Theo, in typical form, said, “No, this truck,” and took one from the stroller to roll it down the slide before trekking back across the play area to repeat the entire process several times.

This can be tough for me to watch. I want to say, “No. There’s a better way. Maximize the efficiency of your trips and you’ll spend less time walking and more time sliding.” Or something like that. To me, there’s a goal–getting the trucks down the slide–and there are direct and roundabout ways of accomplishing that goal. Direct is better.

To Theo, there’s play. At one moment, it involves rolling a truck down the slide. At another, it involves climbing through the playground to retrieve another truck. One is not a higher priority than the other. One is not the endgame. As long as he is enjoying himself, he doesn’t care too much what amount of work is getting done. It isn’t about accomplishing anything for him.

I’ve gotten better about letting that go, allowing him to figure out his own method even when it is the slowest way I could possibly think of. In part, I do this because it is good for him to come up with his own problem solving process. In part, I do it because there often isn’t an actual problem to be solved. It’s just all experimenting and learning and playing.

Or, I should say that I’ve gotten better at letting that go with Theo. For myself, it is difficult for me to approach a problem without first considering, at least in some way, how it might best be accomplished. I want to eliminate waste, look for repetitive or unnecessary tasks. I think some of that is my personality and some is my (limited) background with programming. I’m a process guy, a systems guy.

This is sometimes to my advantage. By spending a little time thinking about the end result, and the steps needed to reach it, I can save myself some time or effort. I can speed up a process like washing the dishes by putting like things together, fitting as much as I can into the sink to maximizing soak time.

Other times, though, this planning and thinking part of the process actually just keeps me from taking any action. Worried that I might not have the best way, I run through more possibilities and end up taking longer than if I had just jumped in. Or, I exhaust all my energy thinking about what to do and ultimately don’t do anything at all.

Besides, the fastest way isn’t always the best. The most efficient process might not actually produce the results I want. This is particularly true when approaching a craft like writing.

Sometimes, our time is not best spent thinking about the quickest way to solve a problem. Sometimes, we should just be writing through it. We should allow the exploration to happen on the page rather than in our head. We should acknowledge that it is all part of the process. We might enjoy some parts more than others, but it is all writing, and we have to embrace it.

Otherwise, we might be so afraid of inefficiency that we’re scared to write multiple drafts. We might not want to cut unnecessary scenes because we already put in the time to write them. We might not be open to the possibility of changing a story’s point of view because that would mean lots of tedious rewriting.

Look, we all like watching the truck glide down an incline, picking up speed until it flips off the end of the slide and tumbles through the dirt. But retrieving the truck is part of the process too. So is walking to the park and stomping in the puddles along the curb.

The more we can embrace all of it, the better our chances of getting some terrific crashes at the bottom of the slide. And more importantly, the happier we’ll be when the truck doesn’t even make it to the bottom. Because that is part of it too.

I had acclimated, allowing a slow build of imperfections to become the norm.

The new screen protector was clear, nearly imperceptible atop the original glass. Not only did it look good, but it felt good too. My thumb would glide across the screen with little hesitation where there had been friction before.

Just moments before, I thought the screen protector was doing alright. Sure, it had some issues, but I didn’t think it warranted going through all the trouble to replace it. I had to first take it off to see what the screen used to look like, to realize how much the old protector was changing my experience with the phone.

It is that way in so many areas of my life.

I noticed a stark difference when I finally picked up my new glasses. There was the slight change in prescription (which actually took longer than I thought to get used to), but even more than that was the clarity of the lenses. The old ones were scuffed and scraped, with small bubbles from the deteriorated anti-glare coating. The news lenses were immaculate. So much so, that small smudges and particles of dust now distract me. I have to keep them clean because I notice now when anything obscures my vision.

When we painted the bedroom, it was obvious that the walls hadn’t been cleaned in some time. When I start to eat too much, it isn’t generally one giant meal that does me in. It’s a slow increase in the amount I eat that causes my clothes to start feeling uncomfortable. It’s a gradual uptick in the amount of coffee I drink that makes my need for caffeine so strong.

Unwanted habits can sneak up on us in our writing too. We start taking more frequent breaks to check Facebook or put off writing that chapter just a few hours at a time. We grow accustomed to putting off the work, to allowing distractions to keep us from the grind. And then a day has gone by, and another, and then we wonder where the month went.

We have to be wary of acclimating to our circumstances. Pointing a few degrees in the wrong direction can quickly derail our entire plan if we don’t take time to reassess and correct.

But we have to make sure we notice the good changes too.

