As this year draws to a close, I want to thank you for visiting my blog 32,727 times.
That didn’t happen overnight. And it didn’t happen by accident.
This year, more people found their way here than ever before—slowly, steadily, and often by returning. Compared with last year, readership grew significantly, not because anything went viral, but because the writing kept meeting the right readers at the right moment.
Growth, the quiet way,
These pages have held many things:
● 18th-century satire and present-day kitchens. ● Scholarship and softness. ● Books, biscuits, dogs, devotion, memory, love.
Some posts traveled far. Others found only a handful of readers. But every one was written with care—and read with attention.
I don’t think of these as clicks.
I think of them as moments of shared presence in a distracted world.
You made this a banner year.
If you were one of the 32,725:
● thank you for reading, ● thank you for lingering, ● thank you for making this a place worth returning to.
Here’s to a year shaped by patience, curiosity, and generosity of spirit—and to whatever quiet magic comes next.
You took me by surprise again this morning. As always, when I awakened, I checked my Fitbit to see how my heart did overnight. Then I checked WordPress to see how my readers were doing.
And there you were. Another thousand views. A quiet jolt to the chart. Numbers climbing when I wasn’t looking.
You’ve been dancing higher and higher since October, when I passed 15,000 and figured I’d reached my high-water mark. I even wrote a piece of thanks back then, thinking I’d said all there was to say. But now here we are—December 11th—and this little corner of the internet has gathered 25,053 views.
I’ve done nothing different. I have no flashy headlines. I have no trending hashtags. I just keep following the same rhythm: writing essays born from memory in a home filled with love. I just keep foolin’ around with words and ideas.
So why now, after all these years?
That question hangs gently in the room with me. It’s not demanding an answer. It’s simply inviting a reflection. Maybe something shifted in the writing. Maybe it’s more expansive. Maybe it’s more lived-in. Maybe it’s a voice carrying a steadier warmth now. Maybe it’s grief that’s softened into grace. Maybe it’s love that arrived not with fanfare, but with a quiet hand stretched out in invitation. Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe. And add to all those maybes one more. Maybe it’s readers sharing with readers.
Gary, of course, doesn’t ask to be written about. But his presence is here, between the lines, in the patience of a paragraph, the steadiness of tone, the way I’ve learned to let silence do some of the talking.
Ruby, on the other hand, insists on being written about, whether she’s nosing me away from my smartphone or curling up in solidarity as I revise for the twenty-fifth time. She is, as always, the keeper of the tempo, the mistress of the move.
So this isn’t an open letter to public stats. It’s a letter to something deeper. It’s a letter to what it means to keep writing when no one’s watching, and then to wake up and find that someone was.
My essays aren’t meant to dazzle. And I know: they don’t. They’re just small acts of holding up the light, one weekly reflection at a time. The fact that they’re being read, now more than ever, tells me something I didn’t expect: quiet honesty still finds its way.
Thank you, Sudden Surge, for reminding me that patience has its own reward, that consistency is a kind of faith, and that somewhere out there, readers are still pausing to linger with a slow essay from the mountain.
I don’t know what this upturn means, or where it leads. But I do know I’ll keep showing up with my smartphone in hand and love at my side.
“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought.”
—G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936,). influential English essayist whose sharp wit, moral clarity, and human warmth made him one of the most quoted thinkers of his time.
My blog surprised me again this week. Back in October, I crossed 15,000 views and thought I’d reached my high-water mark for the year. Now, barely a month later, I’m staring at an even bigger number:
20,062 views—with a full month still to go.
That’s more than last year, more than the year before, and more than I ever expected from this little mountain corner of mine. Apparently, these memoir stories I write from a quiet oasis in the wilderness of Virginia keep finding their way into far-off places—and into the hands and hearts of readers I’ll never meet yet somehow feel connected to all the same.
ReasonstoBeGrateful
But 20,062 isn’t really a number. Not to me.
It’s the sum of moments someone chose to spend with my words. It’s a cup of coffee that went cold on a stranger’s table because they lingered. It’s a pause in someone’s busy day. It’s a late-night scroll where someone said, without ever typing the words, “I’ll stay a little longer.” Twenty thousand tiny gestures of yes in a world full of noise.
