Tag Archives: Writers’ Habits

The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free

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“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.

For me, it took about two weeks. After “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“, I moved on to “Listening to the Unsaid.” The next week, I returned to my albatross post, and I knew immediately what I needed to do with the first few paragraphs. Whitman and Emerson reached out to my spirit, and as soon as I gave them a home in my post, everything else fell into place for “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

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.

In Bed with Famous (and Not-So-Famous) Writers

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“I’m going to bed,” really means, “I’m going to lie in bed and … write.” 

Brent L. Kendrick (aka “The Wired Researcher”)

Chances are good that you did a double take when you saw the title of today’s post. You may have exclaimed, “No way! I’ve read this already.”

Nope. You haven’t. If the title seems familiar, you’re probably thinking of “Spaces and Habits of Famous (and Not-So-Famous) Writers.” But don’t worry. I’ve changed things up: this post has a brand-new set of linen sheets.

And if you aren’t thinking that you’ve read this post before, you are probably asking yourself, “What’s going on with the Good Professor’s seeming propensity for being in bed?”

Excellent question! I won’t try to pull the sheets over your eyes. It’s simple. “In Bed” makes the title catchy. It certainly makes me lie down and take notice. You’ll take notice, too, when I tell you that, on average, we spend 33 years of our life in bed: 26 years, sleeping; 7 years, trying to doze off.

If the “In Bed” part didn’t grab your attention, “with writers” surely did!

And I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking right now. Come on. Fess up. You’re wondering what they’re doing in bed. And now you’ve got me wondering, too. I’ll be right back.

Thanks for your patience. I had to do a little research. If you were wondering whether they were having…you know...sex, you won’t be impressed by the answer that I just discovered. On average, having…you know…takes up only about one third of a year (117 days) in the course of our entire life. Ironically, people think about having…you know...nearly 19 times a day. I guess we spend far more time thinking about having…you know…than we do enjoying…having you know.

Sadly, I suspect that the 117 days of romance is substantially lower with writers, particularly those who write in bed. I doubt that they would want to be interrupted with their word play. Maybe that’s why William Byrd II (Colonial Virginia aristocrat and man of letters; member of the Governor’s Council; and founder of Richmond, VA) had a fondness for romantic interludes on the billiard table. “He what?” someone gasped in disbelief. Yep. I tease you not. For your own in-bed reading, check out The Secret Diary of William Byrd of Westover (1709-1712). The content of his diary remained a secret until the 1940s when it was decoded. Now I know that I have whetted your literary appetite. Here, let me tease you more with an excerpt from his diary:

“in the afternoon my wife and I had a little quarrel which I reconciled with a flourish. It is to be observed that the flourish was on the billiard table.”

Now you know why he wrote his diary in code. Check it out, but not now. Or, if you must, please come back and finish this post.

But let’s get our writers back in bed where we found them to begin with.

For what it’s worth, I was in bed already, and I intend to stay there, smackdab in the middle. After all, it’s my bed, and in bed is where I write my blog posts. But I’m the not-so-famous writer mentioned in the title, so enough about me. Let’s snuggle up with some famous writers who wrote in bed, and, for the time being they can join me in mine.

Surprisingly, not many writers actually write in bed. That suits me just fine. Although my bed is big–fit for a queen–I still need to be able to pull up the sheets and get comfy.

Little chance of my doing that any time soon. Long-legged Mark Twain has jumped in already. What a bed hog: writing and smoking at the same time. He’s got some nerve! “Just try it in bed sometime. I sit up with a pipe in my mouth and a board on my knees, and I scribble away. Thinking is easy work, and there isn’t much labor in moving your fingers sufficiently to get the words down” (New York Times, “How Mark Twain Writes in Bed,” April 12, 1902).

Joining Twain is Edith Wharton, author of The Age of Innocence. (Well, maybe, innocent, but, after all, she is in bed with Twain even if I am the one who put the two side by side.) Wharton liked to write in bed because it freed her from wearing her corset, thereby liberating her thoughts. Now, at least, we all know where she kept her mind.

And I suppose we have to invite Truman Capote to hop in. He’s often quoted as saying: “I am a completely horizontal author. I can’t think unless I’m lying down, either in bed or stretched on a couch and with a cigarette and coffee handy.”

On the other side of the bed–to my right–let’s put some European writers. For bed-balance, we’ll add three only, arranged in the same gender order as the Americans: Boy. Girl. Boy.

To my right, William Wordsworth. He wrote his poems in bed in complete darkness, and, if he lost a sheet of paper in bed, he started over. It was easier than rummaging around under the sheets. Thank God for small mercies.

On his right is Dame Edith Sitwell who slept in a coffin from time to time. Without a doubt, she’ll enjoy being in bed for a change, especially since she once commented, “All women should have a day a week in bed.” That’s all fine and dandy as long as they’re not in my bed.

To Sitwell’s right is Marcel Proust, right on the edge of the bed. Writing in bed was not a quirk for him. It was a requirement. Age and illness forced him to stay in bed, and it was in bed where he completed Remembrance of Things Past as well as In Search of Lost Time. On the edge of the bed seemed perfect so that he could get in and out with greater ease.

OMG! I just heard a loud thud. Did you? Let me take a look. Sure enough. The not-so-famous American writer who thought up these shenanigans in the first place is at it again. He has pushed the European writers right out of the bed onto the floor.

Oh, no. I just heard another thud, though not quite as loud. Let me lean across the bed and have a look-see. As I live and breathe! Capote, Wharton, and Twain are all piled up on the Oriental rug. Twain is still smoking his pipe. Wharton is suddenly looking for her corset. And Capote is leaning back, still smoking his cigarette. Maybe he and Twain can blow smoke at one another while Wharton laces up her corset.

Well, at least the Americans landed softly. I really meant no harm, but I had no choice other than to kick the three of them out, too. Seven in my bed was six too many.

I don’t know about you, but it’s perfectly clear to me that writers–whether famous or not-so-famous–make strange bedfellows.