Trying New Things

The gift of patience

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Early in the first film of the series, we learn that Neo (Keanu Reeves) is able to connect to “the Matrix” by having a cable plugged into a jack implanted in the back of his head. One of the perks of this odd-looking piece of hardware is that, in order to quickly learn new skills, Neo can have simulations uploaded into his brain. In a matter of moments, a man who used to spend his days sitting in a beige office in front of a beige computer in a beige cubicle becomes an expert in martial arts, guns, and piloting a helicopter.

If these headjacks were available in the real world, I’d jump on the opportunity to have one.

The night before I finished this post, I was sitting in a restaurant in Tokyo struggling to order food and drinks from a menu where the only characters I recognized were the prices. How much richer could my experience have been if I could simply upload Japanese into my brain and read and converse with ease?

But while headjacks don’t yet exist, the motivation behind them is pervasive. I’ve seen dozens of books offer the promise that you can “Teach Yourself X in 21 Days,” along with online bootcamps and other services designed to accelerate the learning process. And it’s not just knowledge: our entire society is built on the desire to do more in less time, from diet pills designed to help us lose weight faster, to smart phones that accelerate our access to information.

These inventions may work to an extent, but they also have repercussions. Diet pills have led to a laundry list of side effects including death. And smart phones have begun to erode our mental health while giving us the attention spans of goldfish.

I don’t take diet pills and I’m pretty disciplined with my phone, but I’ve still suffered the consequences of my impatience. When I visited Yosemite to climb to the top of Half Dome, I was in such a hurry that I barely stopped to take in my surroundings. The result was that while I reached the top, as I made my descent, I took a wrong turn and ended up lost in the woods for hours with no water.

Sometimes, as with my Yosemite trip, my lack of patience makes it hard for me to appreciate how far I’ve come. I’ve been taking Spanish lessons for over two years. I’m sure I’ve learned a lot, but all that seems to matter to me is that I’m still far from fluent.

In other cases, the goal is so overwhelming that it’s hard for me to find the will to even try. At the beginning of this year, I decided to write a novel. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more things I discover are left to do and the more daunting the task becomes. After nine months, I have a couple dozen pages of notes but haven’t even started creating chapter one.

I need to accept that there may not be a headjack in my future; that big goals usually take a long time to achieve. Perhaps more importantly, I need to learn to appreciate the small moments along the way.

Last night as a I sat at the bar in that small restaurant in Tokyo, I was surrounded by Japanese people talking and laughing and being served all sorts of intriguing dishes and drinks. Meanwhile, I was the awkward American, staring at my menu for several minutes before I realized it was upside-down. I had to point to items that looked good and hope for the best.

Yet somehow, I ended up with a delicious meal and a nice buzz.

When my plates and glasses were empty, I looked up how to ask for the check. After rehearsing the line in my head several times, I decided to take a chance and open my mouth.

“Sumimasen,” I said. The server looked in my direction. “Okaikei onegaishimasu,” I continued. She nodded and gestured for me to wait a moment. A minute or so later, she handed me my bill.

As I looked around the restaurant once more, I felt a little bit more at home. I paid my bill and said “arigato” to thank the server. As I stood up to leave, the customer sitting next to me looked up at me, smiled, and waved goodbye.

We may only achieve a handful of major goals in our lifetimes. But small yet fulfilling moments like this can come at any time as long as we allow ourselves to see them.

I finally convinced myself to write a novel

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I’ve been writing for almost my entire life.

I wrote essays, short stories, and poems in school. I’ve written tons of emails and documentation for work. I wrote marketing copy when I had my own business. I’ve contributed to my writing group’s annual anthology three of the past four years. I’ve been writing monthly blog posts for the past 16 months.

Yet one thing I’ve never done–something I’ve long envisioned as my pinnacle achievement–is write a novel.

I’ve probably written tens of millions of words over my lifetime. Many novels are between 50,000 and 100,000 words.

So what’s my excuse?

The problem, I’ve come to realize, has been motivation. Up to this point, almost all of the writing I’ve done has been, at least in part, to meet someone else’s expectations. I wrote in school with the hope that my teachers would give me good grades–and occasionally display my work as a model for other students. I write for work because it’s part of my job. I write for my group’s anthology so I can feel like I’m pulling my weight. I stick with this blog because I told my readers I would publish on the 1st of every month.