And the deeper truth behind that math—the part I keep circling back to—is that this milestone isn’t about reach or visibility or bragging rights. It’s about what it represents in the long arc of a life. I’ve lived enough years, and carried enough stories, to know that readers don’t show up unless something in the writing rings true. They don’t return unless the voice feels familiar, honest, worth sitting with. They certainly don’t keep climbing toward 20,000 unless the stories hold something real.
So this isn’t a celebration of views.
It’s a quiet acknowledgment that I’ve kept faith with my own voice—through reinvention, through loss, through love found unexpectedly, through the strange and luminous chapters that have made up this year. And somehow, astonishingly, readers have kept faith with me.
And yes, threaded into the margins—without ever mentioning Gary by name—is the quiet steadiness that has shaped this year in ways I’m still learning to articulate. Love doesn’t call attention to itself; it simply widens the edges of your life. It softens how you move through the world, deepens the tone of your voice, and reminds you that being read is wonderful, but being seen—fully, gently, without hurry—is something else entirely.
This year, more than any before, has reminded me that showing up with a story is an act of hope. And reading one is, too. Somewhere in that exchange—when the writing meets the reading—something human and steady is created. Something that matters.
So here I sit, on a chilly Thanksgiving week, taking in this milestone not as a trumpet blast but as a simple moment of gratitude. Gratitude for the readers who knock on my digital door day after day. Gratitude for the chance to tell the stories I’ve carried for decades. Gratitude for the ways this year has widened, softened, and surprised me—and for the quiet presence that keeps teaching me that the best stories are the ones we live, not just write.
I didn’t expect this climb to 20,062. But I’m grateful for every step, every reader, every quiet yes.
And with a month still to go, I’ll just say it now—
—Terry Tempest Williams (b. 1955. American writer and environmental activist whose lyrical essays explore the intersections of personal narrative, place, and ecological stewardship.)
Something snuck up on me yesterday.
I was talking on the phone with my 90-year-old sister when I glanced down at my smartphone, saw my WordPress dashboard—and nearly did a spit take.
Over 15,188 views this year already!
That’s already more than all of 2024, and we still have October, November, and December to go. Apparently, my little mountain corner has gone global again—and I couldn’t be more grateful.
To every one of you, My Dear Readers, who reads, comments, shares, or quietly lingers over a sentence or two: thank you. You’ve turned this space into a community of curiosity, compassion, and laughter. Every click, every view, every thoughtful message reminds me that words still matter—and that connection runs deeper than algorithms.
Your Top 10 Favorites of 2025 (So Far)
Every year tells its own story through what readers choose. This year’s list made me smile. It’s a mix of reflection, resilience, and rediscovery—with a dash of irreverence (because, well, it’s me or Poor Brentford Lee or maybe both).
● “I Am Afraid” — A wake-up call for our country—and a reminder of who we still can be.
●“The Place: Charleston” — The launch of my Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina.
There’s still more to come before year’s end—new essays, reflections, maybe even a few surprises that have been sitting in my drafts waiting for the right moment. Perhaps even one or two guest posts by our famed and acclaimed Poor Brentford Lee.
I can’t promise I’ll always be profound, but I can promise I’ll keep showing up with authenticity, honesty, humor, and heart.
Thank you, My Dear Readers, for being here, for reading, and for reminding me—every day—that a single voice can still find an echo.
“The reader is the final arbiter of a text. Without the reader, the words are silent.”
—Margaret Atwood (b. 1939). Canadian poet, novelist, essayist, and critic, one of the most influential literary voices of our time.
My Dear Readers, I blinked yesterday, and suddenly my little corner of the internet tallied 12,000 views for 2025—with three months still to go!
That’s not just a number. It’s 12,000 moments of connection. 12,000 times someone out there paused long enough to read my words, nod, chuckle, roll an eye, or maybe even find a flicker of themselves in my essays.
And here’s the part that stuns me: with this pace, we’re on track to sail past last year’s phenomenal 15,000 peak—a record I once thought unrepeatable. But here we are, repeating (and then some).
The 10 You Loved the Loudest
Every essay I publish is a seed tossed into the world. Some sprout quietly. Some bloom bold and bright. Here are the ten that you watered most generously this year:
Whether you’ve been here since my first blog post nearly 13 years ago or you just stumbled across my latest musings, you’ve made this milestone possible. I don’t take your presence lightly.
