Sitting next to my keyboard as I type this is a cheap, 4×6 pink notebook. Like any good writer, I have more notebooks than I know what to do with, a few of them half-filled and forgotten, most of them empty and piled in a box, waiting for some project or other to frantically fill half their pages before they, too, are set aside for later and ultimately forgotten.
This particular notebook, approximately half full at the moment (of course), is, if I had to put a name to it, the external manifestation of the inside of my brain. I started it sometime in April, and I’m genuinely surprised at how useful it’s been. Thanks to a journaling technique I found floating around the internet and adapted to suit my own needs, this color-coded dumping ground is part diary, part commonplace book, part bullet journal, part reading log, part catch-all notebook: one color for quotes, one for book reviews, one for story or poem ideas I’ll eventually write, one for journal entries, one for playlists, one for goals, one for happy things that happened and nice things people said, one for everything else.
I say this not to brag about how organized I am (I’m not), but because out of this barely coherent mess of technicolor thoughts came three disparate ideas that only really thread together within the context of these hastily scrawled pages.
The first is a Kerouac quote pulled from On the Road that, every time I read it, burrows itself further and further into my subconscious until it’s become a sort of de facto life motto:
“life is holy and every moment is precious”
The past few months have been pretty great. I finished the first draft of a novel, I met one of my favorite celebrities, I saw two of my favorite bands live and have plans to see a third soon, I roadtripped with my best friend, an author I love reached out to thank me for sending her a note, I took a fun family vacation, I joined a sand volleyball team with some awesome people, and I’ve been getting back into a few of my creative hobbies that I had been seriously neglecting while drafting the novel. These are, of course, the big highlights in a series of small and wonderful moments, and while it’s hard to fully embrace the idea that every moment is precious, even the ones where I’m sprawled on my couch mindlessly scrolling social media or stuck in a mental spiral thanks to a stupid mistake or an offhand comment or a shift in the weather, I try to remind myself that this is my life, my one precious and holy life, and it’s a good life.
Each of these events, and all the small ones in between, has their own entry in the notebook, a red paragraph for every accomplishment, detailing every pleasant encounter, recounting the kind things people said. Which brings me to my second thought: One of the most underrated commodities in this world is kindness.
Whenever I flip back through the notebook on a bad day, I’m always struck by the same thought: no one has to be kind. That author didn’t have to look for my instagram handle to thank me, the musicians didn’t have to take the time to talk to me after the shows, my friends aren’t obligated to hang out with me, no compliment in the pages of my notebook ever had to be said. And yet, over and over, people chose kindness when they could have just…not.
In dark moments it’s easy to believe that the world sucks and humanity is doomed. That nothing we do matters and no one cares what we think. But having even just a few months’ worth of concrete proof of how untrue that is reminds me to keep going, to keep trying, to keep being kind.
Toward the end of Tom Felton’s memoir (which was excellent, by the way), he writes, “The only true currency we have in life is the effect we have on those around us.” Most of the people I’ve written about in my notebook probably have no idea they’re in there. Most of them probably don’t even remember saying the things that meant enough to me to write down and keep forever. But these small acts of kindness stuck with me.
I’m sure I, too, have forgotten the majority of things I’ve said or done that have stuck with people, both good and bad. It’s eternally strange to me that people have perceptions of me that I’ll never fully know, that they remember things about me that I don’t, have opinions about me I have no control over. More than once that thought has stopped me from doing something I wanted to do, saying something I wanted to say, has left me paralyzed with the fear that someone might have a less than perfect perception of me, that my life’s currency would somehow be cheapened if people thought I was weird or uncool.
Maybe it’s true, that being thought of as weird will lessen my social value in certain circles, but I’ve come to realize that those individuals who regularly and liberally hand out derogatory labels are not the same individuals I want as tastemakers in my life. It’s a special kind of smallness to mock someone for their effort, to condemn another person for their joy.*
Nearly every red paragraph in my notebook is the direct result of getting out of my comfort zone, of embracing a weird whim and doing something solely because it sounded fun or seemed like a good idea. My ever-present spirals of anxiety tried to tell me that the world doesn’t need more romance novels, that no celebrities care who I am or how much their music means to me or how far I drove to see them, that making fanart for an author I’ve never met is childish and stupid, that I’ll never be good enough to justify wasting my time learning guitar or making art or writing songs, that I haven’t played volleyball since high school and I’ll look like an idiot if I try now. Those things might all be true, but more importantly, they might not be. I frequently wonder how often someone has regretted the spontaneity of an offbeat compliment I’ll treasure forever or bemoaned their “weird” response to something “normal” that I said in an interaction that will never cease to warm my heart.
