In honor of
A) 12 hours of writing other things,
B) Breakfast,
C) Breakfast,
and
D) Breakfast,
here is a plug for the values of breakfast. Eating a well-balanced (delicious) breakfast kickstarts your metabolism, cheers you up, and helps you not faint from hunger (three wonderful things). My relationship with breakfast teeters on the brink between enjoyment and fixation (or maybe I’m already obsessed and just unwilling to admit it).
Every author writes for a different reason.
Some of them want to be rich and famous. Others want to entertain. Many have powerful stories, both made up and real. A few have a message to help their reader. Millions write as a form of self-revelation—they want other people to know about them. Victims write for catharsis, heroes write for fame, zealots write to further their cause . . . Every person with an experience (so everyone in the world) uses writing a little differently.
Categorizing forms of writing could leave us with a multi-paged chart with lots of color coding and asterisks. In the interest of your time and mine, I’ll posit that there are two main reasons that people write.
To help myself: A lot of people write because they’re meeting their own internal need to be heard (maybe this is all of us, to a certain extent). Writing is a form of processing that helps brings thoughts full-circle and engages different parts of the brain. When you’re struggling through something, putting it on paper not only provides an audience—one that always listens and never talks back—but it also lets you see the whole picture. Many books exist that were written purely to help the author process through their own pain, thoughts, and experiences.
To help others: If you knew that the road behind your house took a sharp blind turn and led straight off a cliff, wouldn’t you consider at least putting up a sign? Writing to help others fits into this category. It’s like sharing a secret recipe or a beauty tip. The gain to yourself is minimal, but you’re giving a gift that could change another person’s life. You believe that good news merits spreading, so you spread it.
Often, this kind of writing comes from a deep well of
experience (you’ve made the cookies yourself, lots of times),
observation (you’ve watched other people mess up cookies and you know they could use a better recipe),
and maturity (you’re willing to let someone else at the party bring the very best cookies).
There’s massive end gain in both types of writing—one is personal, one is communal, and both are highly valuable. Take a brief pause today and try doing a little of each one. It’s like doing pushups: hard at first, lots of long-term rewards.
* besides that you should always write with cookies in hand.
You probably know this, but there’s a lot to see on Chicago streets during lunch hour.
Across the street from me, a mail-woman deftly pushing a mail cart stepped rapidly up the street. A lady in front of her jumped out of a taxi and crossed the sidewalk quickly, to a shop door. She wore a bubblegum pink coat, rattlesnake patterned pants, and a light brown purse slung over her shoulder. Her curly red hair reached her elbows and flew behind her as she pushed on the door. When it didn’t open, she bounced back onto the sidewalk. The mail-lady pointed to the intercom.
I don’t know what she was so eager to enter the store for, but if she were in one of my stories . . .
Fuchsia Jones always wore turtlenecks, and no one knew why. Well, no one besides her immediate family, who’d grown up used to the sight of the large brown birthmark on Fuchsia’s chest, shaped remarkably like a turkey. She hadn’t been ashamed of it until high school, when she left her small private school and began attending a large public school—and there, she was made fun of right and left, called names like fowl-face and tubby-turkey. In the middle her freshman year of high school, she begged her mother to take her to the store and buy her turtlenecks. After that day, she never wore anything besides turtlenecks.
College came and went, and Fuchsia remained unmarried, a victim of her own behavior. When any young man tried to get to know her, she laughed giddily and avoided eye contact.
After graduation she served at a Buffalo Wild Wings in Chicago, always wearing her shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck. Her coworkers laughed at her for being up tight, and Fuchsia became more withdrawn. Hidden on Clybourn, nestled in between a tanning salon and a custom frame store, stood a skincare specialty store.
One Friday before her shift, Fuchsia went to the shop and confidentially showed the salesperson her birthmark.
The woman assured her she’d seen worse, and recommended a bottle of salve that she promised would remove the brown in less than 60 days, if she faithfully applied it every night before bed.
Fuchsia paid the huge sum, took the bottle, and for the next 6 weeks rubbed her chest with the pale blue lotion every night. On Sunday morning of the seventh week, Fuchsia woke up, looked at herself in the mirror, and screamed.
The woman had been right, it did remove the brown. The turkey was periwinkle blue.
