Lesson 4 - Develop the Habits

To accomplish anything, you have to focus your attention on it. 

When you focus your energy on a deliberate goal driven by a deep-rooted desire, you will have 

far more success in your actions. 

Napoleon Hill discusses the concept of “focus” in terms of “concentration,” which he defines as 

“the act of focusing the mind upon a given desire until ways and means for its realization have 

been worked out and successfully put into operation.” 

And once you have narrowed in on what you want, you have to build out a framework in which to 

operate. Habits serve as the guardrails on our own autobahn; the guidelines to help us reach our 

destination. 

This is an area that, I think, lacks sufficient transparency. I think sometimes we discount the 

power of habits ­ both to ourselves and when talking to others. And I think it behooves us all to 

understand the value that habits hold. 

HABIT 

To help establish focus, very little is as powerful as your daily habits ­ take the time to establish 

good habits in the beginning. It is not easy to do ­ change very rarely is, and the change 

necessary for long­term good benefits (like studying or working out) is even harder yet. (This will 

be especially true if you believe that you do not have the time to write.) 

New habits are new mental paths and, as with any new path, the terrain must be traveled over 

and over and over before it becomes apparent to the traveler. Just as one would not cut across a 

field only once and expect for a dirt trail to emerge behind him, we have to trudge along our new 

desired courses every day until they become well­worn and easy to follow. 

To effectively build new habits: 

1. Invest a lot upfront. The first, earliest attempts are always the hardest. I promise: it gets 

easier over time. You are coming at the forest with a machete here. It will be tough at first. 

2. Remind yourself why you’re here. When you feel like the effort is overwhelming, recall your 

desire from Lesson 1. And the confidence from Lesson 2. 

3. Do it even when you don’t feel like it. Once you decide when you want to write, always 

write at that time. Do it whether you feel like it or not (there were plenty of days on which I 

absolutely did not want to write. Looking back now, I am so happy that I still did.) Hold fast to 

them on weekends, too, as weekends can easily become a black hole of lost productivity if you 

let them. 

4. Resist temptations. Do not let yourself procrastinate until late evening ­ or the weekend. It is

not going to feel fun at first. It may not even feel natural. Once you have formed those habits, 

defend them. Protect them against intrusion, and do not allow them to be de­prioritized. Just 

keep at it. 

5. Do not doubt yourself. Once you have defined what you want, do not waver and allow your 

heart to throw in the towel. 

Nothing helps your long­term success quite like daily habits. Carve out the time. Make it happen. 

Because once you develop the habit, it is easy to let the habit build upon itself. It is easy to plant 

a seed and let that seed develop into something that you love, and continue to water and feed it. 

Once you wear down a path, following it becomes increasingly intuitive over time. 

Behind the curtain: a word on my own schedule 

I began writing “seriously” in November 2012. I signed up for nanowrimo (National Novel Writing 

Month) two days into it, and started working on my first novel that night. I had no plan; no outline. 

Up until that day, I did not even know that I was writing a novel. 

I work as a consultant and was staffed in Boston at the time. It was not yet the hectic part of the 

project, so I would typically write after I got back to the hotel at night, from about 7­9 pm. I would 

get back to my hotel, grab some dinner and eat while I wrote. I never pulled an all­nighter or 

stayed up past 11 or so. I always had the threat of work the next day and wouldn’t have been of 

much use to anyone had I arrived exhausted. 

December: brought holidays, holiday parties, birthdays (both my boyfriend’s and my own), a lot 

more travel (both business and personal), 

January: on Jan. 2 or 3, I decided that I wanted write one million words in a year. At this time, we 

were nearing the deadline on the Boston project, which meant 12­hour work days. When I 

realized that getting home at 8 pm and writing late at night did not appeal to me, I started getting 

up at 5:30 every morning and writing from 6­7:30 am. 

February: transitioned to a new project, which was “local” but involved a two­hour train commute 

each way to and from the suburbs of Chicago. I wrote on my morning commute, from about 

6:30­8, and read on the way home. 

