Engage. Disengage. Repeat.

I believe that I have caught myself just this side of a major case of burnout.

If that sentence is an exaggeration, it’s not by much. A few friends who had the dubious pleasure of talking with me just after I arrived at THATCamp Leadership last week can attest that I showed up with an attitude that was in need of a little adjustment. Whenever I was asked how I was, I’d find myself starting out by saying “things are great,” which I meant, but which gradually gave way to a Five-Minute Complaint. I kept trying to stop myself, but it kept bubbling over. I’d hit some kind of limit, and my self-censor was just gone.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy about being where I was; I was very pleased to be back at George Mason, to be seeing my friends, to be participating in an event that promised to be both important and energizing.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy about where I’d just come from; I’d had an excellent, if action-packed, visit to talk with faculty and administrators at an institution thinking seriously about its digital initiatives in the humanities.

It was more that where I was and where I’d just come from were on the tail end of five solid weeks of travel and committee meetings, involving eight cities (not counting New York) and more planes, trains, and automobiles (and one unexpected van) than I can count.

It was thirteen nights in eight hotels over a five-week period, capped off with a musty room with two double beds (rather than one king) on a low floor (rather than a high one) with an industrial rooftop right outside my window (rather than pretty much any other view possible from that building).

Something about that room was the last straw, the thing that sent me right over the edge into a bitter litany of complaint aimed at anyone who would listen. But it wasn’t the room, and it wasn’t the trip: it was everything I’d gotten myself into over the previous month and a half, and — especially — knowing full well that I’d done it to myself. That no one was responsible for where I was, or for the mood I was in, except me.

I’ve spent the week-plus since trying to how to rectify this situation, how to pull myself back from the edge of complete flaming disaster. (1) Because, of course, my major projects did not grind to a halt in the office while I was traveling. Nor did the deadlines for the writing I’ve promised people this fall get any further away. It has become painfully clear that something has got to give — or that something will be me. And so, after a lot of thought, I think I’ve figured out what I need to do in order to make things better.

Less.

I need to do less.

* * *

You would be fully justified in rolling your eyes at this point. Because, yeah, duh. But this is a lesson that I have had to teach myself over and over.

I can read about the importance of significant downtime and totally get it. I can even go so far as to write about the degree to which stress has become the contemporary sign of our salvation or about the role of goofing off in the most important, most creative work that I do.

But I somehow cannot internalize it all enough to refrain from over-scheduling myself. Or at least I have not done so. And even when I think I’ve done a good job of protecting myself, of determining what’s enough and trying not to go beyond it, I manage to cram enough tiny things in around the edges that I end up just as over-scheduled and exhausted as ever.

* * *

If I’m going to be completely honest with myself — and this is hard — a huge percentage of this over-scheduling is about ego. People like my work enough to want me to come talk to them, and they’re nice to me when I get there, and that feels awfully, awfully good. (2) There’s of course also a general people-pleasing aspect to the difficulties I have turning down requests. And as long as I’m at it I’ll acknowledge that I’ve also fallen under the spell of competitive busyness; every time somebody says “I don’t know how you do it” about my travel schedule I get a sad little boost.

Ha, I don’t know how I do it either.

I feel as though I’ve been able to do some good out there in my travels — as though I’ve been able to help some departments and institutions jumpstart some much-needed conversations, and as though I’ve been able to help demonstrate some of the possibilities for the academy’s future. But I also know, when I’m willing to look at it squarely, that I’ve gotten a lot out of just feeling important. But that’s finally wearing thin, and the toll is beginning to make itself known.

* * *

It’s perhaps not a coincidence that during this same period I’ve found myself withdrawing from the various venues where I engage with colleagues and other folks online. I haven’t been very present on Twitter, and I certainly haven’t posted here. Some of that withdrawal has been about not having enough time or space or whatever to devote to figuring out whether I had anything worth saying. Some of it has been about a level of conflict of late that I haven’t had the energy to face.