Leadership isn’t just being in charge of people—it’s the ability to motivate men and women to persevere in the face of dreadful opposition, insurmountable odds, and flagging spirits.
George Washington is held up as one of the main reasons for America’s independence, though he had many flaws and made more than one costly mistake. In 1776 David McCullough outlines the trait that brought Washington, thus the Continental Army, success:
He was not a brilliant strategist or tactician, not a gift orator, not an intellectual. At several crucial moments he had shown marked indecisiveness. He had made serious mistakes in judgment. But experience had been his great teacher from boyhood, and in this his greatest test, he learned steadily from experience. Above all, Washington never forgot what was at stake and he never gave up.
Again and again, in letters to Congress and to his officers, and in his general orders, he had called for perseverance—for “perseverance and spirit,” for “patience and perseverance,” for “unremitting courage and perseverance.” Soon after the victories of Trenton and Princeton, he had written: “A people unused to restraint must be led, they will not be drove.”
Yet Washington only took the responsibility of leading his country in the battle against America because he believed in the vision: that all men are created equal, and that the oppressive tyranny that the United Colonies were being subjected to was unjust. He had nothing to offer his soldiers but the vision of freedom, and when all else failed, this is indeed how he was able to motivate them to persevere.
On December 30, 1776, when the contracts of many of the soldiers in his army were expiring, winter had begun full-force, and all seemed lost, Washington made the appeal to his troops to continue fighting and not abandon the cause of freedom.
One of the soldiers would remember his regiment being called into formation and His Excellency, astride a big horse, addressing them “in the most affectionate manner.” The great majority of the men were New Englanders who had served longer than any and who had no illusions about what was being asked of them. Those willing to stay were asked to step forward. Drums rolled, but no one moved. Minutes passed. Then Washington “wheeled his horse about” and spoke again.
“My brave fellows, you have done all I asked you to do, and more than could be reasonably expected, but your country is at stake, your wives, your houses, and all that you hold dear. You have worn yourselves out with fatigues and hardships, but we know not how to spare you. If you will consent to stay one month longer, you will render that service to the cause of liberty, and to your country, which you can probably never do under any other circumstance.”
Again the drums sounded and this time the men began stepping forward. “God Almighty, wrote Nathanael Greene, “inclined their hearts to listen to the proposal and they engaged anew.”
Being a good leader isn’t only about upholding the cause—it’s also about casting the vision to persevere when all seems lost.
Curtis (he’s very wonderful) and I spent the last three days living the party life. Crazy, I know.
We attended a wedding, a birthday party, a baby shower, and a bridal shower in four different cities. After spending 72 hours celebrating people at four occasions held by radically different hosts, I discovered that there are a few key themes in holding a celebration for someone.
1. It’s not about the money.
People often equate the quality of a celebration with the amount of money that’s poured into it. But at the end of the day, if you’re having a party (unless you associate with millionaires on the regular), not one will care if you have dippin’ dots instead of caviar. People are more interested in the mood.
2. Care about your guests.
If people are more interested in the mood, and you want them to enjoy it, make it easy to enjoy. Create a cheerful atmosphere, be kind and attentive to your guests, and remind them that you’re grateful for their presence (and presents, if it’s that kind of thing). And give them something to do, so they don’t have to stand around awkwardly trying to make friends with your coworker who you also invited or your grandma who’s a little deaf.
3. Have a plan—and to be flexible.
Give your guests something to do: icebreakers when they come in, a few more intentional games, snacks or drinks to hold on to, and intentional conversation starters. But, if one activity eats up more time than it’s supposed to, or the food you’re getting catered arrives 45 minutes late, don’t throw a fit. No one else cares as much as you do.
4. Food isn’t the main priority.
Guests don’t come to the wedding for the food, they come to see you get married. Food catastrophes are common, but five years down the road, no one will remember if there weren’t enough hot dogs at your birthday party (but they may remember if they all get food poisoning from the hot dogs, so try not to serve old hot dogs). If something goes wrong with the food, take a quick trip to the store—or just apologize to your guests and tell them they’ll have to stop at McDonalds on the way home.
5. A little thoughtfulness goes a long way.
You’ll have more of an influence in someone’s life if you sit and listen to them for eight minutes than if you spend eight minutes trying to make sure everyone knows how much time you spent making the decorations perfect. Pay attention to people, listen to them, and show them you care about them—that’s what will make a celebration they never forget.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Here are a few poems for you to copy down and give to your respective acquaintances (after you print this and HANDWRITE out your sentiments, eat the paper so no one ever finds out. Originality is the real key to sentimental gifts. It’s all about the thought you put into things).
