Category: Emotional Intelligence

Are we running scared? 

• As a business leader, I’m afraid that I don’t know what’s happening even one quarter out.
• As a parent, I’m afraid I’m not doing what’s best for my kids – especially when so much is coming unglued all around.
• As a person, I’m afraid we’re lost.

Newtown.  Recession.  Floods.  The endless news cycles churning out grim truths.  Political “leaders” who can’t even talk to one another.

In this context of spiraling fear and reactivity – as we whirl around the reaction cycle, our brains are wired to become more protective.  The stress response pushes us to react in simplistic ways: fight, flee, freeze.  In turn, this exacerbates the tension as we become more impatient and hostile with one another, more disconnected, and more focused on seeing threats.

It’s easy to see fear as the “bad guy” – it’s damn uncomfortable, so it must be “bad,” right?  Aren’t we all “supposed to be” happy all the time?  With that logic, pretty soon we’re afraid (and angry) about how much fear we’re experiencing!  Instead, a more useful antidote is seeing that fear, like all emotions, is a message.  Reading the message takes emotional intelligence – or “EQ” – which is thoughtfully using the data from our feelings to make better decisions.

When life is easy, when all is good, we don’t need strength.  Sipping margaritas on the beach doesn’t require a lot of insight.  It’s when life gets tough that we have to reach deeper and summon our resources.  When it’s emotionally messy, when fear is escalating, the resource we need is EQ.

Fortunately, the skills of emotional intelligence are measurable and learnable.  They’re real.  We can stand on them.  Next week, at the Virtual Festival of Emotions, we’ll hear from serious scientists and expert practitioners to see that substance and applicability.  At Harvard in June, we’ll go even deeper with the NexusEQ Conference: How do we use this incredible science to spark positive change?  It’s the right time for this work. 

Here’s a start to cut through the FOG:

1. Feelings.  Get real.  Take a breath, give yourself a gift of a six second pause, and listen to yourself.  Slow down the cycle and acknowledge what is.  Pushing away or covering over feelings doesn’t help; facing reality does.
2. Options.  Recognize the choices you’re making.  There’s a LOT you can’t control, what can you control?  What are three new alternatives you could try tomorrow?
3. Goals.  Consider a big question: What do you want?  What’s your ideal outcome… for now… for next week… for next year?  Where do you want to go?

These three steps follow the Six Seconds Model of Emotional Intelligence, a simple way to peer through the FOG (Feelings, Options, Goals) and take action to move the situation forward.

The bad news is that in times like these, we need a lot of emotional intelligence.  The good news is that in times like these, more and more people start looking around and saying, “I wish we had more emotional intelligence.”  Awareness is growing.  Next step: Action.

The post The Fog of Fear appeared first on Six Seconds.

There is no question that effective social emotional learning (SEL) has massive academic, social, and personal value (evidence).  “Effective” is sometimes a challenge. 

Recently a student told me that she dreads the “SEL” class in her school because, “the teacher is so fake.”  Predictably, she admits no willingness to honesty express herself in this forum.  I’ve noticed that, especially with teens, their “radar” is up, and when adults posture (perhaps with the very best of intentions), credibility and trust evaporate.

At another extreme, many years ago we interviewed hundreds of young adults who had attended a school with the “Self-Science” process embedded, and over and over, they identified, without prompting, the value of SEL.  In fact, just over 80% named Self-Science as the most valuable class they’d ever taken.  What makes the difference?

In our EQ Educator training, we emphasize that the most basic ingredient for being an effective SEL facilitator is to be a practitioner yourself:  To make emotional intelligence part of your own learning and life.  This applies just as much to parents, counselors, and administrators as to teachers — and probably to all of us.

In considering some “SEL train wrecks” that I’ve observed and heard about, I notice three factors frequently emerge:  Inquiry, Planning, and Power.  Consider each on a continuum:

 

In “inquiry,” on the left, imagine an adult intervening in an issue between two kids.  The adult enters the discussion thinking she already understands the situation.  She might ask questions, she might even ask powerful questions, but the youth immediately “get it” that the the adult isn’t truly listening to the answers.  At the opposite extreme, there are only questions, endlessly open-ended.  Without meaningful observations and connecting the dots, the conversation never moves forward.