So, here’s to you—my companions in this ongoing experiment of storytelling, memory-making, and meaning-finding. Let’s see how far we can climb before 2025 closes the books.
After all, the numbers matter—but the connections matter more.
“To toot one’s own horn is to sound the music of one’s journey. And today, my friends, the notes are jubilant, triumphant, unmistakably heartfelt, and wrapped in a little holiday cheer!”
–TheWiredResearcher (b. 1947; self-effacing educator, essayist, Green Mountain scholar, and Humourist—patiently awaiting long-overdue New York Times recognition.)
Beloved readers–of all ages and from all corners of the globe–I’m going to toot my horn proudly today!
At 11:22am today, my blog hit 15,000 views in 2024! Is that a special Christmas gift or what!
Let me pause and let that sink in: FIFTEEN. THOUSAND. VIEWS.
Can you hear the confetti cannons? Feel the glitter raining down? That’s the energy I’m channeling today. Because let’s be honest—this doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the result of showing up week after week, pouring my heart and soul into every post, and, most importantly, connecting with YOU, my remarkable readers.
If you’re like me, you know that milestones mean more when you see where they began. Let’s rewind:
● 2021: 3,940 views. A small but solid readership.
● 2022: 6,655 views. Growth doubling and momentum building.
● 2024: 15,000 views… and the year isn’t over yet!
From 3,940 to 15,000 in just a few years—this isn’t just growth. It’s a story of connection. It’s a story of us.
What Does 15,000 Look Like?
It looks like 140 countries—stretching from the United States’ plains and mountain ranges to Afghanistan’s rugged peaks, India’s vibrant deserts and Himalayas, and France’s vineyards, all the way to Zimbabwe’s sweeping savannahs. It looks like comments from faithful followers. It looks like early risers sipping coffee as they dive into my Monday morning musings. It looks like connections that transcend borders, reminding us all of the power of words.
The Greatest Hits (According to You!)
As we bask in this milestone, let’s revisit the top-ten posts that you’ve loved the most this year:
● “From Stars to Soil.” A nostalgic return to childhood gardening and the realization that it gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness and sacredness of all life.
● “My Mother’s Dress.” A story exploring how a dress that my mother made for herself included her hopes, her visions, her aspirations, and her dreams for her family and her world.
● “Sister’s Hands.” A celebration of decades of selfless love, compassion, and service.
● “My Taxing Review.” A humorous exploration of opening personal archives as a way to create a rich personal narrative.
● “Not Alone.” A triumphant tale of my own Coming Out.
A Milestone Worth Celebrating
Fifteen thousand views aren’t just numbers—they’re stories, connections, and a shared love of learning. Each one represents someone who paused in their day to engage with my words. Together, we’ve created a space where ideas flourish, where history meets memoir, where research mingles with creativity, and where we never stop asking the big questions.
The Future Is Bright
What’s next? More posts that inspire, challenge, and delight. More glimpses into the magic of the everyday. More stories that remind us why we love the written word.
To everyone who has ever clicked, read, commented, or shared—THANKYOU. You are the symphony that makes this blog sing. And as the music swells, I can’t help but toot my own horn just a little louder.
Because today, it’s not just my achievement—it’s ours.
Here’s to 15,000 views—and the countless stories and connections that brought us here.
“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”
–Carl Sagan (1934–1996; astronomer and science communicator who inspired millions through his work on Cosmos and popular science writing.)
Tell me to do something, and I probably won’t do it. It smacks too much of being ordered around. No, thank you. Most of the time–though not always–I prefer to do the bossing.
On the other hand, suggest that I do something–maybe even challenge me to do something–and I’ll probably do it. Yes, thank you. I thrive on encouragement.
That’s exactly how today’s post began. One of my followers–my Linden Correspondent (LC)–suggested that the world at large might be revved and ready to know how my wired blog began! I thought LC’s suggestion was splendid, especially since my blog just celebrated its 12th anniversary. What better time than now to share the electrifying backstory.
With a growing readership of 13,782 (and counting!), I like to think my blog has found its niche. My readers value my blog for what it is today: a succession of riveting and captivating creative nonfiction essays that appear magically every Monday morning just in time for that first cup of coffee–that is for early risers who get their brew going early. That’s why I make a point of posting before 7am. While I sip on my coffee and savor what I wrote, I like to think that the entire world is doing the same thing.
