It's not so long ago that I finished the revisions to my dissertation and submitted the final version--not even six months. And I developed a very structured and consistent writing practice during the years I was finishing it, one that relied entirely on technology. Because I wrote in short bursts in multiple locations--at home before work, on my lunch at work, in transit--I relied heavily on the ability of my Macbook, iPad, and iPhone to sync seamlessly so that I could write on anything, from anywhere, and (because I keep all of my research backed up to Google Drive) access my research at the same time.
But after I submitted my dissertation and tried to apply the writing practice I'd developed to other projects, and even to old ones--I'm writing fiction, working on the book proposal for my dissertation monograph, publishing articles with Chronicle Vitae and Inside Higher Ed, putting together three separate book chapters, and of course writing here--I failed. I'd sit down at the computer and come up empty. The white vastness of a blank Word document was paralyzing. My old strategy--sit at computer, write things--no longer worked.
But I had a thought. About halfway through 2016, I decided to abandon my 100% digital task- and time-management system (Todoist + Google/Outlook calendars) and go back using a physical planner/journal. I'd been pseudo bullet journalling for a long time before I decided to move digital, and so I went back to it in a slightly different form, using the awesome Hobonichi Techo Cousin planner, plus a Rhodia notebook for longer notes, lists, and my cooking and reading journals. (Yes, I'm a planner geek. But if you're into "bujo," as the kids call it these days, or into fountain pens and good paper, you know that Hobonichis and Rhodias are awesome.) I'd also been gifted a couple of gorgeous entry-level fountain pens (a lime green Twsbi Diamond 780 and a gold Pilot Metropolitan, for those of you who like pens) as graduation presents. And I found that I really loved the tactility of planning and recording my days on paper. The feeling of a super smooth fountain pen nib on Rhodia paper is really nice, and writing on paper is physically and visually pleasurable in a way that makes me want to find something to write just for the fun of seeing the bold black lines of my handwriting against the white sheet. Too, I loved the way that handwriting slowed and controlled my thoughts, narrowed my focus only to the words I was thinking and placing on the page before me.
So I picked up a big Rhodia notebook and began working out my ideas for those bigger writing projects on paper. Articles for IHE and Chronicle Vitae that I'd been stuck on streamed out. I didn't even need to write out the whole piece for the move to paper to be effective--handwriting got me over the hurdle of getting started and drafting the first few tricky paragraphs, and I could then outline the rest and type it up fast. Same goes for my book proposal--I was stuck until I put pen to paper--and all of my recent Hook & Eye posts, which I've entirely handwritten. I'm working toward drafting longer book chapters on paper, and to making this writing practice as sustainable as the old one was for me--I had to take a bit of a break after finishing my dissertation, but I'm ready to get back to the levels of writing productivity and consistency I had then, and indeed I'm nearly there.
If you know me, you know I'm all for new technology where it makes my life better or easier. I love my Chromecast and my iPhone and my wifi-enabled lightbulbs. But in this case, old technologies--the smooth glide of ink, the delicious curves of cursive, the stark contrast of soot-black ink on snowy white paper--serve me better and give me more pleasure. I'm on the lookout for other places in my life where that might also be the case: I still do a fair bit of digital reading, but I'm trying to spend more time with actual books. I'm all for a newfangled loaf of Jim Lahey's no knead bread, but I'm also baking sourdough with my own starter.
Just don't make me give up my Instant Pot.