In any case, for someone whose job is focused on fostering productive online engagements, this withdrawal has not seemed to me a Good Sign, and it’s been one more thing that’s had me worried.

But I’m now thinking that the withdrawal is in part about the conservation of energy, and as such may not have been such a bad thing after all. Total disengagement would be a problem. But disengaging enough to restore oneself, in order to be better prepared to re-engage, is utterly, utterly necessary.

It’s like sleep. It’s cyclical. And you’ll go crazy without it.

* * *

I’ve been reading a fair bit of self-help type stuff of late, partially (3) because I’m interested in the genre, in how it can describe and shape lived experience, and in the purposes it might serve in a scholarly context, and in part because I have felt myself in need of something that might help me personally figure out a better path. A more manageable way of being in the world.

Among the things I’ve read lately is Jim Loehr and Tony Schwartz’s The Power of Full Engagement, which, if they’ll forgive me, is a rotten title for a very important book. (4) The key lesson in the book — heck, it’s in the subtitle, but if you’re interested, read farther than that — is that our belief that the resource we are shortest on, the thing that if only we had more of we could do what we need to do, is time, is dead wrong. In fact, the resource we are shortest on is energy, and we resist many of the things we need to do in order to conserve and restore our energy because they look to us like enormous wastes of time.

However, it’s clear that those wastes of time are precisely the things that allow us to step out of the barrage of the urgent long enough to discover, focus on, and make room for the important. In order to be genuinely engaged where it most matters, in other words, you have to find regular, routine ways to disengage. And to somebody as completely inculcated into our always-on, more more more culture as I am, that disengagement does not come easily.

Or at least it doesn’t come easily in a productive form. But it’s becoming clear that if I don’t figure out some better strategies for managing productive disengagement, a few much more damaging modes of disengagement are lurking just around the corner.

* * *

So, doing less. It’s not just a matter of saying no to more things. I keep trying to find some quantitative limit for how much I can do — no more than one trip every two weeks! no more than three major service commitments! — and yet it keeps not working. The over-extendedness just gets worse.

I finally realized something about why last week. In talking with my coach (5) about the issue, it suddenly became clear that the problem is the nature of the quantitative itself. If I set a limit of four trips per semester, it becomes very hard to distinguish between four trips and four with one little add-on. Or five, for that matter. With maybe one small side thing tucked in there too. And something local, because that’s not really a trip. And next thing you know, I have a calendar filled with five solid weeks of three-city trips and am railing at my friends over cocktails.

It’s the nature of the more more more culture: if you can run two miles, isn’t it better to run five? If you can write an article about something, isn’t it better to turn it into a book? If you can speak in four places this semester, isn’t it better to add on just… one… more…?

The quantitative will do you in every time, precisely because so much of how we operate is all about finding our limits and pushing past them. So it’s becoming clear to me that I’ve got to turn my attention to the qualitative, if I’m going to change anything, even if it’s not entirely clear what in this context the qualitative might mean.

* * *

One key to the qualitative, I think, is figuring out how to determine what’s important, and how to separate it from what’s just nice, or ego-gratifying, or adding to the frequent-flyer record. But the real challenge in that is that I don’t mean “important” in some externally-defined sense: what’s best going to further my career goals, or promote my organization, or what have you. I mean what is most important in a very personal sense: what’s most in line with the things I value, the things I want to be, the ways I want to live. What’s going to support me not just in getting more done, but in doing what I most want to do, and doing it better.

What am I doing it all for, is the question I keep asking myself.

* * *

As I’ve been working on this post, I’ve been hoping that some conclusion would present itself to me, some anecdote that would cheerily illustrate everything I’m pondering here. I’m not sure that anything can; I’m not sure that concluding, in fact, is the right way to end this line of thought. As the links above might suggest, I’ve written too many times before about the need to recalibrate and reshape the way I’m living, and yet. Here I am. Again.