Every Monday morning, you’ll find me in my reading chair with Ruby—my 60-pound lapdog—perusing my post while she peruses me. Sometimes, I smile and say aloud for her amusement:
“Wow, Kendrick! That’s a remarkable sentence. If you keep cranking out little gems like that, maybe one day you’ll end up somewhere as someone’s endnote.”
Yep. An endnote. Ironically, I guess that’s where we all end up: Someone’s endnote.
That’s not such a bad thing, you know. An endnote here. An endnote there. It seems to me that achieving a memorable, perhaps quotable phrase here and there is probably far wiser than having the entire canon of my work ricocheting around the world.
Stop and think about it for a minute or three. Look, for example, at what Benjamin Franklin achieved as a writer. Let’s focus on his Poor Richard’s Almanack, published annually from 1732 to 1758—nearly a quarter of a century of wit and wisdom.
Most people today can recall only a handful of Franklin’s most famous sayings, like:
● “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” ● “A penny saved is a penny earned.” ● “No gains without pains.”
Please tell me, Dear Reader, that you know those sayings, for if you don’t, you surely won’t know these:
● “Well done is better than well said.” ● “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” ● “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.”
Indeed, Franklin managed to do both: he wrote things worth reading and did things worth writing. And, as I like to say:
“Endnoted.”
But let me take you back to where I began: the beginning of this blog.
I am so sorely tempted to say:
“It was a dark and stormy night …”
And that’s exactly what I would say, but if I said that I would have to note that Edward Bulwer-Lytton opened his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford with those words. As much as I hate to say it, because I am a stickler on documentation, I have grown weary of all the endnoting that I keep noting. Let us then move on to something that requires no noting.
Whew! I don’t know about you, but I feel notably relieved already.
LC must be relieved, too, to see that, at last, I’m getting around to sharing with the world the story behind the birth of my blog. But, as they say, every blog has its story, and mine is no exception.
Here’s what’s fascinating. Today, I am known around the world for my weekly memoir blog posts talking about anything from Aging to Zippers and about everything in between.
But when the idea for my blog came to me in 2012, I had a sharp, narrow, scholarly focus. I was working on my application for the VCCS Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship Program. At the heart of my application was the scholarly research that I wanted to do with a remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements published pseudonymously under the name of “The Humourist” in the South Carolina Gazette during 1753-1754. The unique essays had never been reprinted, so they remained “hidden” and “undiscovered,” so to speak, in that newspaper. Further, no one knew who wrote the essays. Well, I was 99% certain that I knew, but I needed to do additional research and analysis to confirm my suspicions. In that sense, my project was a literary “whodunit” involving three things.
First, I planned to prepare a critical, annotated edition of the essays.
Second, I planned to develop a convincing case for authorial attribution based on a preponderance of internal evidence as well as on stylometrics.
Third, throughout the process of preparing the critical, annotated edition and developing a case for authorial attribution, I planned to give the essays a “close reading.” I was reminded of a quote by Robert Frost:
“We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven’t learned in high school. Once we have learned to read, the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”
I always shared that wisdom with my students. Learning to read—really read—gets to the heart of what we want our students to do, not just in English classes but across the board. When students slow down and give a text a close reading, critical thinking and intellectual discovery follow.
As Frost knew so well, that is what “learning to read” is all about. Further, when students learn how to really read, they can construct their own intellectual inquiries: “the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”
I always shared that belief—and approach—with my students without fail. I showed them how to learn to read, class after class, reading assignment after reading assignment, as I gave whatever literary selection we were reading my own close reading and as I made my own discoveries about a text. They were intrigued not only by my process but also by the discoveries that I made simply because of my dogged determination to give a text—any text—a close reading.
In my application, that’s precisely what I proposed to do with “The Humourist” essays. I wanted the opportunity to give the essays such a close reading that I would be able not only to establish a scholarly, annotated edition but also to identify the author.
I was really happy with that part of my application, but I knew that I needed something more. I needed a way to share my scholarly work on a regular basis with my colleagues and my students so that they could benefit, too.