I have been slowly losing weight over the last few months–mostly by getting some healthy protein in the morning and not keeping much unhealthy food at the office–but I don’t really notice it. Occasionally, though, someone will say, “Have you lost weight?” or, as a co-worker recently accused, “You’re getting skinny.” (I’m pretty sure she meant it as a compliment, but I’m also aware that I haven’t really been putting on any muscle.) I see my face and body in the mirror every day (almost every day), so it is difficult to notice the accumulation of change.

You might haven’t forgotten how difficult it was to run your first 5k if you’ve been practicing for a half-marathon. If you’ve been writing on a consistent basis, you’ve probably improved a great deal. But you might not notice because you see your work all the time. You notice the flaws and are comparing yourself to where you want to be, not where you used to be.

Make sure you take time to appreciate the good habits you’ve built. Not so you can be proud of yourself. So you can see that you are committed to your goals and allow that to serve as motivation to keep at them.

It doesn’t matter so much if we are singing about trucks or trash or boogers or puppies. He is often happy to make up words and even sing along when the mood strikes.

I enjoy this time, especially because I know that I’m not that great at playing the guitar or singing. (They are both skills I plateaued a long time ago.) I could stress about my lack of ability or my tendency to sing off key or work my way into a lyrical corner. Instead, I play to my audience. Theo doesn’t know much about skill or talent yet. He just knows that we are having fun, and that is good enough for him.

Not that he’s the perfect audience for every situation. He wouldn’t be helpful if I wanted some critical feedback or advice about when to switch to the bridge. But he is ideal for reminding me that I enjoy playing the guitar and wouldn’t mind getting better at it.

Sometimes, that’s the audience you need, the one that lights up no matter what you write, the one that reminds you why you were attracted to writing in the first place. Other times, you need a more critical eye, or you need advice about where to send a story or an inquiry letter.

The key is to match your expectations to the audience, or vice versa.

Or, you might want to give your audience some guidance if possible. It can be painful to send a piece to a friend, expecting them to pat you on the back or praise your imagery only to get back a list of plot holes. It can be frustrating to have a workshop spend an hour discussing typos and dialogue tags when what you really want to know is whether or not your protagonist is likable.

You can’t always choose your audience, or direct how they will read your work, but you can keep it in mind. And you can temper your expectations when you know a little more about them. You might not want to submit your fantasy novel to a group who focuses on mystery stories, for example.

By paying attention to your audience, you can avoid frustration for you and for them.

Theo is still a toddler, though, so his positive feedback can turn negative in an instant. And his criticism usually sounds like, “I just wish you would stop playing the guitar. It hurts my ears.”

We know not to propose to someone we just met. It’s not the way relationships work.

First you have some conversation, then a date, and so on. Things escalate, grow more intimate and serious. Maybe it develops into a long term relationship, maybe it doesn’t. But skipping the intermediate process rarely works to your advantage.

It also doesn’t do you much good to be thinking about marriage the whole time. While you might have a committed relationship as a larger goal, it can’t be the goal for a particular date. The goal for a particular date should be to learn more about the other person, to have a good time, and to get to another date.

It is the same way with many of our writing projects. Maybe the goal is a published story or a novel or a chapbook. The immediate goal, however, is to get to know more about your characters, to enjoy (sometimes) the writing, to get to the next draft sentence, the next scene, the next draft.

Putting the pressure of a lifelong commitment on the first words you speak to someone is a quick way to never say hello to a stranger. And placing all your hopes for a lifelong career as a writer on the first sentence of an unwritten draft is one of the easiest ways to make sure you write nothing.

Like so many art forms, like so many crafts, writing is an iterative process. One that takes many strokes. If you’re counting on each one to be “the one” that brings it all together, you will continue to be disappointed. Or, even worse, you might be too afraid to write the next word.

Have you ever let your end goal keep you from taking the first step? It happens to me almost every time I have a new, blank page. I have to remind myself not to be distracted by the forest when I should be focused on the trees.

While considering that longing, I recently stumbled upon The Delightfully Short Guide to Reading More Books by Leo Babauta over at Zenhabits.net. He gives five basic habits: create reading triggers (where you always read when doing a certain thing, like eating breakfast), enjoy reading, only read what you enjoy, always take your book, and use a closet (don’t get distracted by your technology when you’re supposed to be reading).

For the most part, I think these are pretty obvious, but it’s nice to be reminded that reading books can and should be a part of our lives. I do plan to use the reading trigger idea and see if it is frustrating or useful. Let me know what you think of these habits.

This is the other day.

“I don’t want to put the cookie cutters away. I want to leave them on the floor.”

“But if we leave them on the floor, we might step on them and hurt our feet.”

“I want to hurt my feet.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have more room to play? That way we could run around the house without tripping over the cookie cutters.”

“I want to trip over them.”

And so on for as long as you want to have the conversation.

