leftovers - it's just not the time to not say (the final schedule)

I didn't reference the idea of "writing as thinking" in this post, but perhaps I should have. It's undoubtedly important to have something to say strictly in the context of responding to or analyzing a particular situation, but the extra element that separates writing in the TOA sense from writing in the journalistic sense is my willingness to work out what I think through the process of writing. One problem with examining the question solely through the lens of having something to say is how such an approach dismisses the possibility of discovering something to say - in many cases, the link between writing and thinking emerges after the pen hits the paper. If I rule out working on a certain subset of topics, what it means is that I am ruling out access to the thinking that is enabled by writing about those topics.

The flip side is that perhaps the recent trend reflects a change in what I'm willing to think about, whether in writing or not. The common problem in the early days of TOA was "which of these things should I write about?" but these days this consideration has given way to "what is there to write about?". Initially this change was somewhat alarming but I'm starting to realize that perhaps this merely reflects my state of mind in 2016 - back then, there was so much I simply had never thought deeply about, so diving in via writing was an enticing option. Now that we are well into year six (!) of TOA, I'm finding myself encountering two constraints with increasing regularity - first, that I have fewer obvious topics remaining to think about; second, that each remaining topic demands a far higher level of thinking relative to the 2016 standard. These considerations both lead to the same effect on the time commitment - I first need more time to select a topic, and then I need more time to write about it.

But I suppose in another way this doesn't really change anything. It's always been true that when it comes to this form of writing, the time to start is when I'm ready to think, and when I have nothing left to think about then it's time to stop. It's unavoidable that the process is going to look different from time to time, especially in terms of both the frequency and construction of the posts, but if I resist the temptation to overanalyze the main concept is the same as always. What that means for now is a change to the pattern or expectation for TOA, but that should be OK - it's why we have email notifications for new posts. There are some current features that I might retain in some capacity - for example, I'll likely continue holding the longer posts for Sundays - but I think for the most part things will go up on TOA when they are ready to go up. Ultimately, this feels like the reason why I said the worst thing for a blog is a schedule - when you put a frame around something, it quickly goes from supportive to restrictive, and when the goal is better thinking there is nothing as detrimental as a restriction.

it's just not the time to not say

It might seem like the point of slowing down is to take a moment for recharging the batteries, but it turns out that the change in pace can sometimes help restart stalled projects. This has been my experience in the TOA context, where I've used quiet periods to examine the backlog in my draft folder and find ways to move those posts closer to completion. You could also include in this category results like the esteemed "Reading Clearout" posts, which I generally finalize by determining that the fifth sentence in the draft is actually the final sentence, again a process that seems to come more naturally during a so-called break. When I started up around a year ago with the idea of organizing TOA around an informal "in-season/off-season" pattern, I think what I had in mind was a structure that would make the best of both worlds - a way to benefit from schedule-driven elements such as deadline urgency while also ensuring that I blocked some time to review anything I'd left half-finished. In hindsight I still think this was a good decision, the seasonal concept loosely mirroring one of my favorite podcasts, More or Less. This podcast has maintained its momentum for at least several years (and likely more), so in my mind it implies a format for sustainability and longevity.

Of course, TOA has some major differences from that podcast, the least of these being the fact that this isn't a job for me or anyone else (there is no "staff" at TOA), but perhaps more importantly that I don't have a large audience imposing certain expectations on my output. To put it another way, this only happens if I do it, and I don't have to do it. This line of thinking became an unanticipated feature of the slow periods within the seasonal structure, when I had so much downtime that I found myself wondering at certain odd moments whether it would make sense to shutdown TOA. Despite being unanticipated, I could hardly describe it as a surprise - I know all things end, even great things, and I've known this all along; I like to think I've tried my best to make TOA exceptional, but exceptional doesn't make it an exception.

The memory of these deliberations simmered under the surface of last week's post, which considered the endings of various favorite podcasts from over the years. I suspect the hosts of those shows went through something similar to what I just described before their respective decisions to end their shows. The post meandered to something resembling an original thought, or at least an original question - why stop the show when you could just reformat it? I suppose there is no way for me to know for certain, but I suspect I have a decent guess - they didn't feel like it. I think that's what will make TOA different than those examples, at least over the next few months, because I don't have any aversion at all from doing the equivalent of reducing an hour-long show into seven minutes. I think this has always been true to an extent for despite my struggles evading the various obstacles created by my self-imposed scheduling expectations, I've had no difficulty hitting "publish" on posts short enough to fit on a CVS receipt.