I had, however, a near-perfect day yesterday. I did a bit of work in the morning, and then went and got a fantastic haircut, and had a great lunch with a friend I haven’t seen in eons, and then headed back home. And on a whim, I told R. that I wanted to take a walk in the park. Rather than push it, though, in the ways that I usually do (surely you can go a little faster!), I let myself just… walk. A bit faster than a stroll. Kind of an amble. It only took about five minutes longer than usual to make the loop of the park, and in the process, I got to do two really important things. I got to spend the hour really talking with R., and I got to look around.

And the trees. If it’s not peak leaf around here yet, at least a few of the trees are there: flaming reds and yellows mixed in amongst the still-rich greens. It was absolutely gorgeous, the best moment of my favorite season.

It’s uncomfortably obvious (see footnote 5 above) to point out that it will all be gone in the blink of an eye. But it will be. And I’m grateful, really really grateful, not to have missed it.

That’s what I’m doing it for. That’s what I want to keep my eye on. How the things I elect to do can better contribute to my ability to engage with the here and now, and, when I need to recover, can let me gently disengage.

I do not know how. But I do know why. And that’s at least a start.

UGH.

I honestly don’t know what’s worse: that I never knew these lyrics at all until @Karnythia linked to them in the context of #SolidarityIsForWhiteWomen, or that I have not been able to shake the mouth-full-of-marbles version I’ve heard since childhood ever since.

I mean, I knew it was racist and sexist in that generalized “boy, aren’t YOU exotic! I could just eat you up” kind of way — which is to say, little worse than most rock music. But now it’s become the world’s most vile earworm.

I’m horrified that I didn’t know. And I’m disgusted that I can’t get rid of it.

Running

I’ve had an on-and-off romance with running for nearly 20 years now. I came to it late; I hated running as a kid, and I avoided it as much as I could in high school. And given that on the one hand I was pretty notably underweight until my mid-20s, and on the other, I grew up in a time and place that hadn’t yet been touched by things like girls’ soccer teams, nobody really forced me to think about anything like exercise. I joined a gym here and there; I took the occasional aerobics class. Never anything with any focus.

Until I went back to grad school. For some reason, that first semester at NYU I got serious. I went to Coles (which I recall being pretty shiny and new then) and took a prescriptive fitness class, where I learned a few basic things about exercise and was supervised through a range of circuit training programs. I remember spending a lot of my cardio time on a stair climber, until one of the instructors stopped me one day and said “mix it up a bit, Kathleen!” So I got on a treadmill and ran a mile in 10 minutes — the first mile I had ever run in my life. I was 26.

And I was hooked. R. and I started running together whenever we could. I was way slower than he was, always, but he pulled me along and got me to do more than I thought I could. And I ran by myself, too: endless tight little laps on Coles’s roof track, at first, and then once I moved to Hell’s Kitchen, early morning loops of lower Central Park. Those years, I was probably in the best physical shape of my life, and it was clear that the running was helping keep me on an even keel through the craziness of grad school.

But, being a grad student, I let the running gradually come, like everything else to be about Accomplishment. There’s nothing wrong with that, at least in the abstract, but it did something to the experience for me. It drove me to do more and more, well past the point at which I really should have just let myself settle into a more meditative routine.

In 1997, as I went on the job market, moved into high gear trying to finish my dissertation, and took on a full-time load of freelance work, my number came up in the lottery for the NYC marathon. And so I added training for that race to my schedule.

The marathon itself was amazing, though I ran it about half an hour slower than I’d hoped (partly for reasons out of my control; partly because of some less than optimal choices I made). It was an astonishing day, though, and I have no regrets whatsoever about the marathon itself. Training for the marathon, however, was another story. For months, I got up well before dawn to go run before settling down to work. I gave up hours and hours during the week, and pretty much a full day on the weekend, to running. And everything hurt pretty much all the time — not from an injury, just that overstressed, overused, constant ache.

