write me well

Tag: writing

  • Ragrets

    During the pandemic when I worked from home, I sat at the dining table in my apartment (usually across from my roommate Luisa). When lockdown (somewhat) ended, it occurred to me that I could just as easily do the same for when I needed a place to write. It wasn’t the same thing as having an office or a writing room, but it could have worked. It was fairly spacious, the apartment had beautiful natural light and airy high ceilings. And plus, the coffee was way cheaper than any shop I’d yet discovered.

    But try as I might, I could not make it work.

    Ever since I’ve had the ability to throw my laptop in a bag and drive somewhere, I have become almost physically incapable of accomplishing any significant amount of writing within the confines of my own home. I am perpetually parked elsewhere, pretending I need the white noise of strangers around me to write when the reality is I always have my headphones in so I can’t even hear them. I guess, white noise or no, something about strangers and being in a public space holds me more accountable than my own self-discipline.

    I write this because I don’t quite have my own writing room yet, but I do find myself living in a space I plan on being for a while (ha!), which has enough space to at least have a designated writing table. Or, a table I can write at that’s not in the same room I’m usually hanging out in. And I find myself wondering if I’m actually going to use it at all. Today I’m forcing myself to because I’ve already spent enough of my day off throwing money at the local economy and it’s time to be indoors where I can’t do any further damage. In future, though? The jury is still out.

    Because I’ve been such a good little consumer lately (all thrifted, vintage, or marketplace’d), here are a few things I’ve bought lately and a few that I’ve passed on but still think about enough to potentially go back and get.

    I Made a Mistake: A 1960’s American Airlines stapler, which, as my sister pointed out, had likely stapled together thousands of paper boarding passes during its time at an American Airlines airport gate in Boston (or so we assume based on the hand-written tag). It still stapled remarkably well because old things are almost always better than new things, and when you did staple with it, the experience was a cool 10/10 on the Satisfying Things to Do with Your Hands scale. It was $35 and honestly I would rather have that stapler than the $35 I have because I did not buy it.

    No Ragrets: A Lane cedar chest from the 1960’s, complete with faux drawers and brass handles for said faux drawers. I spent twenty minutes going through a bag of mystery keys with the saleswoman before we realized it had a fake lock that you just pushed in like a button to open. The chest is in the living room, already housing all of my old notebooks and high school journals, as well as a stack of blankets and the fisherman’s sweater I got Aaron for his birthday even though we’re at least a month away from even vaguely fall-esque weather. (It was 95F/35C on the day I bought it. Ew.)

    I Made a Mistake: A vintage Heiwa Habataki Pachinko machine (Google it, please), which for the record, only one person on my Instagram poll thought I should not buy. It had superb colors (think salmon-y pinks, neon greens, creams, yellows, and metal details, since I bet you did not Google it), reminded me of Plinko from The Price is Right (and thus of my Grandma P), but served no real purpose. As our home is in no place to purchase $200 items that are purely for display (even if Aaron said he was pretty sure he’d be able to get it working again, yay for handy humans), I had to say no. I still think of it once a week.

    No Ragrets: A ceramic fruit bowl that was an impulse purchase when buying a set of jars for the tea and coffee stored on our kitchen countertop. It was sitting right at the cash register (what a funny way to describe a white Square unit and an iPad) and something about it said it needed to come home with me. Now it sits at the center of the kitchen table and is 90% responsible for reminding me to buy (and consume) fruit, since as nice as it looks on its own, it looks twice as nice when filled with apples.

    What else has been happening? Well. Some potentially REALLY exciting stuff. And some already exciting stuff. For example, I’ve taken on a digital volunteer project for an arts center. It’s been nice flexing my old not just a shop muscles and being back in Mail Chimp again because nothing brings my younger self quite as much joy as creating a newsletter. (Honestly. Starting around age 7, one of my favorite hobbies was creating materials for fake businesses that I would make up and then do nothing with because what are you going to do with a promotional brochure for the Electronic Master Club, Kathy? You are seven and that company does not exist.) So even though this is just a temporary project, it’s been great to have in the background, and there will hopefully be more to come. If nothing else, at least the Arts Center is real and can go on LinkedIn. Thanks for nothing, Electronic Master Club.