I suppose in the end it all comes down to a fairly straightforward consideration - do I have anything left to say? When I took a moment last week to scribble down "commitment to the Swiss cheese model" as a reminder for a future post, it seems clear that I still have at least one reason to keep moving along with TOA. Recent readers may also recall the Proper Labmin post, which listed out a few different ideas I'm kicking around in the draft folder. It seems that while there are some things I need to say, then it remains the time to say them. And of course, there is the other side of the argument - if I stop, then maybe it becomes harder to say certain things when I need to say them, and there is nothing worse than not saying something when it's time to say it. In fact, these days it seems like few things are more important than being able to say the things that need to be said when it's time to say them. But to be honest, despite all the good reasons I guess I just don't know regarding the long-term, so I suppose it remains to be seen - whether I will continue to generate writing ideas, whether I will feel up to the effort of working those ideas into a coherent final draft, and whether I will feel its worth the risk of hitting that post button so that I can say what needs to be said; regarding all that, now is just not the time to say.

scheduling the death rattle

I suspect the average person these days has a perception that podcasts took off relatively recently, maybe sometime in the last five years or so, and perhaps this is accurate. The saddest cases may be convinced that Serial was the first-ever podcast, and that debuted in 2014. I'm not the best person to ask, however, as I never really noticed when podcasts broke through to achieve mainstream popularity. This is likely because I've been listening to podcasts for well over a decade. For me, the ascent of podcasts was like the experience of napping on an empty beach only to wake up surrounded by sunburnt tourists. I get that it's a big deal, but no need to tell me about it - I've been here all along.

If memory serves correctly my first podcast could have been as early as fall 2006, my freshman year of college, when I had a job as the campus mailman. This required that I walk around campus a few hours each week delivering letters and magazines to various department buildings. I would pass the time on these mail routes by listening to an episode or two of a favorite show. I continued listening to podcasts after graduation, filling my ears while commuting, running errands, or completing household admin, and as I look back I could see why you might say podcasts have been an ever-present fixture throughout my adult life. A few of my favorite shows from the early days remain in my current lineup - notable examples include EconTalk (which debuted in 2006) and More Or Less (a show I likely picked up when Tim Harford began hosting in 2007). Bill Simmons, who entered the podcast world in 2007 with The BS Report, also remains a regular listen.

But over fifteen or so years there have been many more examples of shows that have come and gone. The ones that stick out in my memory are not the shows that I abandoned due to waning interest (Radiolab, The Moth, 99% Invisible, among many others) but rather those that stopped producing new episodes. The first one I can remember is Brainfood Dude, an hour-long podcast that reviewed other podcasts - each weekly episode featured a few highlight segments from various podcasts. The final episode aired almost exactly ten years ago today. I don't remember the exact details of this last show, just a vague recollection that the host, Michael J. Franz, cited how a new job (as a teacher?) made it impossible for him to put in the necessary work for creating the show. Brainfood Dude was an invaluable source of new shows for me - other than occasionally checking podcast rankings, I didn't have another way to discover new shows.

There is a chance that I learned about Common Sense from one of those episodes, another favorite podcast that joined Brainfood Dude in retirement a few years ago. Dan Carlin's decision in the fall of 2017 to end his monthly current events program remains the biggest loss in the history of my listening habit. In his "final" episode, Carlin shared that he no longer had the energy to produce regular shows, citing the present political climate as one challenge but also mentioning that he was just getting older. (I say "final" because Common Sense has returned one or two times each year since it "ended", these episodes seemingly going up whenever the mood strikes Carlin.) I eventually filled the void with Middle Theory, a show hosted by Micah Hanks, who maintained a weekly schedule until just a few weeks ago when he also announced a schedule reduction for his podcast. Hanks, like Franz and Carlin, cited the impossibility of maintaining the workload necessary to keep up with the schedule for the show. I anticipate Middle Theory will follow the Common Sense example of airing a few times a year whenever Hanks feels the need to record another episode.

The obvious connecting thread of these examples is the way each host reached a point where he could no longer meet the demands of producing his show. But this raises a question - what were the demands? My understanding is that each program operated on its own terms, with no contracts or outside obligations forcing the hosts to produce episodes. The specific answers would obviously vary by show, but there is a shared reality that at some level the hosts imposed their own demands onto themselves. You can see this if you consider how the breaking points are measurable not with a single metric but rather in a combination of metrics. Brainfood Dude, for example, ended not because Franz didn't have time for producing a podcast, but because he didn't have enough time each week to produce a weekly hour-long podcast. Common Sense and Middle Theory both opted to reduce schedules, implying that the issue was not just about energy level but more specifically the energy level available per month or week given a fixed length for each show. This leads me to a possible answer - the demands on the hosts were driven by the length of each show, which necessitated a certain amount of work in order to complete a show. What I don't understand is why each host felt obligated to show some loyalty to this detail. At some level we all know the initial decision about length was made by each host on his own, so as audience members we should agree that these hosts are well within their rights to change the length as they see fit. In these selected examples, the hosts opted instead to reduce the schedule, even driving it down to zero in Franz's case. 