On the left end of “planning,” the adult is driven by his agenda.  He has a “good lesson planned” and going through that process becomes more important than the reality of the situation.  He doesn’t adapt (for example, noticing if the students are bored or tense or happy or sad). He follows his own agenda, and misses the opportunity to discuss real feelings and decisions because he’s so busy “teaching” the way he thinks the lesson should unfold.  At the other extreme, it’s only process, and the opportunity for powerful learning is lost because of a lack of design.

With learners of all ages, “power” is a major driver, but perhaps with teens it’s the only currency.  When the adult holds herself outside and above the group as “the boss,” they will see her as an obstacle rather than an ally.  She can’t share honestly because that would give up the power of “being perfect.”  She can’t flex because that might look like a loss of control.  At the other extreme, we have Lord of the Flies; quiet voices are drowned out, and dialogue devolves quickly into posturing.

The challenge, of course, is to find balance in the middle ground.  First and foremost, this requires us to accurately confront the current reality.  When do I go to one extreme or another?  What are my own habits, wants, and fears that can push me out of balance?  If we’re unwilling to be fully honest — at least with ourselves — about our own “EQ messes,” it’s essentially impossible to teach others effectively.

In the middle of “Inquiry” is curiosity.  Open, genuine, penetrating, flexible, playful and serious.  Ask real questions, and learn from the answers.  Even when the question isn’t answered, there are messages to hear.  Call these out.  Make observations (but not declarations).  Ask around the corners and tease out insight.

To be balanced in planning, we need a structure for transformational learning, we need to over-plan and over-prepare to the point where we can drop the plan and let the learning unfold.  Realplay is more powerful than roleplay, so watch for the moments of genuine emotion, struggle, hope, uncertainty, conflict, wonder… and weave that authentic experience back to reinforce the core concept that is valuable.  Remember your goal is not to “complete a lesson,” nor is it to “just process,” but a perfect blend that awakens understanding.

Finally, we come to finding a balance of power.  A lifelong challenge for all of us – it’s so easy to be provoked towards either dictatorship or victimhood.  In the middle, we are building an alliance.  We are open to the kids’ input, and when needed, we make the decision.  We participate as part of the group, we reveal our true emotions and experience, and we maintain a clear boundary.  When kids ask for more that we want to reveal, we don’t hide and pretend we’ve never grappled, we simply say, “It’s not something I’m comfortable talking about.”  Some kids are amazingly adroit at pushing buttons, and trying to pull us into power struggle – great facilitators are like Tai Chi masters, simply stepping around to end up on the same side as allies.

I wish it were easy to follow these three principles.  For myself, I know I’m more likely to slip off that gracefully balanced midpoint more often than not.  Especially when I’m not at my very best, and I well remember how the relentless grinding pace of the school year makes that a dream for summertime. 

And, it’s a process of learning.  If, like me, you believe that teaching the skills of emotional intelligence is one of the most important gifts we can give children and the world, then we’re compelled to keep practicing.  The good news / bad news is that these dynamics come up over and over, many times a day, giving us wonderfully difficult “gifts” of practice.

Four years ago, I couldn’t walk.  I couldn’t even put my socks on.

Yesterday, I went for a run — without someone chasing me… I actually chose it.

In these years, I’ve been experimenting with our Change MAP, applying it to myself, and there’s a lot I’d like to share about the experience.  The good news is, it works.  The bad news is, it’s still hard… and change isn’t “done.”  It’s an ongoing, continuous engagement of the new.

Of the many paradoxes of change, one that’s enchanting me is the effect of impossibility.  We often think of planning for change in “baby steps,” and while that’s useful, there’s a very different emotional experience in going from, “absolutely no *)@# way” to “can.”

Many years ago, my friend Cath Corrie told me a lovely “trick”:  When someone says, “I can’t,” you encourage them to add “yet.”  Try just saying “I can’t” and “I can’t yet” — the emotional experience is dramatically different.  The first is a wall.  The second, a door.