What I have discovered, though, is that sometimes you can get his body to act without his brain knowing about it. Instead of continuing the debate about whether or not to pick up the cookie cutters, I tried picking some up myself. Then I handed him a few. Without thinking about it, he dropped them in the bucket.

So, I gave him some more, and he did it again. Then I pointed out some on the ground that he could pick up, and we managed to get the job finished. This reminded me of Constructive Living, a mental health approach I recently heard about.

To be completely reductive, the basis of Constructive Living is to accept reality (our situation, our emotions, etc.), remain focused on purpose, and then do what needs doing. Rather than trying to get motivated to wash the dishes or do some exercise, you just wash the dishes or do some exercise. You don’t have to be happy about it, but you acknowledge your emotions, the fact that you don’t feel like doing the chore, and then you do it.

I’ve tinkered with this myself when it comes to getting things done around the house. It is actually pretty effective, and it gets easier with practice. It can apply to writing as well.

Sometimes, when I have a particular project I want to put off, one that I know I’ll have to work on eventually, I take the “just five minutes” approach. I tell myself that I’ll work on this specific writing task for five minutes, and if I’m sick of it after that, I’ll put it off a little longer. I can stand anything for five minutes, right?

Once I get to work on it, I start to get in a little rhythm, I see a little progress. I might not even realize when the five minutes is up (sometimes I set a timer) because I’m already getting into the right mindset for working on the project.

Or, I might really be sick of it after five or ten minutes. I might put it off again, but at least I have something to work with now. Even if I move on to something else, I’ll have those initial thoughts circulating and I won’t be returning to an empty page.

Other times I’ll try fifteen or thirty minutes. It really depends on the project and how much I want to avoid it. The point is that taking the action often leads to the motivation I was looking for in the first place. And even if it doesn’t, I’ve still been somewhat productive.

It works with Theo on occasion too. Sometimes, I don’t argue with him about whether or not he’s ready to go to bed. I just take him to his room. He says he’s not tired, but often falls asleep in less than five minutes.

Often, it isn’t really that he hates picking up toys. He just thinks he does. Or he is just being difficult for the sake of standing up for himself. Occasionally I can hand him some toys and gently lead him into to picking them up. Other times he throws them on the ground and decides to dump out every box, basket, bag, and backpack he can find.

So, I acknowledge how I feel about that and proceed with the clean up.

To my surprise, he agreed, so I grabbed a shovel and got to it. I excavated an elephant-sized hole, deep enough to cover it by several inches of sand. I told Theo this would be great, he would need to really dig down to find where it was hidden. What fun.

When I finished and gave the all-clear, I expected Theo to grab a shovel or rake and start moving some sand. Instead, he pawed at the ground making small furrows above, well above, the elephant. He did that for a few seconds before he stopped, looking defeated.

I handed him a rake and said that we could work together. We scraped away another half inch or two before Theo grabbed a truck and started moving it through the sand. I asked him if he wanted to find the elephant, and he said, “No. I’ll play with trucks.” I asked if he wanted me to help him find the elephant, and he said, “You can do it.”

That’s when I realized I had ruined his game.

I had made it too difficult, putting the reward so far away that it no longer felt attainable. The game was fun when the elephant could be found quickly, and quickly reburied. Rinse and repeat.  I’ve mentioned before that Theo appreciates repetition in his work (and his play). That’s his kind of fun. I had made it a challenge and snatched away the joy.

I remember that defeated look in my Intro to Creative Writing students. After I had asked them to write about something other than their high school or dorm room dramas. When I suggested that they try yet another draft of the scene they thought was perfect two drafts ago. Basically, when I took the fun out of the game by putting the goal too far out of their reach.

I’m sure I’ve had the same look too, or at least felt the same way about my own expectations. Sometimes we need to stretch ourselves, to have an objective that is outside our comfort zone. That is how we grow. But if it is so far out that it feels unreachable, we are more likely to give up, to move on to something else, instead of pushing ourselves forward.

A good teacher or coach knows our limits and when we can get more out of ourselves than we believed. They know we can dig a little deeper if we just try. Sometimes, we have to be that coach for ourselves. Sometimes, we have to look for that motivation from others.

Often, we need to set smaller goals, understanding that the major ones will come eventually. By establishing closer, quick wins, we continue moving forward when we can’t yet reach the larger, more impressive goal.

For Theo, there were too many other easy ways to have fun without wondering if he would ever find the elephant. He did eventually. I first had to move enough sand to uncover the top of it, but he didn’t seem to mind.

We don’t always choose the box we’re in, but we can fill it. We can expand to occupy the most space, to make the most impact possible. And no, I’m not talking about manspreading. I’m talking about occupying whatever role we currently have, filling it with whatever we can.