This leaves open the question of whether it would have been a better decision to record shorter episodes. However, I don't think this is a natural way to think about such problems. The way people retire, for example, has a similar element - one week you work forty hours, the next week you are done. I don't know many examples of people who, starting at age sixty, work a little less per year until they gradually reach zero hours a decade or two later. It seems that when we reach these crossroads where energy levels are suddenly short of requirements, we lean toward making a culprit of the schedule rather than reducing the intensity within the schedule, as if the schedule itself is some kind of fixed universal law. It's almost like we constantly imagine ourselves on one kind of treadmill or the other, where the only options are to keep going or step off. I think of this as form of schedule tyranny - our minds lock into the idea of making changes to maintain the schedule such that we forget the fact of having a schedule is subject to change.

The tyranny of the schedule manifests in many other examples. For example, I always wonder how many aspiring marathoners land on the injured list after blindly churning out the mileage scribbled into their training plans, some of which offer little guidance to inexperienced runners in terms of how to listen to their bodies and notice signs of overtraining. I also suspect that many nutrition plans work within the framework of the three square meals - breakfast, lunch, and dinner - which rule out the possibility that the number of meals could be adjusted (in either direction) to the benefit of improved health. My own experience with TOA has exposed me to a version of this issue in the context of writing. When a friend started a blog a few months ago, my only advice was to resist the temptation for setting a schedule, with my exact words something like "the worst thing for a blog is a schedule". Again, the issue in my mind has something to do with the effect of a schedule on sustainability, burnout, and energy levels, all of which need the right attention whenever someone is embarking on a challenge.

I suppose my advice reveals my understanding of the decisions made by those podcasts. If I had a weekly or monthly show with thousands of listeners, I would feel the pressure to keep up with expectations. I know I've been guilty of it myself on TOA, sometimes wrapping up posts in the wee hours just to meet a self-imposed deadline of one sort or the other. The reason I advise others to avoid scheduling is because I've come to see it as the fastest route to consistent mediocrity. This may not be obvious right away - in fact, for many beginners the external framework helps them get going. The challenge is separating completed work from quality work, which I think is a skill too advanced for those in the early stages. I think back sometimes to nights at the college library where I would see a few classmates rushing to meet a deadline or cramming ahead of a big exam. We were taking advantage of a certain energy that comes with the urgency of an approaching deadline, but we never figured out a way to determine if our eventual output represented our best work. In a one-off setting such as a final exam, there were no future reference points to reveal whether we had met our potential or had fallen far short. Even with top grades, you wouldn't know if your study process had led to your best work. In my mind there is a possibility that these experiences reinforced the reward of finishing over the satisfaction of completing the highest quality work, and I think a similar problem confronts beginners in creative pursuits.

I believe everyone eventually reaches a point where the relationship between completing work and skill improvement begin to separate from each other. In this moment, it's no longer good enough to just write, baby - you have to develop an understanding of your deficiencies so that you can deliberately work on the necessary skills. This became obvious to me over the course of several years on TOA. Initially, the idea of posting on a certain schedule helped me get through specific challenges for beginners - writer's block, committing time to the craft, editing and proofreading, and so on. It's a fact that some of my best posts were wrapped up at midnight, or later, because my invented schedule had set the publication date for sunrise. But over the years enough mediocre examples accumulated in my finished work that it became clear how a schedule at times forced me to prioritize posting ahead of quality. This feeling should be familiar to any writer - just go back to something you finished and note the revisions you would make today. If you feel the whole thing could do with a renovation, you probably should have spent more time on it.

For me, the only reason I would have posted such work comes back to the ever-present influence of the schedule. It's kind of like that old adage about the importance of showing up - of course it's impossible to succeed unless you show up, but just showing up isn't sufficient for success. The way I see it, the structure of a schedule is only helpful if it makes you show up to your work, but after you arrive the schedule quickly loses its relevance. The most helpful thing for improving the quality of your work is to separate the process from the influence of a schedule, especially if a schedule forces you to rush or compromise for the sake of completion. I suppose another way to express all of this is that you can write without posting, but the problem is when you post without writing.