I recovered slowly after the race, and gradually got back to a more normal level of running. Sort of. Something about all of those hours made me kind of dread running, and so once I graduated and moved to Claremont and started the business of being an assistant professor, I gradually… just… stopped.

Which is when the running dreams started, I think. I’d have these incredible dreams about running very strange race courses — across cities, in buildings, down stairs, through stores. Or I’d start running to try to catch someone, and just keep going. In my dreams, I was fast, and I felt great. A little nudge from the unconscious, I think, saying “don’t you want to feel this again when you’re awake?”

So I did gradually pick the running back up again, but wound up following the same cycle: ran well and felt great; ran more and felt better; decided to see if I could run another marathon. That one was Los Angeles, in 2005, and again the race itself went super well. And again, all the running before and after, a bit less so. I blew out one of my arches due to all the overtraining, and wound up with orthotics, which I never really got the hang of running with. And gradually, again, I stopped.

I picked the running back up a bit during my sabbatical a couple of years ago, but things started hurting again, and so I backed back off, trying to find my way to something that would be enough. Since then I’ve done some yoga, and a bunch of walking, but nothing has felt quite as good as running at its best has felt. And if I actually get to move into the apartment that I’m hoping I’ll be moving into soon, I’m going to have amazing access to another amazing park, and I want to be able to take advantage of that.

So I’m back at it, running again. And I’m trying to get myself to think about “enough” on the front end, as I’m starting up, rather than when things begin breaking down. I’m nearly 20 years older than I was when I ran that first mile, and I weigh a fair bit more, and things just don’t work quite like they used to. I eased my way into running this time with a lot of walking, and then slow short running intervals, gradually increasing them until I could run continuously. I’m a couple of months in, and it all feels pretty decent — nothing hurts, and I’m recovering from my runs well.

But I’m slow. What used to be my steady training pace is now my all-out intervals pace. I can feel my younger selves sneering at what my steady training pace has now become.

I remember telling R. years ago, in those early running days, that the key aspect of discipline for me was less about the need to make myself go do something than it was about the need to keep myself from doing too much. And so I’m trying to be very disciplined about things, to build strength slowly, to keep plodding forward, to focus on the years ahead rather than the miles right now.

Doubts

It’s not easy to write or talk about doubts. The things we have doubts about are often precisely those things that are most important, both to us and to those around us: a relationship, a job, a major life choice. If they weren’t important, our ambivalences and worries wouldn’t reach the level of real doubt.

But those things are often so important that even feeling a little bit of doubt around them (did I make the right choice? is this going to work?) can become a crushing weight. Doubt in those cases seems tantamount to betrayal, especially when it’s clear that acknowledging those doubts would create anxiety in the people around us. How can you possibly admit to feeling doubt? It would only let everyone down.

Or, if it won’t disappoint someone else, doubt can feel like an admission of error — and the stakes of such error can be too high to countenance. (Having spent ten years preparing for a career, for instance, experiencing doubt about the choice not only feels like failure, but like a failure so long-term that it raises the possibility that one can have wasted one’s life tout court.)

So the doubt gets suppressed, stuffed into the corners of our lives that we ignore. And sometimes that works, and in the busyness of the day-to-day, in the daily struggles and triumphs, the doubt fades. But sometimes it festers in those corners, and feeds on itself and everything around it, becoming much worse than is necessary.

Finding the sweet spot between allowing doubt to metastasize and infecting others with it is an enormous challenge. This is the kind of thing that people rely on trusted advisors, therapists, clergy, and really close friends for — airing doubts with someone who won’t freak out, someone who can act as a reality check and reflect the doubt at an appropriate size.

I find myself, however, wanting to write about my doubts, to air them publicly, in part as an attempt to demonstrate — as I have found myself doing over and over with a range of professional fears and failures — that we all experience this pain. I’m confident, in fact, that we all (1) feel painful levels of doubt, precisely because that doubt is a core element of the intensely self-reflective careers that we have chosen. Not-knowing, uncertainty, insecurity, second-guessing — without them, we wouldn’t have questioning, investigation, development, growth.