So, when I couldn’t put my socks on, I decided, “I can’t, yet.”  Then, pretty soon, I could.  Awkwardly, painfully… but all by myself, I got one damn sock on!  Then I had to work on the second.  What I noticed is that when I did my physical therapy, when I pushed just hard enough, when I was both patient and unrelenting, I got better.  As I got better, I also felt more powerful.

Inch by inch, I could stand on one leg.  Then bend.  Then sit on the floor and stand.  Then walk.  Then do knee bends.  Then hop.  Then jump.

Each step was literally impossible for me… and then when it became possible, I realized that I was stronger than I ever realized before.  Physically stronger, definitely.  Today I’m far from an ideal physique, but I’m stronger than I’ve been since I was a teenager.  Perhaps equally importantly, though, I’m emotionally stronger.  I still have mornings when I wake up thinking and feelings “I can’t.”  Today was one.  Then, I remember that I have done the impossible — many times — and I add the “yet,” and I’m free to take another step.

One of the central challenges of teaching emotional intelligence is a longstanding, deep cultural bias of “head versus heart.”  The profound work of neuroscientist Antonio Damasio highlighted this when he titled a book, “Descartes Error.”  Remember that Descartes famously said, “I think, therefore I am.”  Damasio’s research on people with brain damage found that actually, thought alone doesn’t create conscious identity.  The ability to say, “I am” comes from the intersection of several parts of the brain, including the emotional centers.  Without emotion, we exist, but we are not fully alive.

Today, the idea of “mindfulness” has become gratifyingly popular.  According to the Western mindfulness pioneer Jon Kabat Zinn, “mindfulness is the awareness that arises through paying attention on purpose in the present moment — non-judgmentally” (read more in this TIME interview with Zinn about mindfulness and health).  This is a profoundly important idea, and closely aligned with the pursuit of “Know Yourself” in the Six Seconds Model.  Yet when we practice this process, we’re not just practicing an awareness of logical mind, we’re seeking a profound opening to our whole mind.  The mind that encompasses more than cognitive thought.  So I’ve often thought we should consider “heartfulness” as well as “mindfulness.”

Emotional intelligence is being smart with feelings.  Thus it is in this interaction of “head and heart” where emotional intelligence thrives.  We often define emotional intelligence as blending emotion and cognition to make optimal decisions.  Bringing together these two aspects of insight.  Breaking the paradigm of head vs. heart to re-integrate wisdom  Our friends at HeartMath have framed this intersection in the name of their organization.  When you “do the math” of HeartMath, you a blending emotion and cognition.

This week Arati Suryawanshi, one of our active network members, a psychologist and educator in India, and I were corresponding about the upcoming eWeek (the virtual festival of emotions – March 18-24).  Arati was considering how to write about the blending of authentic language of the heart with the practices of mindfulness that are integral to Indian spiritual culture.  I would like to consider an way to look at this blend as: “The Mindful Heart.”

What would it mean for you to have a mindful heart?

Can you think of the beating of your heart and the millions of molecules of emotion coursing through your blood to affect every cell of your body?

Can you feel the whirling storm of your mind?

What happens when you actively practice – consciously, patiently, non-judgmentally — bringing these two forces together?

And, as teachers, friends and leaders, why does it matter?  What happens when we reconcile these forces and stop being at war with ourselves?  I have often heard Bob Ingram, another of our wonderful EQ Network members and Basic Course Team Leader at the Army Management Staff College, say, “Leadership is a lifelong journey of just 12 inches – the distance from head to heart.”

I’m a terrible, absolutely awful pool player.  But I’ve noticed something intriguing:  In this game, there is only ONE possible action.  Hit the white ball.  Your only “move,” your only way to affect the results, is to hit the white ball.  Yet different results occur each time.

And is it enough to just whack the ball?  Despite my paucity of pool prowess, usually I am not so pathetic as to simply want to hear the “crack” of the cue.  I actually want to get a ball into a pocket!  (Preferably one of my own, but honestly, sometimes I’m happy to get any colored ball sunk.)