March: I quit my job. I did not realize how powerful my writing habits were until I no longer had the 

morning structure. Waking up later suddenly meant that I could write at 10 am. Or 10 pm. Or not 

at all. I still wrote about 100,000 this month, but none of it was at 6:30 am. Much of it was thrown 

together, haphazardly, in the moments before going to bed. It only took a few weeks of midnight 

suffering to re­establish some routine.

I think this wide variety of work schedules generated a wide variety of writing schedules, and I am 

fortunate to have a number of different solutions to offer you – all kinds of different ways in which 

I fit my writing into my life as it changed, and ways that may also work for you, depending on 

your own schedule

Lesson 3 - Build the Right Mindset

Your success ­ whether it be writing or in any other endeavor ­ depends more on you than
anyone or anything else in your life. And having the right attitude is incredibly powerful.

And how you think is everything.

“Our attitude in life determines life’s attitude toward us.” ­ Earl Nightingale

In addition to building up your confidence, there is a wide range of factors that come into play
when it comes to the “right” mental attitude. Confidence is one. Optimism is another. But there
are several other characteristics that differentiate the mature person ­ the individual capable of
realizing his own goals ­ from those who aren’t. And don’t.

Take Responsibility
You have to assume responsibility for what you want if life. You have to recognize that getting
what you want is up to you. Taking ownership of your own goals ­ and assuming responsibility
for their completion ­ is absolutely necessary for success.

One of the primary defining factors of successful people is their tendency to take responsibility
for all things in their life, both good and bad. If something good happens, they chalk it up to hard
work. If they suffer a setback, they pivot or persevere.

Less successful people, however, will explain something good as “luck.” And they will excuse
setbacks by blaming it on external factors ­ or other people.

If you want to do something, it is up to you. Assuming ownership over a project’s success or
failure early in its inception will drastically influence its ultimate fate.

Love Other People
Maybe I just run into a disproportionate number of pessimistic bloggers, but it seems like there a
lot of writers out there who say that they do not really like other people. This seems
counterintuitive to me ­ and it seems obvious, in any case, why their writing may not be going
very far.

To write, you must care for your reader. You must feel consideration ­ perhaps even
compassion ­ for the message that you are putting down to paper. (In the very least, it is a basic
consideration and conscientiousness that invokes in us the obligation to abide by grammar,
spelling, syntax and sentence structure rules. We work within these fundamentals because we
care about our message’s reception by our reader, and we care about our reader enough that he
might understand what it is that we are trying to communicate.)

Beyond this, however, a love of people, in general, goes very far in the world of writing. A love of
mankind and people as a whole can easily be interpreted by most readers, whether consciously
or otherwise. And a skilled editor can spot it within minutes.

Dale Carnegie, author of “How to Win Friends and Notice People,” noted in his chapter on the
value of genuinely liking others:

“If the author doesn’t like people... people won’t like his stories.”

Carnegie goes on: “I once took a course in short­story writing at New York University, and during
that course the editor of a leading magazine talked to our class. He said he could pick up any
one of the dozens of stories that drafted across his desk every day and after reading a few
paragraphs he could feel whether or not the author liked people.”

The power of loving people is immeasurable in writing. You have to love your reader. And you
have to like people, in general.

Bounce Back
You will undoubtedly encounter some setbacks. You may sleep through your alarm two days in a
row and rush out the door without writing. You may come down with the flu for a whole week.
You may lose a loved one. You may lose your job.

These sort of things happen to everyone, at some point. And whatever you encounter in life, you
have to react with resiliency. Optimism and flexibility will take you a long, long way, and your
ability to take things in stride and let things roll off your back will set you above many, many other
people.

I talk more about many of these in other lessons. I talk about confidence and persistence and
optimism, especially in the lesson on eliminating excuses.

It is important to understand that the mindset is something that often has to be cultivated
continuously, particularly at first. You may have to make deliberate and strategic investments in
your attitude, especially if you have historically harbored sentiments of cynicism or negativity.
(This was the case for me, and I am still working on my mindset with deliberate daily
techniques.)