I needed an idea. As I sat there on that January 8th evening, well into the third or fourth or maybe even fifth revision of my application, I started thinking about Daniel Boorstin (1975-1987), twelfth Librarian of Congress. A champion of accessibility, he worked to open the library to the public in symbolic and practical ways. He placed picnic tables and benches on Neptune Plaza, transforming it into a space for community gatherings. He initiated mid-day concerts and famously removed the chains from the majestic bronze doors at the first-floor west entrance leading to the Great Hall of the Jefferson Building. When told it would create a draft, he replied, “Great—that’s just what we need.” In a bold move, he even stopped the practice of searching visitors.
At that time, I worked at the Library of Congress as an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints, and I well remember the occasion when the bronze doors were opened. If I am not mistaken, it was on this occasion that I heard Dr. Boorstin say:
“You never know when an idea is about to be born.“
His comment lingered, and since hearing it, I made a point to keep track of when my own ideas were born.
So it came to be. While thinking about Boorstin, ideas, and my project, I exclaimed to myself:
“Blog it!”
I knew that a blog would allow me to share with the entire world my challenges, discoveries, and joys of research.
I knew that a blog would allow me to share with others this remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements. The Encyclopedia of the Essay (ed. Tracy Chevalier, 1997) placed “The Humourist” essays in the tradition of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays and observed that they are the only “full-fledged literary” works to have appeared in the South Carolina Gazette. Years earlier, J. A. Leo Lemay (du Pont Winterthur Professor of English at the University of Delaware) had noted in A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature (1969) that the essays should be edited, published, and the author identified.
This was hot! I knew that I could make “stuffy” literary research come alive in a blog. Colleagues and students and scholars and the world at large would love it. I knew they would because who wouldn’t love essays on par with Benjamin Franklin’s “Silence Dogood Letters”? Get this, too. Franklin had direct ties to the South Carolina Gazette and possibly to the author of “The Humourist” essays.
I knew, too, that aside from being in the essay tradition itself, a blog would allow me to share my project with faculty and students throughout the Virginia Community College System (VCCS), from the beginning of my work and every step of the way through completion. I realized that a blog would allow me to capture my personal experiences on a regular and ongoing basis: my work, my methods, my discoveries, my challenges and frustrations, and my joys.
I knew that a blog would allow me to do in the virtual world—using a heretofore unstudied literary work—exactly what I did in my classroom with literary works that appear in our textbooks: turn my blog followers on to the beauty of giving a text a close reading and turn them my on to “learning how to read,” showing them that once they learned how to read all else would be given to them.
That same evening, I came up with a working title: TheWiredResearcher. I Googled it and was delighted to discoverthatnosuchblog existed.
As I often do, I emailed a former student—a lover of language and words and ideas—to get her take on my blog idea.
She responded immediately:
The word “wired” will catch the attention of …The Young. They’ll think you are “hip.”
You’ll need a logo. You’ll need T-shirts with the logo on them. You need pens that say, “The Wired Researcher.” “Sold in libraries everywhere.” “Guaranteed to make study more exciting.” Oh, boy, I see tie-ins!
Clearly my former student was as wired as I was—perhaps that’s why I valued her opinions as highly as I did—but her email response gave affirmation to the title of the blog that had been born.
Here’s where the birth of the blog starts to get really sweet. I was awarded the Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship (2012-2014).
My first announcement appeared on October 19, 2012. It was short!
“Welcome to The Wired Researcher! Blog posts will begin on November 26, 2012.”
True to my promise, on November 26, I published “Opportunity Knocks Twice in the Virginia Community College System.” That post included the first of the historical essays that served as the nucleus for my project: “The Humourist” (November 26, 1753). Yep. Choosing to launch my blog on November 26, the same day that the Humourist launched his essays, was deliberate, and if I must say so myself, I think it was a stroke of genius!
And so, The Wired Researcher was born—not just as a blog, but as a way for me to share my love of research with a world eager to learn about my discoveries.
Now you have the inside scoop. If you want to know more, simply go back to the beginning and read all the posts from the start. But whatever you do, please make certain that you read “Colonial Charleston’s Biggest Literary Mystery Is Solved!” Yep. I solved the literary whodunit that captured me in the first place. Then you have to read “Three Special Shout-Outs!” because behind every success story are lots of people who deserve praise and thanks!