So here’s the admission: I have doubts. Big honking doubts. Now more than ever. I’ve been asked more times than I can count over the last two years how my career transition has gone, how I feel about the change, and my standard response has been to say that 90% of the time, I’m absolutely certain I’ve made the right choice. And I think that’s all anybody can ask for.

What I don’t tend to say is that 10% of the time, the doubt can be all but paralytic. And I also don’t say that it’s gotten more intense lately, now that I’ve taken down the safety net. In fact, though, it’s been particularly acute for the last few weeks, as I’ve felt myself not getting done the things I want to do, and not doing well at the things I need to do, and as I’ve been left wondering whether I’m really cut out for this new gig at all, and what if I’ve made a horrible, terrible, irreversible mistake.

It’s not at all coincidental, I think, that my doubts — indeed, my self-doubts — have become so much more painful and pronounced just as I’m inching up on closing the largest financial transaction of my life: I’m buying an apartment in New York.

(That sound you hear is me hyperventilating.)

It’s not just a transaction with huge financial implications. It’s putting down roots. It’s not just saying “I’m not going back there,” as I did some months back. It’s saying “I’m staying here.”

And on a day when, for one reason and another, I just don’t feel like I’m good at my job, the weight of those doubts becomes unbearable.

* * *

I had a dream over the weekend that I think is about all of this doubt. I’ve been dreaming about work more or less non-stop for weeks, anxiety-filled dreams about trying to get stuff done and being unable to keep the details from skittering off everywhere. But this one was different: I dreamed I quit. I told the people around me that I just couldn’t handle it anymore.

Right in the middle of that, I remembered a couple of my projects — in fact, the biggest, scariest projects that are actually on my desk right now. I realized that I wasn’t going to be involved in seeing them through. And I was suddenly, crushingly, disappointed.

I wanted to be involved in those projects. I wanted to be the one who would get to see them through.

And so I ran off, trying to find Rosemary (hi, Rosemary! Don’t worry; it turns out well) to take my quitting back, to tell her I’d changed my mind. But I couldn’t find her, and I was horribly afraid it was too late.

And just as I told someone that, a huge airliner (2) came flying in right overhead. Way. Too. Low. And it pulled up hard, but too late, and it clipped the top of the building across the street, and flipped over, and fell to earth upside down.

Everything else I was thinking just stopped, and I stared at the upside-down plane. Literally: the upside-down plane. It wasn’t wreckage. It wasn’t on fire. It was just sitting there. And all the passengers, who I had been sure were dead, were filing off in an orderly fashion.

And I thought, Huh. It’s all okay.

Which is when I woke up, thrilled beyond belief that I hadn’t in fact quit my job, no matter how stressful it can be at moments. Certain I could work through the doubts.

* * *

I started writing this post on the subway yesterday morning, feeling as though I needed to do some public thinking about the nature of doubt and what it means for the choices we make. Got into the office, put it aside, and took care of business. And proceeded to have a day utterly full of win.

The doubts will — undoubtedly, ha — come back. But even if I crash, it doesn’t mean I have to burn. It is really possible, even when it doesn’t seem so, that it will all be okay — maybe because being willing to embrace the doubt means that I’m ready to do the impossibly scary things ahead.

Productivity and Goofing Off

Lately I’ve found myself in one of those periods — perhaps we might refer to it as “my forties” — in which I’m so overwhelmed with the details involved in just keeping up with the most immediate and pressing tasks ahead of me that not only have I not gotten to do any writing, I’ve barely even found the space to contemplate the possibility of what might write if I had the time.

This makes me profoundly sad.