But the benefit of a good attitude is absolutely invaluable. Having the right mindset has made all
the difference in how I have responded to things that have happened to me since I made the
investment, and I believe that you, too, will experience a similar surge in productivity and
effectiveness by fostering the right outlook

Lesson 2 - Have the Confidence

The secret to any kind of success is one people rarely talk about, either because they don't think they have to point it out or they don't realize it i the first real step.

The first thing to worry about, the thing that matters first, before all others?

Your confidence.
And failing to emphasize the importance of confidence is doing yourself a real disservice.
If you are not confident, no amount of planning or research or outlining will get you very far. You
may sit down to write, but without the confidence to back you up, you will soon find yourself
flailing ­ staring at a blank screen or citing the issue as “writer’s block.” And even if you get
words onto paper, your own self­doubt will come through; though you may want them to say
one thing, your tone will read, “I don’t really believe this. And neither should you.”

If you first build your confidence, though — and do it in a way that is both sincere and
natural (a way that works for you, not someone else) — then you can take just about
any step you want.

If you exude confidence, it shows. And getting yourself over that hurdle is one of the most
important steps in becoming a writer. (As Theodore Roosevelt said, “believe in yourself and
you’re halfway there.”)

And when you sit down to write or put your words out there with confidence, each of your
efforts is multitudes more effective.

Some people feel ineffective taking the necessary steps outline to succeed. They tell
themselves that they want to write and they may even go through the motions, outlining their
pieces and scheduling out the time to do them, but they never see much success.

And the best advice that they will likely receive for this is: “just keep going.” And while that may
be true, it is also very true that if you are only “writing” in the sense that you are “making
words,” without a true belief in your ability at the craft, then you are missing a critical
component.

Forcing yourself to write, for example, when you do not believe in the words as you put them
down to paper will only exacerbate the problem. You may hit word counts and you may save
stuff to your hard­drive, but none of it will be as good as it could be with your heart behind it,
pushing the work forward and ballooning the work out.
And although your confidence at writing will likely improve over time using the “reps” method
alone, it is a slow­going and largely ineffective approach. And there is a better way to do it.

Instead, take the time to build your confidence beforehand.

How?

Here are things that have worked for me. You do not even need to pursue all of them; you can
focus your energies on one, and you will still likely benefit.

1. Think yourself into a positive attitude
Uh, yeah, I mean mantras. Dismiss them if you want, but at least hear me out. If you say only
uplifting things to yourself, uplifting things are eventually what you’ll believe. It protects you from
the self­doubt and self­hate that sometimes creeps into your psyche. If you busy yourself
thinking one thing, there’s no room for weeds to take root.

For a good starting place, try Napoleon Hill’s self­confidence formula. Or, if Hill isn’t your style,
use whatever works for you. Make up your own mantras.

The point is this:

You are what you think and believe.

If your thoughts are not constructive and exuberant, you won’t be, either.

2. Take baby steps
If you are having trouble sitting down to your writing with enthusiasm and courage, try breaking
it up into much smaller chunks. Instead of thinking of it in terms of “a book” or “an article” or
even “1,000 words,” for example, focus in on fragments ­ baby steps. (Just make sure to
pursue baby steps that make you feel awesome.)

3. Pursue what comes naturally, even if it doesn’t seem related to
your goal.
Your confidence does not all have to be derived from what you are actually trying to
accomplish. Your steps just have to make you feel good and re­establish your belief in yourself.
Just because you are trying to write does not mean that all of your confidence has to come
from writing ­ confidence is transferable. (It is a very strong fiber, after all.)

If you’re a talented illustrator, draw for 20 minutes. If you’re a crossword puzzle whiz, do one.
Point is, doing something you are good at build confidence. Period.

4. Or tackle something scary.
Getting my wisdom teeth pulled terrified me. I put the appointment off for years. This was
during a time when I worked a job I hated and knew I needed to quit, but I was scared to do
that, too.

Months later than I should have, I finally put in my notice, and since my health insurance was
expiring, I also had to have the teeth removed. I scheduled the appointment for the last day of
work and, as I drove there, high on the realization I was leaving the office for the last time, it
dawned on me: after finally quitting, the wisdom teeth felt like a joke.