Ultimately I think this consideration underscored the decisions made by those three podcasters. The reasons they shared undoubtedly explain tangible factors related to stopping their shows, but I suspect at some level they knew their shows were dropping in quality (or were about to if they kept going). For them, the shows required a certain level of effort not solely from the perspective of finishing the episode but also to meet a personal quality standard. As a listener, I can attest to this fact - I believe Common Sense will be one of the very best podcasts I'll ever hear, and Middle Theory had its own moments of supreme quality. When you make great work, you know when you've made average work, and I think this is what it came down to - for those hosts it was the inability to meet a personal standard that made it necessary to walk away.

I guess this leaves me with one unanswered question - why not then find an output that would maintain the quality level? Could Brainfood Dude have worked as a monthly program? What about Common Sense episodes that were fifteen minutes long instead of an hour? These examples reflect personal decisions about which I can only speculate, and of course there is the possibility as noted earlier that this thought never crossed their minds. However, I think I can look once again at my own work for a possible explanation. The challenge I've struggled with at times on TOA is the confusion of the craft with the output. At some level what I am doing here is writing, but once you involve a medium it becomes something different - on TOA I'm not just writing, I'm writing essays. If you add a schedule to the equation then it changes again - I'm writing essays posted daily (in 2018) or writing longer essays that are posted on Sundays (in 2021). If start printing everything I wrote and placing those papers between two covers, then I'm writing books; if this led to some kind of contract, then I'm writing a book series. It's an inevitable problem in a way because any activity is inevitably altered by the setting, which means the setting always exerts some influence over the activity. You might say you are relaxing, but if you are relaxing on the couch then it's different from relaxing in a hammock. The problem with writing as an activity is that the activity of writing changes the writing, which changes the author's relationship with the writing. I suppose this forms my hypothesis about those podcasts ending rather than restructuring - at some point the structures of those shows became so intertwined with essence of the work that the podcasters could no longer envision the work happening outside the existing structure.

This conclusion may be fair enough, but I think it represents a sort of missed opportunity. Why not try a different structure, just to see what happens? The point is underscored by the fact that opting to step back was essentially a death rattle for these shows, which meant the end of the creativity inspired by the work. In my mind, this was brought about in the roundabout manner of scheduling tyranny, and it never felt necessary. At the heart of change is always the fear of the unknown, and as creators this fear lurks in the white space of a new page or the silence ahead of the next word. We are used to confronting this fear. But there is something different when we face the fear of a changing structure because the structure was our ally - we showed up on schedule until we could look the unknown in the eye, and the looming deadline forced us to bring our skills and gifts into the work. And yet, we never realized that the structure of the schedule subtly undermined the relationship with the work. Being able to make a change in such situations is critical because in some ways it's a matter of survival, just as it always is when we must change, and the only thing at stake is our loyalty to our own abilities.

This is why I can't work out if there was wisdom or folly at the heart of those podcast decisions. The demands the hosts placed on themselves meant it was wiser to stop rather than continue, for the path ahead made it impossible to create their best work. But could they have rediscovered themselves within a revised structure? Ultimately, they knew best for themselves, and because of this I think they chose best for themselves. We should all be so lucky to see such realities for ourselves, to know when loyalty to the self is more important than loyalty to the external; we should all hope that the courage necessary for stepping away does not fail us in the moment of need, and that we have the strength to step back in when we must go again.

everyone remembers you for something

I used to think that it would be pretty cool to run into my favorite writers and talk to them about some of my favorites pieces - Hey Bill, loved that column about the Azteca! or Murakami-san, I'm going to name my first pet after Mr. Honda, what do you think? Lovely notion, but once I started writing a few years ago I realized that this was nothing more than another daydream doomed by flawed logistics, the latest flight of fancy departing from my airport of the imagination, where it once seemed logical that I could circumvent the globe in a straight line if I had a duck boat. The problem I discovered through my own clumsy foray into TOA is that when someone comments on my writing, most of the time I initially have no idea what that reader is talking about, and by the time I've clarified my confusion the interest in further discussion has long disappeared, resting forever in that mythical beyond where sounds echo in eternal silence, having died in the same breath where they had been born. If I could barely remain on familiar terms with my relatively small archive, what gave me the right to expect that those who do this for a living would somehow have superhuman powers of recollection?

I suppose I could have saved myself an epiphany if I had paid better attention to certain telling examples from my pre-writing days. I remember one night, catching up with a friend over wings, being informed that I had once said something so memorable, so unexpectedly profound, that it had influenced his thinking throughout the years. I didn't know what he meant, so I asked, waiting in eager anticipation to bathe in the renewed light of my own lost brilliance, and perhaps learn something from the most unlikely teacher - myself. He wiped the sauce from his mouth and cleared his throat - you said "everyone spends their money on something." I basically spit out my wing. Really? What the fuck?? I felt like I'd been hit in the back of the head by a snowball. Of all the smart, moving, brilliant things that had flown from my lips - recently chewed wing notwithstanding - the one thing that had resonated with him was something I might have pulled from the shattered promise of a fortune cookie?