Your work can do this. In a positive way, you can flesh out a piece to take up as much space as you give it. In a negative way, a project will take as much time as you give it too. So be aware of the containers you choose for your work.

2) A gas is more potent when concentrated.

It can be deadly in a tight space or harmless when spread out in the open air. While the gas, and our work, will expand to fill its container, we can use that to our advantage. We can put limits on our work in order to get the most punch out of the least amount of material.

When looking at advice for portfolios, whether photography, design, or something else, I repeatedly come across the suggestion that you only include the best work even if that means you don’t have as much quantity as you want. Adding a few mediocre photographs to a couple great ones doesn’t make the whole selection better. It actually takes away from the great ones. Padding rarely makes a piece of writing have more impact. Judging from my papers as an undergraduate, that lesson took me a while to learn, but it stands. A word count doesn’t do you much good if you reach it by diluting the work. Often, our most important task is to cut down a piece we have written, not add more to it.

3) A gas sometimes stinks.

So does your work. It’s okay, though. Let it rest and the smell will dissipate.

4) A gas is often the most harmful when it is colorless, odorless, and tasteless.

The smell we recognize as propane or butane is actually an additive. It’s there because, otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to notice a gas leak until it was too late. Sometimes our work is undetectable. It’s indistinguishable from everything around it, blending into the environment. That might not be dangerous to those who don’t notice it, but it is dangerous to us as creators. W

e want to produce something worth noticing, work that demands attention. Not work that slowly puts people to sleep, poisoning them without their knowing it.

5) A gas can be explosive.

Most of the time, when I think flammable, I think about liquids: gasoline, propane, lighter fluid. But in liquid form, most of these substances aren’t a problem. It’s not until there’s the right mixture of the gas and oxygen that the reaction really takes off, resulting in spectacular and sometimes devastating explosions.

Your work can be explosive too. Sometimes, you just have to find the proper ratio of words and white space, impact and caesura. Other times, you need to combine your work with someone else’s, or you just need to find the right environment for it. You might not always know when the spark is coming, or who will provide it, but you can do your best to be ready for it.

So, what did I miss? How else is your work like a gas? Or did I stretch the analogy too far already? Let me know your thoughts in the comments below.

One of my favorite kinds of writer is the kind who cares, who cares so much that it shows in the work. The kind of writer who doesn’t hide behind insincerity or sarcasm, who isn’t afraid to let emotions bleed into the sentences. I appreciate a writer who crafts amazing sentences, but I really love the one who uses those sentences in service of a moving story.

Melanie is that kind of writer. She doesn’t always feel that way, but she is. (If you don’t know that already, you can find out by seeing some of Melanie’s musings at her website.)

It’s also her birthday, so feel free to wish her a happy one and tell her how great she is. That’s what I’m doing.

I’m this way with many skills. I think, “it’s like riding a bicycle,” and expect to be just as efficient at the job as the last time I gave it a try. Of course, if I were to get on a bike right now, I’m guessing I wouldn’t be that good at it. I haven’t forgotten how it works or how to balance, but I wouldn’t feel like a cyclist. (I can’t say that I’ve ever felt like a cyclist.)

I had a conversation about this last weekend while painting our bedroom. I’ve done a decent amount of painting in my life, mostly with my dad when I was younger and he was building houses. It feels like a lot anyway. Really, I’ve been exposed to painting. I’ve been shown a number of times how to do it correctly by someone with experience. But I haven’t gained all that much experience myself. And just as important, my experience has come in short spurts, spread out over years.

So, I shouldn’t be surprised when it doesn’t come easy, when I get paint on the ceiling or can’t manage to cut a straight line next to a baseboard. Knowing the lingo or the proper technique doesn’t mean I can pull it off flawlessly or even adequately. The knowledge, when it is remembered, only goes so far. Muscle memory is really the key to doing a nice job.

Same story with writing. I can take classes or listen to lectures or read books about writing. That can all be valuable, but they are no substitute for writing itself.

The ability to recognize good writing is one thing. The ability to produce it is another. Developing the latter takes practice. It requires some muscle memory.

With painting, I know enough to see that I didn’t do a very good job. I know enough to feel bad about it. But I have to recognize that I haven’t put in the hours, the strokes required to achieve a quality result. I haven’t developed the skills to be fast and consistent. I try to be a little easier on myself when I remember that.

With writing, I often feel like I should be further along than I am. I am critical of how long it takes me to write and the quality of the writing. But I have to remember that my writing muscles are still underdeveloped. I still have many words to go before I can really call it second nature.

Instead of being too hard on myself when I make a mistake, when I paint the ceiling or drip paint on the floor, I have to allow them to happen so I can learn from them.

I hope you do the same too.