins (two comments that actually exist in the margins of the handwritten draft of Nantais).

…And, perhaps most selfishly but also most importantly, I just like the way it feels. I like the feel of writing and the look of my own handwriting covering pages and pages of notebooks.

Writing longhand greatly increases my joy in the process. It feels like making something. And that’s really the only reason I need to do it – and the reason I never insist other people do it the way I do.

The whole point of the entire system is to move the crap out of the way in order to find the joy in the work.

Ironic twist: While starting Ritalin has changed my life with regards to my work, my relationships, my ability to eat and sleep, and the general orderliness of my house, it has actually made fiction writing harder. I don’t write on Ritalin. I wait till it wears off first.

Why? I’m still trying to pinpoint the reasons, but the biggest one appears to be that having everything on the whiteboard of my brain at once, while a major challenge in ordinary life, is actually exactly what I need in order to keep track of all the moving parts of a story as it unfolds.

I wrote Nantais before I ever started Ritalin, and now that I have, I only write fiction after it wears off. Go brain!

Part 2: The Workspace
Part 1: The System


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How I Wrote a Novel in 10 Months With Untreated ADHD, Part 2: The Workspace

In Part 1, I talked about how I organized my time to ensure I had both the gap in my schedule and the mental wherewithal to write every day.

Here in Part 2, I’ll talk about how I organized my writing space.

ADHD II

This is where I write:

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I got lucky in our current house: this desk fits perfectly into this alcove in our spare bedroom. On the walls of the alcove are Chalkboard Left and Chalkboard Right, which I mentioned in Part 1.

You can see some of the paperwork hanging off the bottom of Chalkboard Left in this photo, next to the lamp.

Chalkboard Left contains my weekly schedule; Chalkboard Right contains the basics of whichever novel I’m working on at the moment. Right now, that’s Nahara, the sequel to the novel I just released.

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On the left is the outline for the novel in progress. On the right are some notes I need nearly every time I write, and above those are the list of works I want to write or that come after the novel in progress. (The list on the top right is a recent addition; I got tired of keeping that list in my head.)

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I use Blake Shelton’s “beats” system to outline each novel. It was designed for outlining screenplays, but since I tend to write off the movie screen in my head, the beats system was remarkably easy to adapt.

The outline helps me remember the central theme or idea of whatever point I’m at in the story, as well as how I got that far and what needs to be set up in order to move to the next scene or chapter.

In addition to this outline, I typically write an outline or synopsis of each chapter as I’m working on them. Since I only need those for as long as I’m working on that part of the draft, they live in my notebook (which I’ll cover in Part 3).

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These are photocopies out of my notebook, which I pinned to the board after I got frustrated flipping back and forth between pages and (later) with remembering where I had put this particular notebook. The top one is a bit of core mythology; the bottom is a general outline of all three novels in the trilogy. Behind it are a few more pages I refer to frequently, like main character bios/histories and a timeline.

The list above is works in progress. On the left are short story ideas; on the right, book-length ideas.

Because the desk sits so closely between these two walls, my peripheral vision is pretty well filled up by the chalkboards. But then there’s the view. Take another look at my desk:

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That view is many writers’ dream, but for me, it’s distracting as heck.

One of the main reasons I write from 9 to 11 p.m., aside from the fact that I can focus then, is because it’s dark out. About the only thing I can see is the neighbor’s yard light, which doesn’t light up much – and the neighbor is usually in bed well before dark anyway.

I keep a few fidget toys in the mug along with my pens. The Pygmy Puff to the left of the mug is also a cozy fidget, and the disapproving stare of Mr. McShade on the right keeps me motivated.

Apart from the writing space and the lamp, the desk is allowed to hold only certain items:

  • My wallet and keys. If they’re not here, I don’t know where they are.
  • Things that urgently need my attention. When I took this photo, those included returning a purchase (the small box), sorting out my business receipts (the paper pile), and giving my cat her nightly meds (the pill bottles and the other box).

Other stuff does end up on my desk from time to time, usually on its way to the trash, my backpack, or one of the drawers. The drawers are the nightmare clutter hiding beneath my otherwise sorted desktop.

I do nearly all my novel drafting here and 100% of my novel revision here. I also work from home as a freelance writer, but I do that writing downstairs, in our office/library. Other essential desk stuff, like my noise-canceling headphones, live in my backpack, since I need those out in public more often than I need them at home.

Part 1: The System
Part 3: The Notebook


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