    And the potentially exciting stuff? You’ll have to wait. (Just like me. I would share if I could.)

    I suppose that’ll do for now, kitchen table. I’ll take these 980* words and call it a sweet victory.    

    *This was 831 on my first go. Credit is due to the Best of 2012 Spotify Playlist that got me here.

  • The Terrifying Thing About Content

    Content. Whoof. There’s a word to casually instill fear on an otherwise unassuming Monday morning. I have fought many mediocre battles in my life, but the battle to create content is my longest-standing, and right now it’s sitting right around Kathy: 0, Content: 1,000,000. 

    Any time you find something to measure your self-worth with, life gets terrifying real quick. For (my type of) creative, the definitive measure of self-worth is the ability to create things that interest some section of the general populous. The bar for this ability feels Everest-high, unachievable, the sort of thing you have to pay a Sherpa thousands of dollars to help you every step of the you’ll-probably-die-on-the-journey way. It takes one flip through a glossy magazine for me to feel equally inspired and idiotic. 

    But then, enter the internet. A quick scroll through any feed and the retina is greeted by articles, listicles, and content of a fairly non-threatening variety. It feels somewhat accessible and, dare I think it, achievable! Suddenly the bar is lowered, temptingly so, and you sit there and go, “Y’know, I can do that. If an article of reposted Tumblr memes can get clicks, then I, too, can get clicks!” 

    So you do the thing. You sit down at the coffee shop with your latte, artisanal sourdough toast, and whipped honey butter, and do your damnedest to write some bona fide interesting content.  

    And THAT’S when it happens. WHAM – you realize something so deafening, so critically offensive, that you don’t know how to handle it.  

    You don’t have anything all that interesting to say.  

    Worse, and perhaps just applicable to me, you realize something more terrifying: you do have something interesting to say, but interesting is a relative term, and your relative version of it is that everything you have to say somehow relates to the pop culture of years 1995-2008 – those in which your own culture was cold-pressed, fermented, grown, whatever – and if there is one thing that paying websites aren’t interested in, it’s really, really specific nattering about Meg Ryan films and how underrated the film Titan A.E. is.  

    What’s so terrifying about content is that like any slice of self-reflection put out for the masses, it gets held up to the lens of everyone else’s standards. What you thought was cool is not cool according to MaryUnicorn007 or Stan McClusky from Bend, Oregon. It’s definitely not cool or interesting to the Huffington Post, or Vogue, or Vice. So as you throw your 1,500 words out into the great void that is the internet, you hear them knock, hollow and unexpectedly, against a back wall you never saw, before clattering to the floor where your mother and sisters will be the only ones to ever read them.  

    Content. Maybe the content itself isn’t terrifying, but what everyone is about to think, or not think, about it, certainly is.   

    What turns that terror into beauty is that it so, deeply, profoundly, doesn’t fucking matter. Yeah, it does if you’re trying to pay the rent with it. But ask any freelancer, any writer that’s managed to go from hobby to hustle to full-time gig, and they’ll tell you that if great money is solely what you’re after, you’re in the wrong trade. Writers write to relate to others. To get their thoughts out there to help others. To form a club of cool losers who are on the same page about this one particular thing. To brighten a day or educate a stranger. And they’re right: if you want to get rich, you’re in the wrong trade. Which brings me to why I stopped stressing about content and made this very website happen. 

    If there is any one thing you can find that increases the likelihood of a smile, why on earth wouldn’t you want more of it in your life? It’s nobody’s business how interesting that smile-starter is to other humans. Put it out there if it makes you happy. Put it out there if it’s only going to get one unique view per day (from you, when you check the website to remind yourself that yes, it was the best idea to pick that font for the header, because look at how fucking amazing it looks). Create content for you, in every facet of your life, and you can’t come out the other end a loser. Or at least, if you do, I’ll think you’re a very cool loser.  

