300 Daggone Blog Posts

This is my 300th blog post.

Three hundred.

That’s three hundred Sundays. Three hundred individual posts of about 600 words each – more than 180,000 words over the last six years.

And, upon review, probably at least ten thousand exclamation points! [What can I say, I'm enthusiastically excitable!]

That first post, on October 26, 2006, didn’t even have a title.  It just said:

“Each week, I’ll be writing here on a topic of interest. As an Executive Life Coach, I work everyday with people who question whether they’re in the right job — or the right relationship. They ask how they can have more satisfaction in their lives, how they can be clear on their values and goals, how they can find and live their passions…

I’ll be addressing these things and others — so check back in every Monday for thoughts, tips and resources to help you make the most of your life!”

[Note how I laid down an exclamation point right at the end - first of many, obviously.]

The next blog post, Context is Everything, makes me wince, and squinch up my eyes like I do when I hear nails on chalkboard. Perhaps I’m like those actors who can’t bear to watch themselves on film – frankly, I prefer to write, get it out there and not look back. Re-reading this one, I sense my first-time uncertainty, anxiety, worry, what-the-hell-am-I-doing fear. Poor little old nervous 2006 me.

But you have to start somewhere, and that was my start.

People often ask me how I can write 600 words every week for so many years. Where do the ideas come from? What’s my process?

I usually make up an elaborate story about struggle, sacrifice, and angst (and pirates or Vikings) that seems to satisfy them, they go away and I feel extremely relieved.

Because the truth is, I have a weird process – if you can even call it that.

Here’s what I do: I start looking for a topic in the beginning of the week. I keep my ears open and hear what my clients and friends are talking about. Throughout the week, I turn ideas over and play with phrases and concepts.

And then on Saturday, or even Sunday, I sit down to write. Doesn’t take too long.

Because it’s pretty much fully written in my head.

When I look at that very first post – where I promised to write on topics of interest to you – kind of astounding in retrospect that I’ve hewed pretty close to those subjects for nearly six years.

And I appreciate each of you who read what I write. I appreciate your kind notes to me after you’ve read something I’ve posted. I appreciate the thoughtful comments you leave at michelewoodward.com.

I love when you suggest topics.

I really love that.

But most of all, I so very deeply appreciate that every week you invite me into your lives. You allow me to share my thoughts, my learning and my experience. You give me a place to be fully myself, and I write each week in the hope that you can have a place to be fully yourselves, too.

Yes, writing this blog has taken focus, and diligence, and – sometimes – courage.

But it’s been fun. And I’ve liked it. And you seem to like it.

So I’ll make this deal with you: If you’ll keep having me, I’ll keep going.

Who knows where the next 300 Sundays will take us, but it’ll be so great to get there together.

Exclamation point.

 

 

Inspiration Out Of The Blue



As I sit here on a Sunday morning, it’s raining outside – a steady, cold drizzle.

“Sunday morning?” you wonder. Isn’t that kinda late to be writing something that usually goes out on… Sunday?

Yep.

It is.

But I’ve struggled this week to find the right subject to write about. Just couldn’t find anything. I have, I fear, lacked for inspiration.

And when I find myself in this situation – oh, yes, believe me, it’s happened before – I step back, let my vision get all fuzzy, and see what happens.

And guess what?

Something happened this morning. Something that brought a great topic right into focus. And I wasn’t even looking for it. Cool, huh?

It happened when I read novelist Ann Patchett’s great piece in the Washington Post this morning. I am fond of Ann Patchett’s writing. You may know some of her books – Run, Bel Canto, The Patron Saint of Liars. In the Washington Post, Patchett writes that she fears she doesn’t treat her writing as if it’s a full time job, and resolves to do so in 2010. At least for the first 32 days of the year. Because, you see, a friend told her that doing something different for 32 days will make a permanent change.

So, Ann Patchett, 46 year-old author of five novels, two non-fiction books and a zillion essays and articles needs to make her writing a full-time job?

Funny, that. And familiar.

See, this week two different people told me that I didn’t work full-time.