It’s not just about feeling too busy — it’s about the busy making me feel unfocused and unproductive. As though the big picture is slipping away in the masses of tasks that take up the work day and bleed over into evenings and weekends. And days off: not too many weeks ago, I’d made a pact with a friend to observe the oddity of the Presidents’ Day holiday by really making it a day off, celebrating by lying around reading a novel. Instead, I spent the day catching up on the many work and para-work tasks that just cannot be gotten through in the office. I got a lot done. I couldn’t tell you what, but it was a lot. It was kinda great, and kinda awful.

Another friend recently noted that I’ve come to refer to my plans to take a genuine day off by saying “I’m going to lie around and read a novel.” And as a professor of literature, at least in my not-too-distant past, I’ve got to marvel a bit at the association I’ve managed to build between novel-reading and leisure. Sloth, even: it’s not just reading, it’s lying around reading.

At some point, probably right about when I stopped teaching literature classes, the prior association I’d had between reading fiction and work began to fade. Reading fiction became play again, the way it had been when I was a kid. In part, the sense of fun in reading came back because I let it — I gave myself permission to read whatever I wanted, without any pressure to make use of what I was reading by either teaching it or writing about it. Without any pressure for the reading itself to be important. It was just about pleasure.

What happened shouldn’t come as much of a shock: I started reading more.

I’m looking now for a way to return that sense of play to my writing, to lessen the pressures that my preconceived notions of productivity have placed on it. I want writing to become a retreat from work again, rather than being all about work. I want it to be the thing I can’t wait to escape back into.

In order for that to happen, I think I’ve got to give myself a similar permission not to take it quite so seriously. What might be possible if I didn’t feel the pressure for my writing to be of use — if I didn’t need for it to be important? What if I could let my writing be just about pleasure?

Can I build an association between writing and goofing off?

Can a day spent sitting around writing come to feel like a holiday?

If You Can’t Say Anything Nice

Folks, we need to have a conversation. About Twitter. And generosity. And public shaming.

First let me note that I have been as guilty of what I’m about to describe as anyone. You get irritated by something — something someone said or didn’t say, something that doesn’t work the way you want it to — you toss off a quick complaint, and you link to the offender so that they see it. You’re in a hurry, you’ve only got so much space, and (if you’re being honest with yourself) you’re hoping that your followers will agree with your complaint, or find it funny, or that it will otherwise catch their attention enough to be RT’d.

I’ve done this, probably more times than I want to admit, without even thinking about it. But I’ve also been on the receiving end of this kind of public insult a few times, and I’m here to tell you, it sucks.

I am not going to suggest in what follows that there’s no room for critique, even on Twitter, and that we all ought to just join hands and express our wish for the ability to teach the world to sing. But I do want to argue that there is a significant difference between thoughtful public critique and thoughtless public shaming. And if we don’t know the difference, we — as a community of scholars working together online, whose goals are ostensibly trying to make the world a more thoughtful place — need to figure it out, and fast.

There are two problems working in confluence here, as far as I can tell. One is about technological affordances: Twitter’s odd mixture of intimacy and openness — the feeling that you’re talking to your friends when (usually, at least) anyone could be listening in — combined with the flippancy that often results from enforced, performative brevity too frequently produces a kind of critique that veers toward the snippy, the rude, the ad hominem.

The other problem is academia. As David Damrosch has pointed out in another context, “In anthropological terms, academia is more of a shame culture than a guilt culture.” Damrosch means to indicate that academics are more likely to respond to shame, or the suggestion that they are a bad person, than to guilt, or the indication that they have done a bad thing. And he’s not wrong: we all live with guilt — about blown deadlines or dropped promises — all the time, and we so we eventually become a bit inured to it. But shame — being publicly shown up as having failed, in a way that makes evident that we are failures — gets our attention. That, as Damrosch notes, is something we’ll work to avoid.

And yet, it’s also something that we’re more than willing to dole out to one another. There’s a significant body of research out there — some of my favorite of it comes from Brené Brown — that demonstrates the profound damage that shame does not only to the individual but to all of the kinds of relationships that make up our culture. Not least among that damage is that, while a person who feels guilty often tries to avoid the behavior that produced the feeling, a person who feels shame too often responds by shaming others.