Wait! Wait! Don’t go yet. I have one or two more things to share.
When my blog started, I had around 1,750 views a year, representing 33 countries. So far this year, it has soared to an impressive 13,782 views from 152 countries! I must be writing something right!
To each and every one of you, My Dear Readers–then, now, and all along the way–a special shout-out!
To my Linden Correspondent (LC), who tossed out the idea that I share the story behind the blog, I extend asupercalifragilisticexpialidociousthank-you! (As Mary Poppins would say, nothing else captures the exuberance quite right!)
I look forward to a future of Mondays, inspired by the joy of discovery and by the connections that I’m making with all of you.
“I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me.”
— Attributed to Albert Einstein (1879–1955; physicist whose theory of relativity revolutionized modern science, making him one of the most influential figures in physics.)
“Professor Kendrick, where do writers find their ideas?”
Without a doubt, that’s the question that students in my literature and creative writing classes ask most often. I suppose they think that if I can provide them with answers, they can somehow chart the mysterious path to their own ideas.
I’m always glad to answer the question. Why wouldn’t I? Aside from being an educator, I’m also a writer. I love talking about writers and writing. However, whenever I tackle this question, I do so playfully. I like to tease my students into thinking on their own, so I start out with whimsical suggestions:
● Ideas fall out of the sky.
● Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.
● Ideas pop up while you’re brushing your teeth, hiding among the bristles.
● Ideas sneak in on the back of a grocery list when you’re not paying attention.
● Ideas are delivered by the most unreliable carrier: a stray dog that follows a writer home one day, and voila! A bestseller.
● Ideas arrive like magic—or madness—depending on the deadline.
Of course, there is some truth in my exaggerations. To prove my point, I share with my students what writers themselves have to say. Ironically, writers rarely discuss the origins of their ideas in detail. They prefer leaving them behind a shroud of mystery. Or they discuss their sources in ways that reflect the unpredictability of inspiration.
Fortunately, I know a good number of writers who have been outspoken about how they get their ideas, and I talk about those writers with my students. More often than not, I’ll start with Mark Twain, who wrote about what he knew best: the world around him. Students seem to like that possibility–of working with what they know–and most of them have read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain didn’t hesitate to let the world know that he based good ole Huck on a real-life person:
In Huckleberry Finn I have drawn Tom Blankenship exactly as he was. He was ignorant, unwashed, insufficiently fed; but he had as good a heart as ever any boy had. His liberties were totally unrestricted. He was the only really independent person–boy or man–in the community, and by consequence he was tranquilly and continuously happy and envied by the rest of us. And as his society was forbidden us by our parents the prohibition trebled and quadrupled its value, and therefore we sought and got more of his society than any other boy’s. (Twain, Autobiography, 1906)
Twain’s contemporary Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–who shared with him the distinction of being two of America’s most beloved writers at the start of the 20th century–used real life as the springboard for lots of her fiction, too. She focused on what she knew best, and she fictionalized it. She once wrote to Sarah Orne Jewett:
“I suppose it seems to you as it does to me that everything you have heard, seen, or done, since you opened your eyes on the world, is coming back to you sooner or later, to go into stories, and things.” (December 10, 1889, Letter 50, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)
Apparently, lots and lots came back to her, enough that she has more than 40 books to her credit.
As an example of her ability to take the mundane and elevate it to the universal, when I teach Freeman, I generally focus on one of her best short stories, “A New England Nun,” and I share what she wrote to her editor Mary Louise Booth:
“Monday afternoon, I went a-hunting material too: We went to an old lady’s birthday-party. But all I saw worth writing about there was a poor old dog, who had been chained thirteen years, because he bit a man once in his puppy-hood.” (April 28, 1886, Letter 13, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)
Freeman gave “the poor old dog” new life, a name, and heightened symbolism in “A New England Nun,” one of the most poignant explorations of sexual repression in nineteenth century American literature. Students–and readers in general–are fascinated to see how Freeman elevated a commonplace observation to a symbol upon which one of her most famous short stories depends.
More recent writers suggest similar sources for their ideas. Ray Bradbury, for example, once said:
“I don’t need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.”
His ideas included overheard conversations, dreams, and life’s other magical moments.