If the writing seems overwhelming, conquer something else in the meantime. Tackle one fear,
and other things feel suddenly easier.

3. Once you tackle something successfully, hold onto that little
surge of confidence

A body in motion stays in motion! Dwell on the self­esteem and energy boost that you feel and
quickly find something else to apply yourself to. If you can find something either a little scarier
or a little more in line with your real goal, then do it.

Keep at the little things to keep building confidence. Do whatever you need to keep this
momentum. Do not let it dwindle at any cost. Get into a silly routine if you have to. Persevere
and try to build on the boost by applying yourself to more and more challenging tasks.

Because the real step one, before you can be effective at taking any of the other steps toward
success, is to build up your confidence. Confidence is everything.

It is absolutely the most important first step. You have to believe that you are a writer. Say that
you are a writer (that was Lesson 1) and then believe that that statement is true.

The real first step to success in anything is building ourselves up and developing the courage
that we can conquer the task. We have to have the confidence in order to do anything in life ­
the courage to approach tasks hear on is a key component in our eventual success.

To repeat:

“Believe that you can and you are halfway there.”
- Theodore Roosevelt

Lesson 1 - Decide to Write

Writing does not begin with writing.
And succeeding at writing does not depend entirely on the act of writing alone.

Writing does not start when you put your fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper.
It does not even begin when you create an outline or map out an idea or create your characters.

Writing, if you intend to be successful at it, begins before all of that – before outlines and
certainly before word counts.

It starts with a mindset.

It starts with:
Deciding that you are a writer
Establishing your identity as a writer.
Building up your confidence in doing so.
Laying down the groundwork to start acting like one.
Taking your writing off of the pedestal that you have it on.
Breaking writing down into manageable chunks.
Approaching your writing like you do everything else in life: one step at a time.



The common theme? It starts with you.


Writing depends on building up your own confidence as a writer.
Writing depends on the commitment to seeing yourself as a writer.
And it depends on you deciding that you are writing.

Before you do anything in life and before you set out to achieve any goal, lofty or otherwise, you
have to commit yourself to it, mentally. The degree to which you set yourself to your goal is
directly proportionate to whether or not you ultimately achieve it, and the more resolved you are
in your thinking, the more likely you are to see the results for which you aim.


You become what you think about.


Everything worthwhile begins as an intention. All considerable success and all big
accomplishments start as a thought or inkling, and the probability of achieving something lies in
whether or not you set yourself to it, and to what degree.


So, plant the seed.

Say to yourself that you are going to start writing – or write a book. Say it with resolution, and
repeat it with sincerity. State it in a way that makes it seem genuine; deep-rooted, and hold it
very close.

Decide with resolution that you intend to write, and then state that objective all the time. Remind
yourself every morning – or right now, whatever time of day it may be – that you are already a
writer, and that you intend to write.


Keep reminding yourself of this decision.


One caveat is that you must believe in your goal entirely. One would assume that you are
already naturally talented at writing… or in the very least have a sincere interest in doing so –
beyond the superficial “I just think it would sound cool to publish my work.” One would assume
that if you want to write, it is because you are drawn to writing for a substantial reason, and that
that reason is worthwhile.

If this is not the case – if you are only writing for the sake of writing, or you want to write
because it sounds cool or the idea of being a best-selling author is appealing because you want
to impress your old high school classmates, then I would encourage you to find something that
is better worth your time. You are meant for something else, my dear, and you can have
greatness if you only choose to pursue a field that really brings that out.

(Which may not even be writing. And that is okay.)

If, however, this assumption does apply to you – if you are writing because you love to write,
and you are a natural writer, then welcome. I urge all us to first discover our natural talents, and
then organize these strengths into an actionable objective, learning from it as we move toward
that goal. Stating our goal – and repeating it or writing it down every day, especially in times of
low productivity – is invaluable in determining our eventual success.

Writing a book or writing in general must be, for whatever period of time – whether it is one
month or one year – a clear and definite aim. It cannot be a wayward “maybe, someday, not
today” sort of thought. It cannot be a fuzzy “maybe, kind of” sort of ambition. If it is, you will most
likely fail. If you approach your own writing as a disposable task – something that you “might”
start to fit in “if there’s time” – then you will undoubtedly never make it your first priority, and you
will never be the writer you could. You will not see success in your writing.