So, we’ve got on the one hand a technology that allows us, if we’re not mindful of how we’re using it, to lash out hastily — and publicly — at other people, for the amusement or derision of our followers, and on the other hand, a culture that too often encourages us to throw off whatever shame we feel by shaming others.

Frankly, I’ve grown a little tired of it. I’ve been withdrawing from Twitter a bit over the last several months, and it’s taken me a while to figure out that this is why. I am feeling frayed by the in-group snark, by the use of Twitter as a first line of often incredibly rude complaints about products or services, by the one-upsmanship and the put-downs. But on the other hand, I find myself missing all of the many positive aspects of the community there — the real generosity, the great sense of humor, the support, the engagement, the liveliness. Those are all way more predominant than the negative stuff, and yet the negative stuff has disproportional impact, looming way larger than it should.

So what I’m hoping is to start a conversation about how we might maximize those positive aspects of Twitter, and move away from the shame culture that it’s gotten tied to. How can we begin to consider whether there are better means of addressing complaints than airing them in public? How can we develop modes of public critique that are rigorous and yet respectful? How can we remain aware that there are people on the other end of those @mentions who are deserving of the same kinds of treatment — and subject to the same kinds of pain — that we are?

Warming Up

What happened?

Last time I looked, it was the end of October, and I was having my more-or-less monthly freakout about the apparent acceleration of time. This freakout was particularly acute because of a really big, super important, and utterly unmovable deadline that was already fast-approaching, and that suddenly seemed to be bearing down on me like a bullet train.

And then I lost a week — completely and totally lost a week — to Sandy. And just as things began to return to something like normal — just at the point when I could have gotten things back under control — I began a six-day trip across the country.

I got back last night, and woke up this morning horrified to discover that not only is it now November, but we’re almost a third of the way through November. Not one but two weeks of the rapidly dwindling time to get this project done are suddenly gone. And I’m in that terrifying spot in which I know perfectly well that my manageable-looking to-do list only looks manageable because it’s hopelessly out of date, because it no longer bears any real relationship to what I actually have to get done.

This is the moment when it’s hardest to do precisely the thing I most need to do: Stop. Breathe. Take the time to gather my thoughts and do a thorough inventory of the work ahead. My adrenaline levels have me wanting to sprint wildly in the direction I think I ought to be headed. But I know, intellectually, at least, that I should really be focused on the long run, taking some time now to plan a course rather than plunging blindly ahead.

I’m writing this on the subway, hoping to set the tone for the day ahead, to start in a way that will allow me to keep breathing, even once the running starts.

Out of the Habit

I find myself lately pretty continually dismayed by the frequency with which I have to acknowledge that I’ve lost my good habits. I’ve gotten out of the habit of writing every morning; I’ve gotten out of the habit of leaving work on time in order to make it to my yoga class. I’ve gotten out of the habit of eating well. I’ve gotten out of the habit of making slow but steady progress on a big project. And then there are the less than great habits that I’ve gotten myself in of late (which I won’t delve into here).

Part of the problem, I’m realizing this morning, is that the habits that I want to cultivate aren’t mobile friendly. They require a life in which one reliably wakes up at the same time, in the same place, pretty much every day, or at least for consistently long enough periods that changes can be managed and settled down into new routines.

But the life I’ve chosen isn’t at all consistent. It has periods of consistency that fool me into believing that I have established some good habits that can sustain me through whatever little disruptions I encounter. This, I am realizing today, is a fundamental miscalculation. My life is mobile at heart; if I go three weeks without traveling, it begins to feel a bit like a staycation, a long, luxurious lie-in at home. Every time I leave, every time things get somehow disrupted, I lose my hold on all of my good habits, and I have a miserably hard time picking them back up again.