Romantic Interest (unmarried)
Before I met you I was sad.
Life was very, very gray—
But now I know you and I’m glad,
And from you my love will never stray.
Romantic Interest (married)
When you first wake up with messy hair,
And mumble “Hi” with vague, blank stare,
Your every movement melts my heart,
My darling, you’re a work of art.
Coworker
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Chicago is freezing,
Have a good day.
Parent
Changing dirty diapers and much more,
Then nights of waiting by the door,
Hearing all my lovestruck woes,
You’re the best [mom or dad] ever, from head to toes!
Best Friend
Goodness knows where I would be,
If you didn’t go through life with me.
I’d probably be bored out of my mind,
And living in an insane asylum because of it.
Sibling
Growing up with you was fine,
And now we’re old and everybody thinks we’re strange,
Because your words and stories match mine—
Here’s to hoping we never change.
Child
Nothing prepared me to be your [mom, dad],
For the joy and delight of watching you grow,
In every high and every low,
I’ll always be in your corner.
Book titles about the past 18 days of radio silence on the blog:
[Documentary]
The Winter that Froze the Internet
[Tour Book]
Secret Florida Road Signs: Don’t Waste the Sunshine
[Memoir—although yes, there is such a thing as being too young to write a memoir]
You Only Turn 24 Once
[Research based work]
A Detailed Scientific Examination of Why Car Doors Don’t Latch in Subzero Temperatures
[Historical Biography]
Celebrations of a Long Gone Sledding Connoisseur
[Mystery]
Twice Stolen: The Chicago Car Thief Strikes Again
* So sorry, 18 Days: The Book may actually not be released until early 2055. Check back then.
My mom always said that if you look around to the emergency room, you can always tell who’s hurting the most—they’re the people who aren’t screaming. They’re just sitting there, pale and silent.
This doesn’t only hold true for physical ailment. Emotional pain can be just as stunting and silencing. It can takes weeks, months, years to process through a few seconds.
In the beginning of summer 2017, Curtis (he’s very wonderful) bought a motorcycle. Black, shiny, and very heavy, it checked in somewhere around 1200 ccs (for all the not-biker people out there, that just means when you give it some gas, it jumps forward real quick). We drove four hours south through Indiana to pick it up. On the way there I almost hit a dog that ran barking into the street.
The couple was older, selling the bike because their college aged son wanted a different model. They signed over the title and Curtis tucked it into our car, the proudest man alive.
A mile away from the house, we pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned building and he rode it up and down the country road, grinning. Then I road it up and down the country road—though I grinned less and bit my lip more.
We couldn’t bring it back to Chicago because we had nowhere to park it and learning how to ride a motorcycle in the city didn’t seem safe. So we parked it at a friends house in the country, an hour away from our tiny Chicago home.
Three weeks later we woke up early on a Saturday and headed out to the country, him to ride his bike, me to visit my friends. After visiting, I went to the store, then went back to their house and sat on the front porch in the sun, listening to the wind in the tops of the trees and the sounds of regular life: tractors, the occasional passing car, birds giving their two cents. Curtis was due back in 15 minutes.
Fifteen minutes came and went. And then my phone rang.
“I’m on my way to the hospital. You’re going to have to come pick me up.”
The birds were still singing, the sun shining, a machine humming along in the distance, but in my mind I saw a bloody, mangled person who I cherish. I walked off the front porch and over to my car, got in it, and started driving. Till death do us part.
I called my best girlfriend on the phone and said, “I have to drive for half an hour and you need to talk to me about anything.” Roads that I’d taken for 11 years looked the same, but I didn’t really see them. Instead, I was seeing bruises, broken bones, and burns all over the body of someone I love. In sickness and in health.
Pulling into the parking lot of a tiny hospital in the middle of nowheresville, Indiana, I looked down at my hands and realized they were shaking. I stood from the car, realized my hands weren’t the only thing shaking, and unsteadily made my way towards the big sliding glass doors. Each step took me towards what I hoped would be the recognizable frame of the man I’d fallen in love with. For richer or for poorer.