One could argue that I should have cut him out of my life on the spot, but had I done so I would be looking back now on the regretfully rash reflexes of an arrogant young man. The reality is that most of us barely remember anything, those including but not limited to the things we say or write, and it would be immature beyond measure to expect that others do this work for us. Perhaps the recommended way to navigate this problem is to take these moments in stride, little reminders that we aren't quite so brilliant or insightful or interesting after all, the lesson being that we can pretend to know about humility once we stop pretending we know about everything else. This may all seem a bit depressing, suggesting the possibility that this entire exercise called life is little more than a charade among goldfish, exchanging volleys of forgetfulness until we remember to die, and I can at least see the validity in such a perspective. But let me offer a different conclusion - if it's the case that one friend can distill years of conversation into what I would argue is among the most pointless things I've ever said, then it at least confirms that anything we say or write could become that one thing which changes someone's life forever. It's not quite as good as being able to choose what we are remembered for, but we can at least choose the things from which everyone else will choose, and that's good enough of a choice for me.

proper corona admin, vol 100 - writer's block

One year ago last Tuesday (if you use the day of the week) or Wednesday (if you use the date, March 17), I posted this pointless announcement, which in hindsight served no purpose beyond helping me mark time. I do not wish to diminish this function, however, for my sense of time is among a long list of things distorted by the pandemic - I remember how the first two or three months felt like they lasted about a year, but looking back the past year seems to have zoomed by in about two or three months. The broader issue here is that the pandemic has disrupted what I expect from the familiar, but rather than exult in new revelations I have found myself demoralized by the endless surprises.

I am tempted to continue with this trope, using the anniversary to reflect on a year of COVID-19. But what can I accomplish with a thoughtful rumination on these extraordinary times? There is little to say beyond what I've already posted over nearly one hundred occasions on TOA. It also occurs to me that the fact of a one-year milestone is arbitrary - it would otherwise be COVID-20; the milestone says more about my zip code than it does anything else. This moment may commemorate the year that has happened to me, but it speaks little of the year that has happened because of me. This final point leads me to an uncomfortable admission - this year, and particularly in these past few months, very little has happened in my life because of me. I am sure this is relatable for anyone who has spent the past year on the passive side of the pandemic, embracing the strategy of living by not living during this challenging period.

Those readers who have carefully observed this space may have an additional sense of familiarity with my revelation. The past year began with a return to 2019's experiment with daily posting, and I found plenty to write about throughout most of the calendar year. The challenges started around the holiday period, which I could blame on any number of commonly cited factors - COVID burnout, work challenges, even Zoom fatigue - but it's simpler to state that I ran out of topics; I would sit in front of the computer until I admitted that I had nothing to put on the page. The numbers back this up - my daily average time spent writing has fluctuated regularly over the past four months, with each dip setting a new floor while each rebound fell shy of the 2020 standard. On those occasions when I managed to escape my lethargy, I found that the figurative pen moved across the blank pages without the familiar energy, purpose, or conviction from earlier in the year. At long last, I had encountered the mythical enemy known as writer's block, and like any unexpected skirmish with a great opponent I did not even begin to fight until the battle was all but lost.

My mind had always dismissed the possibility of encountering this foe while working on TOA. Wasn't writer's block reserved for the creatives, those who burden themselves with the task of inventing with each syllable? The invention of TOA is true only along technical lines - nothing exists here until I put it down - but for the most part the writing is more about decisions than creations, more about selection than generation; I recall what's already happened, then I determine its place in the work. Another part of me always thought writer's block was a negative consequence of the business in writing, an occupational hazard for the professionals who are forever constrained by word counts, style guides, and deadlines. I refuted this hypothesis by taking away the pressure - this past week featured just three posts, which I think hasn't happened since 2017, but I remain mobilized against immobilization. My situation was much like the global situation was at this time last year - the rumors were true, the unthinkable was here, and I needed to deal with the opponent like a nation going to war.

There has been enough said (and written) about writer's block that I knew what to expect once I accepted the challenge. However, I was entirely unprepared for one specific aspect - writer's block is a direct assault on the mentality of the writer, specifically in the way it generates an overwhelming sense of anxiety; my experience leaves me sympathetic to anyone who might carelessly relate it to a more serious mental health concern, though I would discourage the specific comparison. The daily battle soon developed a familiar script - a few minutes of struggle as I searched for an opening, then the growingly familiar refrains of "when will it end" or "what's the point" or "isn't there a better use of time", each thought reminding me that the defense which had once kept these questions at bay was no longer available to me. The last question was particularly brutal, for like any writer I know the truth: there is always a better use of time - reading, running, lying facedown on the floor like a pancake seeking a spatula. The list of things to do instead of writing are compelling enough even in the best of times, so understandably the problem of being unable to write made it all the more difficult to maintain the motivation for writing.