    There’s been a bit of an unaddressed hiatus here at Viv + Kit for the past few months, and to be honest, it’s because my life has been a bit of a shambles since July 27, 2019. I haven’t been able to get ahead of things or find balance or have great vision and control since my dad died and my work got unexpectedly unstable. It’s been a fear of being interesting, of creating content “worth” reading, that’s kept me off of here. I feel like a thorough fuck up right now – what on earth could I have to throw into the void that’s going to do anything for anyone?

    But sometimes the moments where you feel like all you’re doing is tripping from one fuck up to the next are the moments when you draw the best conclusions. Even if I don’t, the one thing I absolutely need more of in my life is what I love. What makes me smile. That has always been, and will always be, writing. So in a way, while it feels like the birth of this website two weeks before my life imploded was, shall we say, the most shit timing ever, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s exactly what I needed.  

    So stick around for the content, or don’t. I’ll still be here, creating it. Because that’s what makes me happy.  

  • The Bucket Theory

    I’m a chronic mom-caller. Like, I may live over three thousand miles away from my mother, and I may be a grown-ass thirty-year-old woman, but if I go more than 2-3 days without speaking to my mom, it’s weird. I used to call her on my way home from work, and now that I have my own place, I call her as soon as I’m home, eating my pre-made dinner on the couch while I tell her about my day and listen in turn about hers. I’ll call her on my days off when I have literally nothing new to tell her. I’ll call her when I discover pre-filled strawberry jam and cream scones for sale at Tesco. Chron-ic.

    Whether it’s because I do such a faultless job of this on a regular basis, or because my mom has a tendency to feel like she’s a ‘bother’ if she’s the one that calls me (“I never know what you’re doing! You’re so busy. You could be at work.” “Mom, I keep telling you. If you call me and I’m busy, I just won’t pick up the phone.” I digress.) – my mom hardly ever calls me. But this afternoon I was off work, sitting at a coffee shop, when my phone rang and it was my mom. Calling me!

    We talked about a lot of things, as we always do. Work stress, life stress, good things, challenging things. And at one point, somewhere between good things and challenging things, I mentioned my Bucket Theory. I feel like I tell everyone and their mother about my Bucket Theory, so I was 110% sure I’d already not only mentioned it to my own, but explained it in depth. But it turns out I hadn’t, and because I will never not enjoy the sound of my own voice – especially when expounding my own life views – when she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard about your Bucket Theory” – I LEPT at the opportunity. And as a result, the topic is fresh on my mind, and I figured no time like the present to infect the internet with it.

    So here, un-asked for, is my Bucket Theory.

    We spend an inordinately large amount of time while we’re growing up and getting older being told exactly What Will Make Us Happy. People, society, strangers, LIFE. They all act like there’s a one-size-fits-all formula for how to make a life for yourself that genuinely brings you joy.

    What I spent my twenties doing was unlearning all of that.

    Attaining happiness is only universal in that it can always be broken down into buckets. One bucket, six buckets, twenty buckets, every person is different. The buckets come in all different sizes. Maybe yours are all tiny and easily filled; maybe some are bigger, and need a regularly scheduled top up. But the constant between everyone’s buckets is this: the sum of their parts is a Satisfying, Happy Life. (Accidentally just typed Lie, and I’m gonna go ahead and ignore what that typo is trying to tell me.) The only way your buckets can be Wrong is if they hurt people in the process of being filled. As long as you have peaceful, kind buckets, I truly think your only priority in life should be to define them and fill them however you see fit.

    I believe I’ve gotten to the place I am in life because I figured out what my buckets are and made a big deal out of prioritizing filling them the fuck up. Having my family in my life is a big bucket – but for me, geographic closeness isn’t a requirement of keeping that full. I rely heavily and happily on technology to do so. Having a job that’s satisfying, but also allows me creative freedom in my style and on my days off, is another big old bucket. It needs a regular top up in that I always want to feel driven and like I’m developing the people around me, but I’m quite certain my career bucket will never get any bigger. It will always play second fiddle (second…bucket?) to others.