Oscar Wilde, in one of his plays, wrote, “all I do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much charity.” It’s easy to give the benefit of the doubt to other people, to excuse their awkward phrasing, admire their bold choices, enjoy their creative efforts—if we even notice anything out of the ordinary in the first place. It’s a lot harder to give that same charity to yourself.
My mother always told me that everyone was too busy worrying about themselves to care what I did, but I never believed her until I started apologizing for awkward encounters and weird wordings, only for the recipient of my apology to look at me and go, “huh?” It’s impossible to perfectly predict which of your words and actions will stick with people, what will come off weird and what will be met with awe and admiration and be written down in a little hot pink notebook to be treasured forever. So I generally stick to kindness, and to joy, and hope everyone is too wrapped up in their own heads to worry too much about judging me.
Still, whenever those anxiety spirals catch me again and spin my self-worth into self-doubt, as spirals are notoriously wont to do, I hold fast to the third and final disparate idea of the day, another Kerouac quote, this one from a poem in Book of Blues:
“little weird flower, why did you grow?”
Everyone is weird. Everyone has niche interests and quirky habits and unusual skills. Everyone is self-conscious about something and overcompensating for something else. Everyone misspeaks, missteps, misses signals, misses beats. And honestly, it’s kind of great.
How beautifully human is it that we pick up weird hobbies, make weird art, chase weird interests until we know everything there is to know about vampire lore in Victorian England? (True story.) Growth as I’ve experienced it is just making mistakes, and then making better ones. It’s saying yes just to see what happens. It’s driving six hours to see your favorite musician and working up the nerve to talk to him even though you’re afraid you’ll look stupid. It’s joining a volleyball team with people you don’t know and hoping you still remember how to play. It’s writing songs that may never see the light of day and learning how to bake the perfect macaron, just because.
We’re all just little weird flowers buffeted around by our own breezes, our own anxieties, making our little weird art and hoping someone will see the beauty in it, in us. We’re all learning and growing and occasionally blooming, going through dormant periods, sprouting new interests, trying to make it in this cracked concrete world we call home.
So do the weird thing. Try the new hobby. Take a road trip. Write a poem. Tell someone you like their shoes or their songs or their soul. Make a friend. Make art. Make the most of your precious and holy life.
And above all, be kind.
Stay excellent,
Kristen
*I feel obligated to point out that this sentiment ceases to apply when someone’s joy involves harming or misleading themselves or another person. Someone who gets their jollies from maliciously spreading misinformation or kicking puppies does not fall under the scope of this celebration of humanity. If you ever find yourself asking what was so wrong with that Heathcliff guy, he seemed pretty stand-up to you, consider rethinking, well…everything.
Writing is weird. In the time it took me to write this newsletter, I completely edited the first draft of my novel. Which I don’t say to brag about my grueling editing pace, but rather to point out that every project functions on its own timeline, and that’s okay. I’ve had short stories I’ve been working on for years, novels for even longer, and I’ve finished other novel drafts in five months. The only “right” timeline is the one that allows you to create something you’re proud of.
The animated short film The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse on Apple TV is one of the most wholesome things I’ve ever seen, and this line will forever stick with me: “Nothing beats kindness. It sits quietly beyond all things.” Definitely recommend watching it to cure a bad mood.
The Lit Nerds has been publishing more short fiction that won’t kill your faith in humanity, and I love all of the stories. Check them out here.
We recently started season 3 of our podcast, and here’s the first episode, all about analytical characters and how they’re not just get-out-of-plot-holes free cards that can disappear after a problem is solved.
Despite having my own podcast, I’m not much of an avid podcast listener. I have, however, been very much enjoying Fame-ish, an interview-based podcast about being in that weird space between famous and not, hosted by one of my favorite bands, who just seem like cool dudes.
Featured image by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash
Earthbound, But Aspiring 