Sure, I get some gratification out of it as well. But it was mainly external motivation–the desire to please others combined with the fear of disappointing them–that drove me.

This time, it’s different. No one is counting on me to write a novel. I’m not being paid or graded to do it. I don’t have a deadline.

I could ask someone to hold me accountable. But I’ve decided I want to try something new.

I don’t want to write a novel for a grade or money or praise or out of feelings of obligation and guilt. I don’t want this to be another vehicle for people-pleasing.

I want to experience what it’s like to create a story that unfolds over 200 or 300 pages or more. I want to get to know my characters as well as I know some of my friends. I want to build a rich world based on deep contemplation and research instead of just making something up off the top of my head. I want to know what it feels like to see the finished work and be able to say, “I did that.”

Maybe I’ll want to share it when I’m done. Maybe I’ll even try to get it published.

But for now, I just want to treat myself. So I’m going to write a novel.

How small efforts have helped me make big decisions

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Many months ago, I found a career I thought I wanted to pursue.

I could have applied to jobs, fought for interviews, eventually received and accepted an offer, quit my old job, tried to learn a new set of skills, hated the work, and ended up staying much longer than I should have because I don’t like to quit without giving jobs a chance.

Instead, I interviewed three people who did the work I was interested in and decided it wasn’t a good fit.

I made a big decision with a few hours of effort instead of what could have dragged on for a year or more.

Now I have another important choice to make: do I stay in the city I live in, or do I move?

If I were to go by features alone, the city I live in has just about everything I’m looking for. It’s also the place where I began practicing aikido, which has become one of the most meaningful ways I spend my time.

Despite these benefits, I’ve been unhappy in this city for quite a while.

However, if I move to the place I’m considering, many of the benefits I’ve enjoyed will be diminished. I may even have to give up aikido, at least for a while. And although I’ve moved many times, I always find it stressful.

But I’ll also be much closer to many of the people I care about.

I’ve struggled with this decision for a long time. A year ago, I seriously considered the same move, but I wound up just switching to a different neighborhood. It didn’t help.

The more I weigh my options, the heavier the burden of choice seems to become.

But thanks to a recent idea I had, that load has begun to feel lighter. I was able to make a decision about a career change without ever changing careers. What if I could find out what it would be like to relocate without actually relocating?

I decided that rather than facing the giant task of planning a move, I would start with the much easier (and more fun) task of planning a trip.

The following strategy has worked well for me when I’m about to travel to another city:

Step 1: Make a list of places I want to see in that city.

Using word of mouth, web searches, travel guides, Yelp, Tripadvisor, and other resources, I list the places that interest me: restaurants, bars, museums, bookstores, coffee shops, stores, parks, movie theaters, concert venues, historical buildings, and so on.

Step 2: Find those places on a map.

One of my favorite websites is a seemingly little known feature of Google Maps called “My Maps.” I connect to mymaps.google.com. I create a new map and name it with the city I’m visiting. Then, one by one, I search for the places on my list. As each location pops up, I save it and it creates a pin on my map. I can even color code the pins by category (e.g., all restaurants are yellow, all shops are green, etc.). The color coding part can be a bit clunky, but I find it helpful.

Step 3: Pick the neighborhood(s) where I want to stay.

By the time I’m done populating my map, I usually have 20, 30, or more location pins. Many of those pins tend to be clustered together. I use those clusters to decide where I want to stay–either inside one cluster or between a couple of them.

Step 4: Reserve an Airbnb. (No, this isn’t an ad.)

When I travel, I often like to book my lodging through Airbnb rather than hotels. This allows me to be surrounded by other residents, cook meals, walk to the local establishments and attractions, and feel what it would be like to live in that neighborhood.

I used these same steps to pick two neighborhoods in my potential, future home city. I booked each place for a week. As I wrap up this post, I just checked out of the first place a couple of days ago and am at the second location, lying on a comfortable couch and listening to relaxing music. I don’t think I would want to live in the previous neighborhood, but so far, the current one looks promising.

Two weeks of lodging isn’t cheap, but it’s a small price to pay to help me feel confident that whatever choice I end up making, it’s the right move for me.

Pre-post

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This month’s post was supposed to be about how I’ve managed to narrow my focus to a few key areas, one of which is writing.