The over-the-counter remedy for writer's block has a simplicity that appeals to both novices and seasoned veterans - work on multiple things at once, moving from one project to the next anytime the inspiration, motivation, or external pressure dries up. Again, there is a logic here, but it's like buying new socks instead of putting the soiled pairs into the washer. I have accumulated a pile of half-drafts and opening paragraphs over these past few weeks that would be the envy of any writing workshop, but perhaps a different perspective would compare the stack to a hoarder's filing cabinet and offer to bring the contents to the shredder bin. The problem with having a bulk of my work "in progress" is that I am taking a craft that requires deep concentration and turning into an interruption-driven exercise; the essay that gets my attention is the easiest essay to move forward, not the essay stuck for lack of attention. There is something about this tactic that may work on a short-term basis, but like most permanent temporary solutions it eventually does more to deny the problem rather than address the core issue.

I suppose I can only conclude, like scores of others before me, that writer's block therefore belongs in that despised class of incurable ills, for which we hope of a cure without setting expectations or timelines. The best we can do is to manage the condition, and to have compassion for our peers who are caught by the dark force of the affliction. I ask for your courtesy in this moment, when I have nothing to say on the one-year anniversary of a historic period in human history. Must I produce a bulleted essay because others have published listicles? Do I need to share what I've learned because others have graduated from Pandemic University? The problem is the same as I noted above - I have nothing to say about the pandemic because the pandemic reflects little about me. There was only so much I could write about hospices before I began volunteering, and I've written nothing about them in this past year when my service was surplus to requirements.

Perhaps this is the realization we should take from our bouts with writer's block - when the conscious mind cannot handle the steering wheel, writer's block steps in and slams the brakes, reminding us that there is indeed nothing to write about in this moment. There would be something unarticulated in anything I could write about the past year, like the way a science textbook might describe a severe sunburn without ever mentioning its effect on the next night's sleep. The writer's block, in the sense of being an obstacle, protects us from our worst work at the cost of preventing us from completing any work - it's the barrier between the observer and the scene, and it remains in place until we find our way around the obstruction. They talk in physics about the observer effect, the way an act of observation inevitably changes the object being observed, and perhaps there is an application in this context, the writer's effect, or possibly affect - the work grows out of seeing the topic from a unique perspective, and capturing the way this new point of view changed the observation. It may be that writer's block is simply an admission that we do not yet have the necessary perspective to see the work, like a viewer squinting into the infinite flatness of an autostereogram; the picture will emerge when we are ready to see it.

And yet, audaciously, we go for it again, trying to round the same bend that has been the site of so many crashes. The best writers are probably to blame for their gift is to make themselves invisible in the work, hiding their presence and influence over the final result, and so we amateurs make a go of it ourselves, treating our topic like a still life while ignoring the decisive role of perspective. It's not enough to capture the facts or the details, for there is no art in it; the observer makes the art, seeing things from any and all angles, until the right perspective transforms the everyday into the significant. The crux of the past year is that we have been stripped of certain experiences, restricted from exploring the uncharted, without which we became less capable of observing the art in life. We were promised the freedom of the open road, then forced to obey the lines cemented into place. As I've noted here and elsewhere, this past year has been defined mostly by what has happened to us, and it is therefore lacking in what has happened because of us. Surely, there is a better use of time? I think not, I think we must stick to this path, and follow it as it unfolds, observing what and when we can, until we see it once again - the freedom in the open road, the art in the still life, and the words on the blank page.

cold opening presents

Everyone knows a pick-up line is nonsense, but it's the thought that counts, and the less thinking the better - in a certain situation, the conversation is going to happen, or not, and the pick-up line is the "fastest route from A-to-Z" method for figuring it out; street fundraisers seem to apply the same concept ("hey, do you care about starving kids?"). But I don't see this logic applied in many other situations, where the common practice seems to involve adhering strictly to the organization of a five-paragraph essay - introduction, support, conclusion. To put it another way, we don't seem to make much use of the cold open (which might explain why most of us never end up on SNL).