What I need to develop is a set of habits that are as mobile as I am, habits that are disruption-tolerant. Can there be such a thing? I don’t mean habits that I can take on the road with me, necessarily, though that would be ideal; more, I’m after habits that can be slipped in and out of based on location. Location-based habits. Hey, you’re home. How about a yoga class? Oh, wait, this looks like a hotel. How about taking a walk?

Exercise is the obvious example, and also the example with the most obvious fix: it’s available anywhere. It’s about mobility. But there are other habits that I keep trying to cultivate, habits that require stillness, that continue to slip away every time I travel, or every time my schedule shifts. Habits like writing. I have tried to find ways to accommodate my mobility — the first three-quarters or so of this post was written on my iPhone, while standing on the subway — but there’s an enormous difference between writing a blog post on the run and working on a longer project.

What I want, I think, is to cultivate a set of habits that can look at all of the things I want to do — the big projects, the exercise, the eating right, and so on — and find the writing-on-the-iPhone solution, the thing that will allow me to keep making progress even while I’m on the move.

Slow. Down.

I’m having one of those seasons already – one minute, it’s Labor Day, and the next, it’s almost October, and it’s not entirely clear what’s happened in the meantime. I know I had a couple of trips, and gave a bunch of talks, and sat in a ton of meetings, but beyond that, I’m not sure how a month’s worth of stuff could have happened. And it certainly doesn’t feel as though a month’s worth of stuff has gotten done.

I wouldn’t find this half so alarming, except that the rest of the fall is also ridiculously over-scheduled, and so I know it’s going to go much the same way: tomorrow I’ll wake up and it’ll be December, and everything that I have to produce between now and then will suddenly be due, if not vastly overdue. And I have one extremely pressing utterly unmissable deadline in the mix, and miles to go before I’m anywhere close to meeting it.

Work aside, fall is my favorite season; I love the gradual crispening of the air, the progressive layering of sweaters and jackets and scarves, the changing of the leaves and the smells of nutmeg and wood smoke. I don’t want to miss the transition, to wake up and find it winter.

All of this is a plea to myself, to slow down, take on each day as it occurs, and stop looking down the road (or the calendar) to what’s coming. Anticipation is one thing, but life in an endless state of countdown — three days until this; two weeks until that — chops up the time so that it can’t really be experienced. As one of my yoga instructors would say, I need to return to the intention I set some months back: to be here now.

Deep breath. Now. Pick up the next thing.

The Shape of Thought

I mentioned yesterday that I’ve been thinking about the next Big Project. I’ve been circling it for a while, trying to figure out what several of the various things I’ve written recently have to do with one another. And over the last week, I think I’ve at least started to get it; I’m starting to develop a sense of the overall shape of the thing.

But here’s the problem, or at least the surprise: that shape, as it’s appearing to me right now, is awfully traditional. A Book. I’m not positive that the thing is best produced or conveyed that way, but that’s the shape that’s in my head.

Now that I write that last sentence, it occurs to me that I may mean it more literally than I originally thought. The shape of the book is really in my head, a form that molds thought even as it occurs.1 I have no illusion that this is natural, and I’m pretty sure that this shape can be changed. But it is a sign of how deeply the structures of book culture are ingrained in all of the ways that I think: after ten years of blogging, after years of research and writing about the potentials that other forms of scholarly communication might take, I still reflexively sketch out book projects in my head.

Of course, calling this a book only really implies that it’s a predominantly text-based long-form argument. It doesn’t necessarily call for print. And it doesn’t necessarily call for it to be produced in the traditional way — off-stage, in seclusion, only to be shared (except within carefully controlled circles) when finished.

My hope is that I’ll be able to produce this thing in public, whether here or elsewhere, and perhaps as I work its shape might evolve from the book prototype in my head into something a bit more dynamic and fluid. Or perhaps it will turn out that this thing really is best suited to book-like form. I just want to be sure that I’m open to the possibilities, that I’m not defaulting to the shape I know because I know it.