So probably, it’s worth pausing to think: What is the result I want?

I would suggest this is true in all of our interactions.  I’m talking to a potential client about a project.  I’m listening to my wife talk about a problem with homework.  I’m starting a meeting with my team… in all cases, there are actions I can take… there are ways of doing those actions… and there are results.  If I haven’t considered the desired result, I’m unlikely to choose an effective action and approach.

Making this evaluation, we’re applying a skill of pausing to predict.  In the Six Seconds Model of Emotional Intelligence, the competency of “Apply Consequential Thinking,” or ACT.  When we ACT, it’s not just about the physics of balls on the table, but the emotional physics of relationship.  How do we want this person to feel?  How do we want to feel?  What are the likely emotional outcomes — and how to those jibe with the tactical realities?  What do I want to happen next?

Does unconditional love mean you accept people fully — without wanting them to be better?  As a parent, does it mean you don’t push your kids to do better?  As a spouse, does it mean you don’t encourage your partner to grow?  As a manager, does it mean you accept ho-hum performance?

Recently I noticed myself thinking harsh, judgmental words about my son and his (lack of) homework. Lazy.  Lame.  Idiotic.  Mostly I avoided saying these out loud, but there were a few, “Don’t be so ___” phrases coming out.

This is absolutely not how I want him to see himself, and not how I want to think and feel about him.  I want him to know he’s loved no matter what, and that I value and respect him for who he is.  I want him to do his best, but at the same time, to know he is a great person even when he messes up.

Perhaps this is partly due to my own self-perception of inadequacy.  There’s this little voice in my head saying, “You’re not living up to your potential.”  I grew up hearing this often.  And another, “If you did better, you’d deserve love and respect” — no one ever said this one to me… yet somehow I heard it.  For most of my life I’ve felt inadequate, and that I need to prove myself.

On the one hand, this is motivating.  At times, it’s pushed me to push myself.  On the other, it’s told me to give up on what’s too hard, to take shortcuts, and that real happiness lives outside of myself.  I certainly don’t want to pass that on.

Yet, I do have high expectations – I want my son to work harder and do better. And, I want him to know he’s loved and perfect.  Can those two coexist?  When I asked Max (who’s now 11) about this, he said that if I didn’t push, I’d be like one of those parents who made excuses and acted like their kid was perfect even when they behaved badly.

I can see many of my clients and friends struggling with this too — especially with people who are “selected” (unlike our kids who arrive as a kind of “mystery package”).  We want our husbands and wives to be more supportive, we want our friends to be just a bit more (or less) relaxed, we want our employees to be a lot more committed… yet we’ve chosen these people and made a commitment.  Do we make that commitment based on an expectation that they’ll change to be what we REALLY want, or based on who they are?

What if we turn it around.  How do I want my kids, my wife, my boss, to see me?  How can they motivate me to grow and do better?  If they see me as not good enough, will it help me be better — or will I shut down?  If I feel real support and acceptance, will I be more motivated to do better – or will I be complacent?

I suspect that this distinction between acceptance/love and expectation is profoundly important for healthy relationships.  I certainly know that I’m a lot more motivated to be and do my best when I know that the people around me are on MY side — that they’re supporting me for what I want, not for their expectations.  So perhaps it comes down to letting go of the external expectation, and instead supporting each person in our lives to reach their own goals?

Could that work?  How would it feel?  How do we start?

A few days ago I was listening to my favorite carol, and I found myself imagining the families of the victims of Sandy Hook Elementary, and what it might be like for them to hear these words.

Silent night! Holy night!
All is calm all is bright

But where is the brightness and calm today?  We seem to be immersed in strife and discord.  Our “leaders” spent billions of dollars this year defaming one another, dodging accountability, passing the buck.  In America certainly, but all over the world.  In politics it’s absolutely clear, but the same is happening in every sector of society.  We’re getting better and better at blame.

And me too.