Priya Parker made a specific reference to this question of cold opens in The Art of Gathering, which I've written about a few times on TOA. Parker's suggestion is to use cold opens as a way to strengthen gatherings, with her specific recommendation that the opening is never the right time for logistics - use those first moments instead to connect guests with the purpose of the gathering. This is good advice, but perhaps best reserved for a future when gatherings - or pick-up lines, for that matter - are no longer counted among potential public health violations. Until that happy day, I'm trying to find ways to bring the logic of cold opens into the slow and steady reality of COVID-19.

One specific area I'm working on is right here on TOA - using cold opens in my writing. There's a peculiar problem a writer encounters when the only thing in sight is a blank page, or in my case a white screen with the blinking vertical line - you are overcome by a sudden madness to explain yourself, which leads to famous opening lines such as:

"I read a pretty interesting comment Wayne Rooney made about Sir Alex Ferguson, his manager while at Manchester United (longtime readers may recall I wrote about Ferguson's book at this time last year)."

The above is the opener from this post. I actually thought the post was pretty good, but that first sentence is a bit of a shocker - and I wrote it just two months ago! Honestly, it reads like an excuse, or maybe an apology - I'm sorry, but I'm going to write 500 more words about Manchester United. I'm not sure how I'd rewrite it, but I'd likely consider a way to link the first line to what I was going to say rather than what I was going to write.

I don't think I'm necessarily making progress toward "cold opening" my writing (and it's not always an appropriate tactic) but I know I'll improve soon enough; the nice thing about writing is that once you have a tactical idea in mind, it's hard to do anything except improve - each recurrence of the problem will stand out in the first draft the way a fresh coffee stain broadcasts itself from the collar of a white shirt, or a Manchester United crest sullies a clean jersey. I thought it was a good sign that I revised the first paragraph of last Sunday's essay to open with what I had initially crammed into a footnote - the original opening line was more or less a thesis statement on the misuse of "competitive" in the workplace, but I think it worked better to use a story where I end up becoming the butt of a running joke. It's possible that I'll realize the key to writing a good opening is akin to the advice I followed for writing a good ending - when an ending appears, grab it; I may need to write until I see the beginning, then start.

There is less I can present to the non-writer in my loyal crowd - and on Christmas Day, the occasion of all gift-giving occasions! Is it possible to make any other use of the cold open? I'd suggest, perhaps inappropriately, that today offers a hint - a Christmas gift is a special idea, but there's something a little five-paragraphs about the whole thing, right? The wrapping paper, the pile under the tree, the hints exchanged throughout the fall (or the outright swap of wish lists) - you might as well hire one of Santa's elves, hand him a bugle, and ask him to play a few notes before the ceremony of a Christmas morning; the whole process is overwhelming, and makes it hard to appreciate someone's generosity. So maybe, in the spirit of the cold open, 2021 can be an opportunity for thinking about presenting a gift in a slightly different way, or at a different time, where the pageantry of tradition can be put aside to help giver and receiver connect with the meaning of a gift; it's the thought that counts, and the more thinking the better.

leftovers - who is trader joe-san?

There was a brief moment as I wrote this post when I tried to include the pun "the land of the rising san" into the draft. But I quickly realized it wasn't the time, which meant there was no place.

This is a pretty common issue with some of my better posts; I think in some ways the surest sign of something good is a big pile of stuff that would otherwise survive in 99% of my writing. I could go on, but I fear I would make my point.

leftovers #3 - the business bro is close enough to write

I've long considered spelling (and its far more obnoxious first cousin, grammar) a covert enemy of inclusion, diversity, and equity. I still remember a day around six years ago when our team had interviewed a candidate we liked in every imaginable way. All that remained was the writing sample, an idea I had implemented to help us get a sense of a candidate's written communication skills (1). Days later, our president told us he wouldn't hire the candidate because of her writing. I remember agreeing that the writing sample wasn't going to get an 800 on the SAT II, but what were we expecting from an international candidate?

When I tell this story, I can't help but think back to a conversation from a few months prior to that interview. Our company was split into onsite and remote halves; the team in the field was hired based on referrals, a rigorous technical exam, and - as far as I know - phone interviews. One day, everyone came onsite for an all-company meeting, our first one ever. A few hours into the day one of my remote colleagues - who was Black, like a number of those on the visiting team - pulled me aside while he was walking through the office and asked me what the diversity was all about. I didn't really get it, but when I looked around I saw what he saw - it was me, him, and a lot of other white people that I saw every day. I laughed because I knew what he meant, but it took me much longer before I got it.