Or what about Toni Morrison? She maintained that her ideas were rooted in memories and the people around her:
“The world you live in is always being rewritten; it’s your job to find the narrative.”
From her point of view, stories are all around us, waiting to be discovered through deep observation.
More playful than any of the other writers I’ve mentioned is Neil Gaiman:
“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”
I like his notion that the writer has to be aware of those fleeting moments of inspiration.
Those are just a few of the writers I call upon to help my students discover their own pathways to their own ideas.
If I were teaching today, I’d continue to explore those writers, but I’d include several more, notably Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her Eat, Pray, Love. From her point of view, ideas in all aspects of life–not just writing–are all around us, looking for homes.
“I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us — albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.” (Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, 2015)
I’m fascinated by Gilbert’s way of thinking. Her magical complexity attracts me, as does Robertson Davies’ straightforward simplicity about ideas:
“I do not ‘get’ ideas; ideas get me.”
And without a blush of shame, if I were teaching today, I’d talk more fully about sources for my own writing ideas. I did that in years past, but my focus was always on research ideas, unless I happened to be writing creative nonfiction essays with my students. In those instances, I’d workshop my essays with them, always sharing the backstories.
However, writing with my students was a luxury that I enjoyed on rare occasions only. I was too busy giving them feedback on their own creative flights. I suppose my professorial situation was comparable to the cobbler who has no shoes.
These days, though, as a master of reinvention, I’m able to focus on my own creative nonfiction essays, totally separate from my ongoing Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. As a matter of fact, since starting my reinvention in January 2022, I have two collections of creative nonfiction essays to my credit. In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023) was followed by More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed (2024). And in case you’re picking up on a pattern, I’ll have another book coming out in 2025, tentatively titled The Third Time’s the Charm: More Foolin’ Around in Bed. All of those books–and others that will follow–are part of my The Wired Researcher Series.
I’ve written a lot already about writers and writing. I’m thinking about several posts in particular:
● “The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free”: Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge.
● “In Praise of Break-Away Moments”: In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.
● “It’s Not a Corset. Don’t Force It”: My greatest discovery about my own writing is my everlasting need to unlace the corset that constricts my thoughts. It’s my everlasting need to let my ideas breathe and expand freely, whenever and however they wish.
● “Writers: Our Forever-Friends”: Maybe, just maybe, the need to have writers who are our forever-friends, boils down to nothing more than this. They come regardless of what we are facing. They reassure us that goodness and mercy shall prevail. They remind us to grapple with our soul, to grapple with our spirit.
● “Directions to the Magical Land of Ideas”: For me, it seems that whenever I lose myself–whenever I’m doing something that takes me away from me–a door opens and an idea enters, hoping for home and for honor.
In all of those essays, I’m doing what a number of writers whom I’ve mentioned do: exploring my own world. Like them, I also do my best to find in my personal experiences truths that might touch the heart and soul of my readers, whoever and wherever they are.
But one day last week, while doing my indoor biking, listening to Gospel music rock the rafters, it occurred to me that I had never written extensively about the sources for my ideas. But here’s the thing. I didn’t go looking for that idea. I mean, I was just biking and listening to music. Nothing more. Nothing less. And lo! In that ritualistic moment of pedaling and listening, the idea for this post took up residency in my mind.
The idea found its way to me. The idea chose me to be its human partner, just as Gilbert and Davies maintain their ideas find them.
I, too, believe that ideas find their way to me. I’m fascinated by that belief, not so much because that’s how my ideas arrive, but more so because of what’s going on with me when those ideas choose me for their partnership.
I’ve given the “what’s going on with me” a lot of thought, and I’m coming up with some common denominators.
Almost always, I’m engaged in an activity. Biking. Lifting weights. Listening to music. Cooking. Gardening. Hiking.
More often than not, when I’m engaged in those and similar activities, my world stands still. Time stops. Nothing exists except whatever it is that I’m doing. If I had to pick one word to describe what I’m experiencing in those times, I suppose it would be stillness.
Maybe the ideas “out there” looking for human partnerships sense my stillness. Maybe they sense my lostness. Maybe they sense my emptiness. And maybe–just maybe–they believe that I can escort them “out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.”
For now, especially in the absence of any other explanation that I can provide, I’ll hold fast to that belief since it has proven itself true time and time again in my magical world of words. For now, I’ll also hold fast to a smidgen of satisfaction in knowing that what I told my students really is true, especially for a writer like me:
“Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.”