As I’ve read articles and reflections and facebook posts and petitions of people trying to make sense of Sandy Hook, there is one common theme.  Some people say it’s the fault of our education system.  Others say that we have poor legislation and inadequate enforcement.  Some even say it’s God’s punishment for not allowing prayer in school.  Some are talking about the shooter’s parents, some about our mental health system.   A few are even looking more deeply at our cultural context of disconnection.

The common theme is blame.  Just as I did, decrying the lack of principled leadership in our world today.  Looking at the neuroscience, it feels better to blame.  When we blame, we know the answer, and that feeling of righteous wrath is actually a dopamine reward that our brain emits when we “know.”  While this is part of our basic neurology, we also other circuits that allow alternatives.

The problem, of course, is that while it’s comfortable to be on our high horses blaming others, nothing changes.   I, for one, am ready for change.  Perhaps the “good” from this brutal tragedy is that many of us are now saying we want to change.  Change, of course, requires doing something differently.  It’s not comfortable.  In fact it’s scary.  By definition, it means entering the unknown.

So what’s the alternative to blame?  Perhaps we can start with the opposite:  Ownership.  Where is my responsibility for Sandy Hook?  And, even more, for the strife that seems so common today?

Taking ownership is not about blaming myself either. It’s not useful to self-flagellate nor to imagine myself as more powerful than I actually am.  Rather, I’d like to look at the violence in my own heart.

If I’m a “leadership expert,” how am I leading myself?  When do I let myself slide into a cycle of blame and move toward hatred?  When am I violent – perhaps not with my fists, but with my thoughts and words and feelings?

Many years ago I was looking at the research on escalation, stress, and conflict, and I saw that generally we conceptualize “reaction” in a linear process of state-> trigger -> interpretation -> reaction: 

We’re having a rough day, someone provokes us, we decide they’re a jerk and we yell.

This is useful – if we can notice there are antecedents to the reaction, and there is a moment of evaluation, and a reaction, we’re well on our way to changing the outcome.  I was not satisfied with this kind of linear model, though, because in my experience reactions spiral.  We don’t start with tabla rasa, and we don’t go back to a neutral state after the reaction.  We spin.

So I put the three stages into a cycle, shown in this graphic.  My experience is that seeing this map of our reactions can help us notice the process unfolding, and then step off this “un-merry”-go-round.

Here’s a video where I explain the cycle – it’s from our interactive TV channel for managers, ManagementNetworks:

Brining this back to the violence in our own hearts, it’s essential to realize that in each of these three stages of reaction, we have a choice.

In the Set-up phase, we need to notice:  I’m getting out of balance.  There are signals such as tension in our throats, shoulders, faces.  Uncomfortable sleep.  Lethargy or excitability.  Scattered thoughts.  We need to notice these signals and attend to them before we go further into reaction.  Research has validated many tools to make this shift, such as appreciative inquiry, meditation, HeartMath, exercise, prayer, or even time in the sunlight.

The Interpretation phase is very short, but it’s essential.  We interpret the stimuli based on our current cognitive and emotional state – so our Set-Up changes our interpretation.  We have patterns of interpretation, and we’re good at fooling ourselves and making the situation fit our pattern; we might generalize, leap to conclusions, rush up the ladder of inference, or exclude data that doesn’t match our assumptions.  With practice we can train ourselves to notice our own interpretations of thought-feeling-action and slow this process down to be more careful.

In the Escalation phase, we have yet another choice.  We can glory in the righteous wrath and justify our own inner violence by telling ourselves we’re warriors of good.  At the other extreme, we can revel in self-blame and even self-harm, directing our frustration and fear and pain inward.  Or, we can recognize that our reactions are just reactions, and decide to step off the cycle.  This takes an incredibly simple, incredibly powerful six second pause to integrate thinking and feeling and choose.  One effective method is to ask ourselves powerful questions.

Of course just knowing what’s happening is not enough.  In Spring we plant, in Fall we harvest, but in between there is a lot of work, painstaking follow-through required.  Attending to the “weeds” and nourishing the soil, we can cultivate the garden of our own hearts and grow peace instead of violence.