The woman at the front desk looked at me with pity, and my voice came out an octave too high as I asked for Curtis Rider. She gestured at the large automatic doors, and I stepped in their direction. For better or for worse.
When the doors swung open and I stepped into the room-part of the hospital and looked around, a nurse came around the corner and asked who I was looking for. Again, I squeaked. Curtis Rider. He grinned. “You mean Curtis Walker?” His humor was wholly lost on me. To have and to hold from this day forward.
He led me to a curtained off room and pulled aside the blue drape. To be my wedded husband.
Covered in blood and burns, Curtis looked up at me apologetically from the bed. Bruised in pride and spirit, burnt in skin and flesh—and beautifully unbroken—he apologized. Again and again and again. He’d been blown off the road and tossed across the pavement into a ditch. A doctor driving behind him stopped, picked him up, and took him to the hospital, where they cleaned him, bandaged him, and made fun of his last name. We went to the police office to file a report, waited for an hour, then drove home in relative silence. I, Anneliese, take thee, Curtis.
I didn’t cry that day, or the next day—but I cried the day after that.
Everyone wants to read for two reasons: either they’re interested in the topic—cars, sports, or real estate—or they feel like the writer understands them and can offer them insight on their feelings (loneliness, marriage, or pain).
Writing for the first group of people is comparatively easy. You become an expert on something. You pour time and energy into studying and developing your knowledge on a subject, so you can constantly mine the wealth of information to teach valuable information. It’s a lot of mental exercise and it takes great determination, but it doesn’t require much heart.
It’s much harder to reach people through their feelings and relational experiences. To write about pain really, really well, you must live through pain. To understand how it feels to be lonely, you must have no friends.
Connecting on an emotional level requires experiencing emotions and learning how to communicate them. You have to engage your heart.
It’s hard. It’s draining. It’s scary to be vulnerable. The emotional labor of empathy is enduring and processing your own pain, then feeling it again for someone else. And that is not easy.
Sharing joy is wonderful—but sharing struggles is what brings people together and helps them grow.
If we can share struggles and together bring them to the One who experienced all pain for us, hard stuff still might not be any easier. Life might not get better overnight. But there is One who sees, Who has given His life for us—and He’s given us each other, to learn from and experience with.
And that is worthwhile.
Most kids become shrewd entrepreneurs at a young age—I was no exception. I learned young that bargaining my way out of things seldom worked, but it didn’t hurt to see if I could get a reward for completing the assigned task.
Can you husk the corn for dinner?
Write a history paper about the pilgrims.
Will you go cut the grass?
Inevitably, my reply was something along the lines of, “What do I get if I do?” It’s humbling (and slightly mortifying) to admit my attitude of entitlement, even as a child. Thankfully, my wise mother was not easily susceptible to the old pull-the-wool-over-her-eyes-with-a-desperate-hungry-look trick. One time out of 50, she would grant me some incentive—which apparently gave me hope to keep asking—but the other 49 times, her answer to my, “What do I get if I do this?” was always the same.
“The satisfaction of a job well done.”
Young, ignorant, and more interested in material gain than building character, I didn’t usually appreciate that reply. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to understand the value of this perspective.
It’s very easy or do well on something when the reward is tangible. Every bride diets before her wedding, because she’s rewarded by fitting into her dress extra-nicely. Star athletes play well so they can sign multi-million dollar contracts. Ballerinas practice hard so they don’t trip and fall over during the performance when 2,000 people are watching.
But what about those things that no one sees? What if I’m committed to working hard on something for days and weeks and years and it never seems to matter and no one seems to notice? What’s in it for me when I do my best then?
If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well whether you get rewarded or not. Recognition and incentive aren’t the only rewards. There’s also experience and character.
If it’s worth doing, it doesn’t matter who notices it’s good or even if it makes you rich. Maybe you’ll be the only one who notices and you’ll be broke till you die. But you’ll know that it was really good, and it’s better to die content with your work than chafing because you didn’t try.
And if it’s worth doing, you might as well do your best at it—because if you’re going to do it either way, why not make it great? Then maybe, just maybe, if you’re very lucky, someday someone might stumble across your painting or your book or your innovative plumbing methods, and you might strike it rich and famous.
But they probably won’t—and maybe that’s okay too. Because you’ll still have the satisfaction of . . . well. You know.