“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”
— Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022; a Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist known for his teachings on mindfulness and compassion.)
It all started a week or so ago. I remember with great clarity that it was on a Monday. I woke up feeling a weight around my neck, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle but persistent, almost like wearing a heavy choker. At first, I tried to dismiss it, thinking it was just a minor inconvenience. But as the hours passed, the weight grew more noticeable. I felt uneasy, as if something was slightly off, casting a shadow over my thoughts.
The next day, the weight was unmistakable. It was heavier than I expected, plus it seemed to be tightening. Simple tasks became more cumbersome, and I became acutely aware of something that I could not escape. The burden started to affect my mood, causing frustration to build.
By the third day, the albatross felt like an anchor dragging me down. I was tired and irritable, and my patience was wearing thin. It seemed to point me toward a deeper problem or unresolved issue that I knew I shouldn’t ignore. Despair started to set in as I tried to identify the problem and figure out how to escape the torment.
Finally, on the fourth day, while relaxing on my deck in the early sunrise, the albatross looked at me, and in that fleeting glance, I saw the source of the nearly unbearable weight. Brace yourself. You might not believe what I’m about to reveal. Here goes. The weight was coming from the blog post that I was working on for the next Monday.
The realization stunned me. Actually, it mortified me. Here’s why. I knew exactly where I was going with the post, and I had drafted more than half of it. But get this. I didn’t like the opening paragraphs. I hadn’t liked them from the start, I kept telling myself day after day that those paragraphs would fall into place as I got closer to the post’s ending.
I was wrong. They didn’t fall into place, and I wasn’t willing to let that albatross hang around my neck any longer. I found myself saying out loud to myself as I sat there, sipping coffee:
“Give it up, Kendrick. Just give it up.”
I didn’t mean that I should delete the draft. I just meant that I should put it on the back burner until its time had come. As soon as I gave it up, the albatross that had become unbearable let go of me and flew away. I felt an immediate sense of lightness and relief. The burden that once felt insurmountable was gone, and I was overwhelmed by a wave of elation. I felt a profound sense of freedom. The contrast between the heaviness of the past few days and the newfound lightness made the relief even more exhilarating. I was finally free.
With the albatross gone, my mind was free to soar, and a brand-new idea for a post came to me immediately, filling me with renewed energy. As I continued sipping my coffee, I cobbled together a really rough draft of what I wanted the new post to become. All day long, I kept the post on my mental backburner. That night, in bed with my Smartphone in hand, I completed the post rather effortlessly and published it the following Monday: “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“
Letting go of the writer’s albatross that had been weighing me down for days allowed me to cue my own metaphorical vacay. Now, here I am sharing my specific challenge and my specific solution, hoping that it will speak to other writers out there. Sometimes, you simply have to let go of an idea that has possessed you if it becomes a deadly weight instead of wings that give flight. Letting go does not mean abandoning. It means putting the idea aside until it calls you back and begs you to give it the attention that you need to give it. The two of you–your idea and you as the writer–are the only ones who will know when the time is right.
In the end, letting go of the albatross allowed me to discover some new creative wings. By acknowledging the weight and releasing my grip, I freed myself to explore new ideas and approaches.
If you’re a writer, hold on to the truth that I have shared. Sometimes, the best way to make progress is to let go and cue your own vacay–embracing the freedom to create and enjoy the journey.
If you’re not a writer, reflect on this nugget of truth as well. It might help you, too. Just as a writer’s stubbornness can turn a blog post into an albatross, so too can our refusal to release emotional baggage turn relationships into anchors, holding us back from sailing into calmer waters. Or our insistence on controlling every detail turns projects into burdensome backpacks, weighing us down on the journey to success. And what about those stubborn habits we cling to, even when they no longer serve us? Don’t they become the equivalent of a ball and chain, hindering our progress toward a healthier, happier life? In each case, the albatross effect whispers a haunting question: What weight am I shouldering that’s keeping me from soaring? Sometimes, letting go of our personal albatrosses is the only way to find freedom.
Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge. May we all find the courage to release our albatrosses and let them fly away so that we might discover the liberating power of letting go.
The Wired Researcher 