Imagine what would happen if we each did so?  What if a million of us made this a year of peace within ourselves?  Then imagine listening to Silent Night a year from now:

Round yon virgin mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!

My family and I are back in Japan “on the way home” from our 10 weeks in Asia; almost 2 months ago we visited Kiyomizudera, the temple of pure water, in Kyoto — and there’s a scene that keeps playing in my mind.  

We went early in the morning, and the grounds were echoing with peacefulness… until a group of Japanese schoolchildren came bounding down the path.  Patty, Emma (now 13), Max (11) and I were enjoying the spring for which the temple is named, water cascading from the deep in the mountain.  Ancient stones watch over the scene, moss creeping into the deeply carved kanji prayers.   The kids were slightly rambunctious as they came around the corner, but it was actually the teachers who were most shrilly breaking the morning’s peace.  They kept shouting for the kids to line up and then get into the right spot for a photo.  

This is, perhaps, an archetypal story of contemporary Japan; clearly, for the teachers, the appearance of the experience was the point.  Been there, got the photo, done that.  But that’s not what’s kept this in my mind for the last month.  It isn’t these particular teachers, but all of us:

Are we more interested in the appearance of the thing, or the thing itself?

For example…

• Do we want our employees to look busy, or to actually accomplish?
• Do we want our children to appear to do as they’re told, or to have inner motivation?
• Do we want to purchase the appearance of beauty, or revel in the beauty that only comes from within?
• Do we want people to act like they respect us, or to earn respect?

I remember, way back, when I was a teacher.  After years in a military-like academy, a boy came to our school.  ”How come you let the kids call you by your first names here, it’s not respectful?”  He told me that in his old school, children called the teachers “sir” or “mam.”  I asked, “Did you actually respect all those teachers, or did you just say ‘sir’ because you didn’t want to get in trouble?”

There is a seduction of the surface.  It’s easy to see.  It’s easy to put in a photo.  It’s easy to say, “We’re doing it right.”  It’s just plain easier.  As stress levels rise and we are too busy even to be busy, we skim.  The surface is faster.  Depth takes reflection.  It takes ambiguity and curiosity and the effort of turning the wheel firmly enough to leap out of the deeply worn ruts in the roads of our minds.

I’ve written before about the challenge of focusing not just on behavior, but on the drivers.  In our contemporary lives, there are a conspiracy of pressures that make it very challenging to do so.

I wanted to ask the Japanese teachers, “why are you bringing the kids here?”  Not with any hostility, but because I’m curious if they’ve even thought about it.  Are they doing this because “that’s what you do,” or because they have a particular goal?  Then, we could consider, “is this way of doing the activity optimally contributing to your goal?”

Since my Japanse isn’t nearly good enough (and the teachers were much too busy getting the kids to the next temple), I’ve been asking myself these questions.   

Am I staying on the surface because it’s comfortable and efficient and I’m too busy to live my own life?  Or am I really engaging in each day? 

Am I going through my days because “that’s what you do”?  Or am choosing the moments intentionally? 

All too often in these last two months, I’ve been efficiently skimming the surface.  I’d love to tell you that I’ve figured out how to be awake every day… but maybe it’s a gradual process.  Like dawn sunlight gradually reaching in the window to wake us up, growth unfolds.  For now I’d like to ask myself these questions, and at least notice when I’m not noticing.

This week in Laos, we received a wonderful gift.  My family and I were on our writing retreat, and Max was working on a video about a place called “House of Dreams.” They have six Lao village children who’ve come to live and study in the city, because otherwise there is no secondary education available – and no options for the future.  The House of Dreams invited us to a special ceremony to thank us for helping them, and to celebrate our new friendship.  

In one part of the ceremony, everyone tied special blessed cotton strings around our wrists, and we tied them on others’.  During the tying, they gave us blessings and wishes for good luck.

The last few days, we’ve been wearing these bracelets of wishes, I’ve been thinking:  What does it mean to be lucky?

I feel lucky just to have met these people, and to have experienced this sharing with them.  Does “luck” require some visible outcome, or is “luck” really something inside?