Instead, I’m writing to confess that I’ve run out of time.

I came up with the original idea for this post about midway through the month. I didn’t do any serious writing until a few days before my submission deadline. I rewrote the intro a few times. I got into a wrestling match with a metaphor. I developed a skeleton for the body, but every time I tried to add meat to the bones, it felt messy and wrong.

As it turns out, it’s pretty difficult to write about focus when you’re unfocused.

What I have figured out is that my current lifestyle isn’t good for my mental health. I’m too unstructured, too distracted, and too tired.

I’m about to take a much-needed vacation out in nature. The timing couldn’t be better. I hope to come back with a clearer head. I hope that clarity will carry me through the post I plan to share with you next month.

Reflecting on my first year of consistent blogging

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Several weeks ago, I told a group of fellow writers that I was having trouble coming up with a topic for this month’s post. “Why don’t you write about writing?” one of them proposed. At that moment, I wondered, how many months in a row have I been posting? I checked the history. Since I started my blog back up, the first post I published was on August 31, 2020: exactly one year before I’d click “Publish” on the post you’re reading now.

On this monumental occasion, I decided to reflect on what I’ve learned after a year of consistent blogging.

One post per month is enough.

This is actually the second incarnation of “Trying New Things.” Nearly a decade ago, after years of telling people, “I work in Information Technology, but my real passion is writing,” I was part of a “workforce reduction” (a.k.a. laid off). I decided it was time to try writing for a living, so I conducted a one-year experiment as a self-employed copywriter. This blog was supposed to be a vehicle to help me promote my business.

That year sucked almost all the joy out of writing for me. I spent a lot of the time trying to promote myself with little response. I did land a couple of good clients, which was fun. However, most of my prospects had unreasonable demands: some wanted to pay me a fraction of my rate, while others wanted me to basically lie about what their product could do in order to lure in more customers.

Then there were all of the “experts” out there with infallible formulas for generating blog traffic. One of the keys, many insisted, was to write as often as possible so subscribers would be perpetually bombarded with new content and my high activity level would boost my ranking on search engines. The notion of constantly churning out new content felt like a chore, and I only published two posts on my blog that entire year.

When I restarted my blog a year ago, I decided to give myself a clean slate: I archived my posts and rewrote my “About” page to focus on helping people with no strings attached. Knowing my tendency to overcommit, I decided to start with the humble goal of publishing one post per month. But as I went along, I realized once a month was perfect for me: it alleviated the pressure of “publish, publish, publish” and instead allowed me to take my time with each topic. If I wrote every day or even once a week, I wouldn’t have time to really process what I was writing. But after a month, I’d not only have a more thoughtful post, but it might even change my own life for the better.

This leads me to my second realization.

Writing helps me learn.

When I was in school, I always did better in classes that favored writing essays over taking standardized tests. I assumed this preference was due to my love for writing. But this blog helped me realize there’s more to it. When I write about a topic, it forces me to put ideas into my own words and to relate new ideas to things I already know. It’s these mental connections that make the difference between storing information in short-term memory (i.e., just long enough to pass a test) and in long-term memory.

For example, I wasn’t a very good student in science classes. My grades were average at best in biology, chemistry, and geology. I always found either the teachers or the subject matter boring. The one exception was a particular assignment in my physics class. We had to measure the relationship between the slope of a ramp and the speed of a marble rolling down the ramp. In retrospect, it seems like it should have been tedious–setting up the ramp, measuring the angle, measuring the time the marble took to roll to the bottom, tweaking the angle slightly, and starting again, and again, and again. But because our main assignment was to write an essay on our findings, I was able to turn the experiment into something personal. I wrote a thorough analysis and my teacher gave me a perfect score along with one of the most glowing evaluations of my academic career.

As with that paper, every blog post I’ve written in the past year has been a learning experience.

I’ve been trying to “hack” my clutter problem for most of my life, but it wasn’t until I decided to write a blog post about it that I took the time to dig beneath the symptoms and unearth some of the root causes.

Before I wrote about my experience climbing Half Dome in Yosemite, all I could focus on was getting lost in the woods on the way back down. But once I drafted my post and shared it with some colleagues, they showed me what I couldn’t see: reaching the summit was a big accomplishment, regardless of what happened afterward.

The 3-part series I wrote about exploring career paths taught me more about how to find fulfilling work than I got out of decades of job hunting and reading self-help books.