    And then there are the surprise buckets – Being Near Medieval English Things turned out to be a pretty major one. Nobody told me when I was thirteen that where I live would bring me more happiness than my college degree itself. Tattoos. Financial Independence. Writing – well, no surprise there. Seven year old Kathy could have accurately drawn the size of that bucket right after she wrote her first short story about a girl sneaking off from a family picnic to find a dragon in a hillside cave. It will probably always be my biggest bucket.

    But if your career bucket is your biggest, wahey to you! You will find no judgement here. The same if being physically close to those you love is a big bucket. I get that too. Making a family. Having a dog. Achieving fame. Immersing yourself in other cultures. Helping the environment. Listening to great music. Chocolate chip cookies. They are your buckets. It is your life. Too many people get down on themselves because their buckets are different or strange or maybe even because they’re not different enough. I assure you, it doesn’t matter. Nobody has to deal with whether or not something brings you happiness and fulfillment except You.

    So on this doing-its-damnedest-to-pretend-its-not-Spring April afternoon, if you’re looking for an extra bit of happy in your life, take a look at your buckets. And once you figure them out, there are only two things you need to do: chase their fulfillment like nobody’s business, and never apologize for it.

  • The Art of Settling

    The pattern I follow on my days off has varied little in the past seven years. It altered temporarily for a year and a half, when I was in a relationship, and then semi-permanently when I got Gilmore. But in between dog park visits or long walks in sunny outdoor shopping centers, I never stopped finding places to plop down for hours at a time to write.

    My first consistent writing project was my book, Crashing, Burning, & Other Pursuits, which I have accepted will never see the light of day (it’s not a great book) but will always be a pure blast of warm nostalgia for me. After that, my writing took a handful of different spins. A bit of high fantasy, a bit of chic-litty contemporary, some inconsistent journaling. But while aimless it may have been, writing remained a ceaselessly satisfying way to spend any day that I had to myself.

    January 2017 I was inspired for the first time since UEA to embark on a screenplay and that has been the driving-force creative project in my life ever since. I spent the greater part of 2017 pushing out about ninety pages, slow but steady, researching my way along with a large Moleskine notebook the well-worn index of the entire project. My life became very simple, and I always knew where three things were: my work keys, my phone, and that notebook.

    Then I did a thing – last September I casually (not casually) decided it was time to move back to England for real. From that moment until almost this one right now, that took up all of my focus. It was good timing because I had hit a bit of a block with the screenplay’s plot, and its character development, and the project in general.

    It wasn’t until around mid-February, having replaced my Peet’s writing sessions with Peet’s moving-job-hunting-expat-everything research sessions, that I suddenly realized I had not seen my precious Leyendecker notebook in an unknown amount of time. I didn’t panic for two reasons: one, I knew I wouldn’t be diving back in for a few more months, so there was no rush in finding it; and two, I was about to pack up everything I owned in order to move countries. It was going to have to turn up some time.

    Spoiler: it never did. I never found that notebook, and all of the research within its pages (and several drivel-y bits of journal that will hopefully amuse whoever finds it) has been lost. And as a result, every attempt I’ve made at trying to work on that screenplay since I moved has felt fruitless, lacking the anchor that was having that notebook splayed open companionably next to me. Sure, all those notes had led me to a decidedly uncompanionable phase of writer’s block, but it had gotten me that far, at least, hadn’t it?

    Turns out, losing that notebook was the best thing that could’ve happened to me. Only knee-deep in a new direction of research, I can’t even recall how it was I got to those dead ends six months ago. Imagining where hours more will take this project and these characters is so exciting, I don’t have the words. It doesn’t hurt that the venue for this epiphany is an amazing café in Soho, recommended by an excellent writing friend and adjacent to an independent theater.

    (Hey, I’ve never said I wasn’t a cliché.)

    So it’s here, writing on my day off for the thousandth time, feeling a new anchor developing neatly beside me somewhere between a slice of chocolate cake and a pot of tea, that I’ve truly begun to feel like I’m settling in.