We took a flight yesterday.  We arrived safely.  Were we lucky?  The flight was turbulent – were we unlucky?  Our bags all arrived, were we lucky?  The bags were slow to get to the carousel – were we unlucky?

The children at the House of Dreams live on the edge of poverty – are they unlucky?  These six kids, out of hundreds in their villages, were selected for this opportunity – so are they lucky?  They work many many more hours, and in much more difficult circumstances, than do my children – does that mean they are unlucky?  But, they are joyful and committed to working hard, giving back, and pursuing their dreams – something few kids ever really experience – so are they lucky?

 

“Luck” raises some big questions for me.  What do we choose in our lives, and what is beyond our choice?  Do we “make our own luck,” meaning it’s not something external?  

Sometimes people talk about luck as a kind of “magical wish” that’s outside us.  I don’t know if such a thing exists, but I certainly know that “feeling lucky” is a powerful force.  Life happens, then we can choose how we feel about that.  If we choose to feel lucky, we create a sense of abundance and gratitude – which reduce stress, increase optimism, and strengthen our ability to solve problems.  Maybe that’s a really lucky way to live?

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I’m in Laos working on a book about EQ for fathers.  This will be my 5th book!  And, in some ways, it’s the easiest – not because it’s the 5th, I think, but because fatherhood has been such a big theme in my blogging the last 13 years.  Sue McNamara, from our Singapore office, asked me if I had any tips for writing.  So, borrowing on Anabel’s recent them of lists of six, here are six “hard won” tips for writing. 

1.  Get words on the page. 

It doesn’t matter if they’re right or good or perfect — the enemy of the writer is a blank page. Write to me, your child, to your dear Aunt Sally – just write.  Electrons are free.  You’ll edit later (see point 6).

In fact, my experience is that the best writing is unlabored.  It’s less formal.  More zippy.  Real.  You.

2.  Capture the idea and fill it in later. 

Thoughts are faster than typing – so throw an idea down when you have it, flesh it out later.  Type in all caps, MORE ABOUT XXX LATER…

 

3.  Stop with an idea of what’s next. 

Don’t end your session at the end — end just before, so you start your next session with something!  See point 1!!  My preference is to try to finish a thought, it feels complete.  But then, when I sit down for my next session, I’m at a blank place.  If I force myself to stop, sometimes in the middle of a sentence, then ____.

 

4.  There is NEVER a perfect time or enough time. 

The easiest thing in the world is to find a reason not to write.  Here in Laos I’ve dedicated time, but:  The chair isn’t comfortable.  It’s too hot or too noisy.  I can’t do my usual take a little walk (I can take a sauna for free though). 

If you have 5 min, write 1 idea.

 

5. Shift gears. 

If you sit for hours writing, I doubt you’ll write much the next day.  Your brain and body need stimulus and energy.  Walk.  Swim.  Eat a delicious lunch.  You can “write in your head” then sit and write.  For me, 45 in is a nice “block” – sometimes I set a timer and “make” myself write for 45 min (even if it’s trash, see #1) then “make” myself stop and move.

Since we study emotional intelligence, we all know that emotions are a huge driver of performance.  What can you do to promote a useful set of emotions?  If you don’t have them, can you “artificially” create them?  Bad Mood is a great excuse, so remember, mood is a choice.

 

6. Editing is your friend.

Some of you will remember “back in the day” when we used paper or typewriters.  I remember the terrible pain of having to do a second draft and re-typing a whole paper.  Ugh.  Thankfully, on the computer editing is a piece of cake.  You can save multiple versions, move whole sections, reorder, reword, insert… In editing, I like to:

• Replace boring words with zingy ones – look for the trite phrases and reform them
• Increase brevity – take out the trash
• Strengthen my voice – does it sound like me?  My unique contribution?
• Make it parallel – the old subject-verb agreement etc.
• Correct errors – to many two count.

 

I don’t know who told me this, but many years ago someone said, “The difference between a writer and a non-writer?  A writer writes.”  Sometimes it’s a delight, sometimes it’s sheer agony, but get words on the page.