But as rewarding as writing these posts has been for me, that has never been my main motivation.

I’m a people pleaser, and that’s OK.

I’m much more likely to get something done if I feel like I’m accountable to someone else. Ever since I recognized this tendency, it’s bothered me. Why does something have to benefit someone else in order to be worth doing? Why isn’t doing it for myself enough?

For years, I’ve seen this as one of my deepest flaws. But recently, I decided to just accept this weakness and use it to my advantage. As much as I enjoyed writing, I had never managed to stick with a writing project for more than a few months. Then, late last year, someone introduced me to the concept of a “writing mastermind group.” Think of it as a support group for writers: we get together, share our writing goals, and then hold each other accountable and help each other overcome whatever obstacles we might be facing. My goal was to maintain a habit of publishing a post per month throughout 2021.

My group checks in once a week, and each week we share how much progress we’ve made and help each other get “unstuck.” We all feed off of each other’s momentum, so I feel like I need to stick with my commitments in order to help the rest of the group stick with theirs. I think a big part of the reason I’ve managed to publish a post every month this year is because I don’t want to let my group down.

Even the “trying new things” theme, at its core, is based in accountability: I believe that in order to persuade you of the benefits of trying new things, I need to lead by example. This drives me to not only stick with my monthly publishing schedule but to really think every post through before I click that “Publish” button. I spend almost the entire month thinking about my topic, drafting ideas, challenging them, learning about the subject, and learning about myself. I make sure every post I share is about something I strongly believe can help my readers.

But as with every other post, developing this one helped me discover a valuable lesson. Yes, I’m a people pleaser. But doing things for other people feels good. It validates me as a writer. It helps me feel like I’m able to do something meaningful, and possibly even leave a positive legacy someday.

This blog is my gift to both of us. Thank you for making it worthwhile.

Making peace with my clutter war

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When I got back from a 3-week trip to visit friends and family, I envisioned coming home and relaxing. Instead, as I rolled my bulging suitcase inside, I realized I didn’t have anywhere to put it. My living room looked like a landfill. There were loads of clean laundry scattered across my couch, and my floor was covered with miscellaneous debris including an empty storage bin, a pair of shoes, a backpack, a pull-up bar, and a partially unrolled yoga mat. (Side note: I haven’t practiced yoga in over seven years.)

My instinct kicked in and I immediately set to work . . . turning on my computer so I could vegetate on YouTube videos and pretend the mess didn’t exist.

I opened my browser to check for video recommendations. “This site can’t be reached.” I tried another site. Same message.

After going through my usual troubleshooting routine, I eventually gave up and called my Internet provider’s customer service department. It turned out the wind had knocked some cables loose while I was out of town. A technician was on his way–in about four hours.

By the time the worker got to my place, I had folded and put away all of my clothes; cleaned my living room; unpacked my suitcase and put everything away; and even washed, dried, and folded a load of laundry.

By the time the workers (now two of them) had left and my service was back up, I had also cleaned my kitchen and bedroom and rearranged my bedroom furniture.

I was so proud of myself.

Within about two weeks, my place was, once again, a disaster area.

I’ve probably had these jolts of inspiration to clean over a thousand times in my life. Sometimes they last for 15 minutes, sometimes a few hours, sometimes over multiple weekends. But without fail, like the zombies in Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video, my stuff begins to crawl out of its hiding places and close in around me.

Why does this keep happening?

I feel like I’ve tried everything, from Marie Kondo’s “spark joy” philosophy to “Swedish death cleaning” (yes, that’s a thing) to intentionally renting a smaller apartment in the hope that it would force me to downsize everything else. Nothing worked for me.

But after my most recent, temporary success and subsequent regression, I realized I needed to try a new approach. Instead of trying to fix the symptom by cleaning up my messes, I decided to try to figure out how the messes got there in the first place.

