I’ve told you a million times, I’m no expert. At anything. Least of all, writing. But I love it. I’ve heard it all before, it takes at least 10,000 hours to become an expert in something. So maybe in twenty years I’ll have figured out some tricks. All I know is I love writing. I’ve got a picture of me when I was maybe two with a little pencil crouched over a small pad of paper. The longing to write is embedded in me, writing is the most natural thing I thing I do. I long to share all the lessons I’ve learned throughout my life, I want other people to see all the beautiful things that have crossed my path, I crave deep exchanges—even if they’re just on paper. I have this innate desire to write and share all of this, but I’m not sure how to go about it. Like I’ve said, I’ve never even taken a real writing class except the generic ones in college about how to write a research paper. But even in all my ignorance, I have stumbled upon one tidbit that never fails to help me out.
When I have an idea, I just let myself write and write and write. All the details I want, long paragraphs, not to worry about how it all sounds. I just want ideas. Lots to work with. And so I sat down to evaluate a blog I’d been writing. I knew it was simply too verbose. I figuratively tossed and turned. I loved the minutia, the tiniest details, unfortunately so much of which was unnecessary.
I’ve learned to trust myself. And that unsettled feeling when I just know it’s not right. Not morally not right. Just that it’s not ready. And so I reminded myself of what I know. Because I’ve not only felt it intuitively but I’ve also read it. The best way to write better isn’t always about adding more facts, finding longer words, or beefing up the paragraphs. Most of the time it’s about eliminating. Which sounds counterintuitive, but I think it’s spot on.
So I started editing. But what I really ended up doing was cutting. Sad. I hated erasing so many words. I hated that I wouldn’t be spelling it out, but I clung to the hope that someone would be able to read between the lines. It forced me to think about what words I wanted to keep, which would convey most accurately what I was getting at. I started small, just a paragraph at a time. One by one, I slowly modified my essay. Made it more succinct. Till I recognized the feeling, an exhale, a calmness that tells me it’s done. Not perfect. I already told you I don’t know how it’s supposed to look, what the guidelines are, what good writing entails. All I know is that feeling of peace, that I’ve been able to convey what I set out to share. I can hear my voice in what’s left; it feels authentic.
As I revisited this lesson just the other day, you know I couldn’t help but wonder how this principle might apply in other facets of life. And I realized that it’s a postulate I’ve subscribed to in other arenas. Eliminate the superfluous. Simplify. Get rid of what’s encumbering you, what isn’t working. I think this sentiment rings true, “Today’s complexity demands greater simplicity” (Elder L. Tom Perry). With so much we’re juggling, why do we insist on keeping so many balls in the air?
I think about my house when it’s cluttered with projects or relics from the day’s activities. Or even with charming decorations. The best relief for my psyche is to clear some space. I love tackling the kitchen, seeing the clear counters stretching, coming to life. I love that my pottery canisters stand out now. That my basket of fruit makes its own statement. I love re-working an area of adornments when I feel that something is amiss. I’ll move items around and around until it finally dawns on me that what I need is an empty spot for my eyes to land, a little bit of blank. Sure enough, that usually does the trick; de-cluttering—even the pieces I’ve loved at some point—helps me enjoy those I’ve left for display. I don’t get rid of the other; I just have a box on a shelf labeled “decorations.” And every now and then I’ll find a little keepsake I’d like to use again. Not gone forever—although some have been relegated to the donation bag—but eliminated for now, just to allow me some time to assess and live with my new design and decision.
I’ve known this principle to work when I’ve applied it to activities and commitments, books and entertainment, hobbies and items on my to-do list. The less is more mentality. Sounds trite now that I think about it. But it just seemed to pop up everywhere once I started looking.
But it’s more than simply making cuts. We need vision to know what cuts will make a difference. Like the snowflakes we’d make in school. You can’t be so haphazard and inattentive when you’re down-sizing the paper that you snip the whole thing apart. It takes some foresight.
The point of eliminating is discovery. Like the paper snowflake and my writing. When I look at the shards of paper scraps or words that drop as I cut, I no longer mourn their departure. I appreciate what I can now see. Even amusements and enjoyable commitments from last year might not be as fulfilling any more. When I’ve decided to finally make the cut with ones that aren’t working, I’m able to focus on and enjoy those that are truly fulfilling without that nagging feeling in the the back of my head. When we rid our lives, even temporarily, of whatever’s cluttering our minds, space, time, energy, and pages in our books of life, we’re left with what really brings us joy and satisfaction: seeing the wood grain of the table once I sweep away the newspapers and breakfast dishes, remembering the clothes I’d forgotten about now that I’ve untangled them from their cramped quarters, dismissing ones I never really liked, free evenings to spend reading, playing games with the kids, watching the new mini-series on Masterpiece, discovering new friendships when others are no longer thriving. When I rid myself of things that aren’t making me happy, I have room for things that do. “There is a beauty and clarity that comes from simplicity that we sometimes do not appreciate” (President Uchdorf). Kind of like clearing away the underbrush and noticing the tiny trees that had been sprouting all along.
I can tell I’ve made appropriate cuts when I hear my voice, when my life feels authentic and veritable. When I’m not trying so hard to write a page in my book, hopeful it will be acceptable to others. When I feel that familiar peace, the exhale, I know that I’ve carved out just the space I needed to feel aligned.
There’s a popular book among my friends, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, that keys in on this principle; she encourages clients to keep only items that “spark joy.” I love simplicity, simplifying, because it unearths the clutter in our lives, leaving room for items, people, enterprises, and even the remaining words, that truly bring us joy. Once I’ve re-worked a piece of writing using this principle, I find myself face-to-face with what’s left, what I wanted to say in the first place. Once I decide to let go of something, no matter how much I wanted to hang on at first—my words, a relationship, a habit, a fun but not-so-good book—I admit I’m relieved. I sometimes look back, like Lot’s wife, and wonder if I made the right choice to move on. But I love knowing in my heart I did. Because whether we’re writing or making a life for ourselves, what really matters is not so much about what we let go, it’s all about what we let stay.
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