Footnotes

1. The writing sample

As I remember it, when the interviews finished I would sit down with the candidate and explain the writing assignment, which was basically a reflection on the interview and an opportunity to add anything we hadn't covered during the conversation. I stand by it and look forward to using the tactic again in the future, but I need to make it clear to anyone involved in the decision that if the writing skills demonstrated in the cover letter don't strike a candidate from consideration, the final writing sample doesn't get veto power.

in a sense and experience

I've gradually realized that when I incorporate experience into an essay I almost always improve on a first draft. In a sense, the experience brings the essence. That's not to say I can't write well without relating an experience, but it's almost always better than not, like a team preferring to play in front of its home crowd for a big game; it's a subtle but occasionally decisive advantage. If I reach a point in my work where two roads diverge at the crossroads of experience, I know what will make all the difference.

Why does a reference to experience seem to correlate with better writing? The temptation is to suggest that the experience itself informs the writing, that without experience I wouldn't know what I was writing about, but although this is indisputable I think it's a little too easy to be the best answer; you can write about a walk strictly in common terms, describing the who and the what, the when and the where, but if this were true the AP wire would carry the most compelling writing on the planet.

I think part of the answer is in the definition of a story. At its root, a story is about a decision, and in one sense an experience is everything associated with that decision. This is why the best business writing is told in the first-person; a business is defined by decisions, so compelling business writing must be about the ensuing experiences. It's still possible to write well about business without being involved in the decisions but these accounts are like the stories people tell about the things that happened to them, or in their vicinity; the entire account is underscored by the passive voice, which of course is the object of such stories.

But I'm still left with the question of why an experience unrelated to a decision improves my writing. The best answer I have at the moment is in the root of another word, essay, which in a sense means 'to try'. It suggests I must be trying something each time I start an essay but I often find it lacking until I inject a bit of experience. This makes a lot of sense to me because until I bring myself into the picture, I'm not really trying; even if I think through an idea on my own, it's likely someone else who can lay claim to the initial attempt. They say Newton invented gravity, but many apples fell before one impacted his thinking; scores sing the same song about Trader Joe-san, but only I can tell you why it makes me a background object.

leftovers #2 - close enough to write

Another way to describe my bandanna/bandana adventure - although the former has always been correct, enough people have started using the latter, intentionally or otherwise, that now both spellings are seen as acceptable. This sounds like a load of nonsense to me. If everyone starts misspelling a certain word, we excuse it as becoming 'more common'? Next week, if everyone tells me the new word for sun is son, I have to call it son? I'm not ready to be a father; I'd rather move someplace that doesn't get The S*n.

It's like the kids who argued with the teacher until their test scores were increased; it was easier to appease the students than convince them to become better scholars. I can imagine their updated arguments; I guess it's possible corona is transmitted via the chin? No wonder we're struggling so much with getting everyone to wear a mask.

leftovers - close enough to write

Despite my many hundred words about how to spell bandanna, the reality is that when I type bandana in this space Google still puts that famous squiggly red line underneath it. So although bandana might be OK, it's still considered incorrect by the standards of the spell-checker Google offers TOA.

This isn't really an issue, but I do sometimes worry the squiggly red line is a hint at a much darker reality. Who puts it there? I fear the answer - no one. Technological advances mean companies like Google have unprecedented power; AI tools allow constant 'production' even if the entire payroll calls in sick. If no one decides how to spell bandanna - and everyone accepts the decision - what will no one decide next? We give our tech companies their power, but we can take it away; we must make the future a place we want to visit.

pointless

The odd thing about using my free time to write essays is that I always hated writing assignments. I remember being awake at 3AM during my junior year of high school, trying to finish an anthology project. I finally wrote a silly poem about the ticking clock, writer's block, and agony; I was never happier to finish my homework. This continued in college, when I signed up for courses in short fiction and freelance writing. I liked both classes, but these were cases of making the most of my electives; I don't remember enjoying the writing.

There is a similar opening act to my running story - young me, he never liked running. If a coach needed a punishment, extra running was 100% effective; I basically quit helmet football because of the vindictive, pointless sprints. But I know when the tide turned with running. I returned to Japan during the summer after my sophomore year and ran without a clear objective for the first time in my life. I simply ran, guided by a vague notion to get in better shape while exploring the foreign cities, towns, and countrysides of home. Running finally made sense. When I returned to basketball practice that fall, I found myself entirely unaffected by the once-dreaded conditioning tests, or by punishment sprints; it was just running, and since I knew how to do it, I liked it.

I guess it's no surprise that a similar thing has become true of writing. At some point in the past few years, I found myself writing without prompting, and it finally made sense. There were some vague notions of killing time between jobs, organizing my thinking, or becoming famous enough to be canceled, but for the most part I was just writing. I agree with the many who have noted that unstructured, unorganized time is critical to developing creative skills; I'd like to know what the experts anticipate when the only exposure to an activity is via structured, organized time.