Over the course of a couple of weeks, as I stumbled upon belongings that were out of place or just sitting there collecting dust, I started building a list. Here’s a small sample:

  • Three magazine pages my mom tore out and gave me to take home (they now live in a pile of papers on the seat of my office chair)
  • Two large “inboxes” stuffed with more papers
  • A to-do list containing over 70 unfinished tasks, half of which I highlighted to indicate they’re “high priority”
  • Dirty dishes, including a fancy Japanese kitchen knife with hardened cheese along the blade
  • Clean dishes that had been sitting in the dishwasher for a week
  • Several bottles containing solid clumps of expired spices
  • Two beers from 2004 that I’ve been saving to share with a friend who lives 400 miles away, even though I tried another bottle of the stuff years ago and it was disgusting
  • A motion-sensitive light that no longer senses motion
  • Over 100 unwatched video recordings and unread transcripts from my virtual Spanish lessons
  • Thousands of digital photos I only see when my phone gives me the occasional, “remember this day from 3 years ago” notification
  • A four-month-old reimbursement check that says “VOID AFTER 90 DAYS”
  • A box containing a model based on the 1980 film, “the Empire Strikes Back,” that is almost as old as the movie itself, unwrapped, yet never assembled
  • A post-it note stuck to the floor with a shoe print on it and a strand of my hair stuck to the sticky part

Filled with new self-knowledge and shame, my next step was to descend my skyscraper-high list of itemized clutter and, for each entry, ask myself one, simple question: “Why is this here?”

Through this review, I detected a number of themes. These were my top 5:

Theme #1: Distracted before done

Examples: unfinished books, open tabs in my browser, multi-step activities with wait time in between (e.g. laundry, meal preparation/dishes)

I often think of the Pixar movie, “Up.” There’s a recurring theme where a dog will be engrossed in some activity, a squirrel appears, the dog shouts, “squirrel!” and he immediately forgets what he was doing. I probably have over 100 “squirrel” experiences (metaphorically speaking) every day. I might set something down to respond to a text message and then get engrossed in the conversation. I might throw a load of laundry in the dryer, watch a movie while I wait, and then fall asleep during the movie. Every new squirrel leaves new, unfinished business.

Theme #2: Out of sight, out of mind

Examples: Papers in my physical inboxes, messages I’ve moved from my email inbox to other folders; digital notes, photos, and recordings; food in drawers/cabinets

In the first chapter of Marie Kondo’s “the life-changing magic of tidying up,” she has a section entitled, “Storage experts are hoarders.” I am far from a storage expert, but I get the sentiment. I have “homes” for different categories of stuff, but the more removed those homes are from my field of vision, the more packed they get and the more overwhelming it becomes to go through them. This is why I have multiple inboxes for papers, my online storage now costs me a monthly fee, and my vegetables keep going bad before I finish them.

Theme #3: Too much work

Examples: E-waste, sensitive documents, and other complicated disposables; old laptops, “miscellaneous” items

I don’t want to throw e-waste in the trash, but I also don’t want to lug it halfway across town (with no car) to properly dispose of it. Old laptops require work to transfer the data, wipe the hard drive, and then find a place to donate or dispose of the laptop. Then there are all the “miscellaneous” items for which I can’t find a memorable place to store them, so I just put them wherever I can find space.

(I had an excuse for my sensitive documents—I don’t want to throw them in the recycling bin whole, but if I shred them they’re no longer recyclable. However, I just read that shredded paper is generally compostable, so problem solved!)

Theme #4: Negative associations

Examples: to-do items I don’t want to do, weeds in the yard that trigger my allergies, a reimbursement check that should have been for more money

These are items I keep running into but don’t want to deal with because they involve an action that makes me uncomfortable. The longer I put them off, the more uncomfortable I get and the worse the situation gets: the to-do list gets longer, the weeds get taller and more menacing, the check expires.

Theme #5: Inflated value

Examples: random power cords, mementos, that Star Wars model

“What if I need this later?” “This is irreplaceable.” “Maybe I can sell this.” I keep so many things because I believe I’ll regret it if I get rid of them. Instead, I end up dedicating closets, the underside of my bed, my garage, and other regions to rows and stacks of boxes. Many of these boxes have moved with me from residence to residence for decades. I end up paying more money to live in a large enough space so I can store all of this stuff and still have room for the things I actually need.

The beginning of the end

I’ve now identified some of the major causes of my clutter problem. I still have a lot of work to do, but I’m much more optimistic that I can break the cycle of making messes and cleaning them up. I can now begin to find a permanent solution.

Do you also struggle to conquer your clutter? If so, before you go through another weekend cleaning spree or buy another self-help book, take some time to evaluate your situation. What habits and thought processes got you to this point?