I know. Me. Not full-time. Funny, right?

And I think it’s all about their idea of what full-time looks like. It’s all about quantity over quality. As if being chained to a desk for 60+ hours a week is the only respectable measure of full-time work. And the idea that you can set office hours, and not work on weekends, and make a respectable living is a mind blower.

Did you know that there are 42 million Americans who are self-employed, freelance or do temp work? That’s 30 percent of our workforce. Forty-two million people who decide what their work hours will be. Forty-two million people who make their own salaries, pay their own health insurance and fund their own retirement accounts. Forty-two million people who have decided for themselves what full-time looks like.

My dear friend Pam Slim, author of Escape From Cubicle Nation, tackles the subject of becoming one of the 42 million beautifully.

And I’m going to suggest her next book be titled Escape From Cubicle Mindset.

Because Cubicle Mindset says that the only work that’s valid is done from sunrise to sunset in an office, directed by a supervisor a pay grade above you, and rewarded with a steady, reliable, marginally increasing paycheck.

But Cubicle Mindset is woefully outdated. Cubicle Mindset tells us that there is only one way to make money. And be productive. And be valued.

And I disagree. And plenty of other people disagree, too. Forty-two million disagreers, actually.

Because I can make more money working on my terms than I have ever made working for someone else. And the best thing? I have time. I have time to create, to connect, and to let inspiration find me.

Oh, and it comes in the most unlikely places. Especially when I’m not looking. Or when I don’t look like I’m working.

And what Ann Patchett may find she’s missing when she moves to writing one hour a day to writing ten or how many ever hours she considers “full-time”, is the time to gestate. The time to let inspiration find her, maybe even find her while she’s at Costco with her mother. After 32 days she may have a quantity of words on paper, but as to quality?

Maybe she’ll write a book about it.

The Absence of Perfect


I struggled with writing today. I couldn’t find the perfect opening sentence — the one line that would grab you and compel you to read on. The perfectly turned phrase. An ideal piece of writing that you would remember forever, and forward to your friends and family with a tear in your eye and a lump in your throat. The Great American Blog.

I just couldn’t get there. I had writer’s block. I was stuck.

So, I asked myself one of my favorite questions, “In the absence of the perfect solution, what are my options?”

In the absence of the perfect intro, my options were a) to not write anything, b)to just write something, c) to go shopping.

Just for the record, I chose b). As appealing as c) was. And I got unstuck.

When you’re stuck in any aspect of your life, ask yourself the same question, “In the absence of the perfect solution, what are my options?”

Being stuck is tough. Going neither forward, nor back — just standing in place, watching the world whirl by. Removed. Stuck.

Pursuit of perfection often leads to stuck-ness. “I can’t have guests until my house is perfect” or “I have to finish my MBA before I can apply for a new job” or “I guess I’m still single because I’m just too picky” — all statements in pursuit of perfection. All statements which keep us stuck.

Shooting for the ideal is what we’re taught from the time we’re dandled on grandma’s knee. “Don’t settle! Hold onto your dreams! You can be anything you want to be!” But the dark side to what your grandma told you is that sometimes holding on to the ideal prevents you from doing anything at all.

Which is safe. But stuck.

When I pursue perfection, I limit my vision to only that which corresponds to my narrow vision of “perfect”. According to advertisers, the perfect solution for any single woman is a hunky, hairless, pouting, slightly sweating guy who stares vaguely into the distance. Were I to hold on to that ideal, I would miss the OK-looking, kind, thoughtful, intelligent, slightly hairy available guy who would be a good partner for me.

Perfection is elusive. It’s a soap bubble of joy. It only exists when we’re not blowing too hard. Perfection is in the spontaneous hug of a four year old. It’s in the kindness of strangers. It’s there in a great big belly laugh. It’s in the last place you’d expect to find it.

Perfection ceases to exist the harder you look for it.

So, when holding out for the ideal prevents you from actually living your life, and keeps you stuck, know your options. Choose one that will enlarge your experience and allow you to grow.

When you do, you’ll stop being stuck. It’ll be perfect.