Without an actionable goal – one that you believe in and are passionate about accomplishing –
you will undoubtedly fail. The primary cause of failure is having no definite, specific aspiration
against we are measuring our actions from one day to the next; no target at which we can direct
our energies.


Without a clear objective, we flounder.
And when we flounder for too long, we fail.

Do not drift aimlessly in your thoughts regarding whether you will or will not write. We have
already agreed to agree that you are, on some level, a writer. And if you are a writer, on
whatever level, permit yourself the right to actually write. Decide this.


Decide with certainty and resolve.


Go into this with the conviction that you will actually write – that you are committed to the task –
and you will see the task itself unfold more easily

Introduction

 These lessons are for the person who simply wants to write – to either start writing or write 

more. Specifically, this for the person who wants to succeed at writing – however he or she may 

define that success. 

And this book is for you, in particular, if you: 

•  Want to begin writing – Maybe you are someone who has always wanted to write something – a “book,” a “novel,” or a “best-seller” – but has never been able to get word onto paper.  
• Want to write more – Maybe you write occasionally, but not very often. You journal at night but then keep your writing close, preventing any possible readers from finding it. 
• Maybe you even have a blog and you publish periodically, but you really want to blog more.  
• Want to finish writing – Maybe you started the novel but never finished. Maybe you tried to write one and threw your pen down before you were done. Maybe you felt overwhelmed by the task at hand and never finished it, and now it lives somewhere in the back of your mind, reminding you all the time that you would like to finish.  

The information here emphasizes the foundations of being successful at writing, because they 

are drawn from the laws of how to succeed at anything.  

These lessons that I have learned in the last six months, both in my own writing and reading I 

have done on the subject of success.  

Here, in ten lessons, I want to share with you what I have garnered. 

Detroit | day one (that is: initial thoughts)

Detroit is absolutely everything I had imagined. I wish I had come sooner, maybe, but am also glad I came as soon as I did. I am sure, incidentally, that I will be back many more times.

There are so many moments when I feel intellectually stiffled - when I feel utterly alone in my position on an issue and furthermore, in staking it, utterly alone against everyone else's opposing views.

Detroit was one of those things.
People can be so shortsighted; so literal.
"Why Detroit? Don't go - you won't like it."
"Yes. I will." I countered time and time again.
I knew I would.
And I do.

"But it's so... sad." They would say, binding the place up in words poorly suited to it.
"No." I would correct. "It is fascinating. Don't you think it's fascinating?" Always, though, I knew: the answer was no.

It fascinates me how we can build out a city - put so much love into creating these architectural gems - and then watch them collapse in economic hardship. These are not, after all, ordinary buildings. Detroit was expected to be (was?) something incredible - a source of substantial pride in the United States - and, for the first part of the Century, it was. And they built it accordingly. But then the economy collapses and, with it, their physical landscape. That is utterly fascinating - the evolution of a built environment as a reflection and manifestation of her people. It's even more interesting when it suffers a slow demise.

Of course, there were not so many words. I sound too preachy - or too heady, maybe - and I always get cut off.

Detroit is, unsurprisingly, utterly everything I had imagined... it is, I think, absolutely my favorite city

(more to come...)

Detroit | Michigan Building

Not enough has been written about the Michigan Building. Even the name itself implies a degree of anonymity; far less specification or importance than is warranted, given the story.

It is, I think, the most magnificently heartbreaking building I have even seen.

The entire structure is a manifestation of Eros and Thanatos - a true symbol of the sheer amount of love (energy; resources) a city can pour into her landscape, only to later lay out snares; to entrap herself, gut herself, lay her own skin stretched flat under the sun - inside out - to dry, before using it as a rug.

Such is what has happened here.
With the Michigan Building.
And nobody talks enough about it.

It is baffling - and fascinating - to me that we can come together and create something of this magnitude, as a reflection of our achievement; a testament to our capabilities; a reward for our collective success; an object of enjoyment - and then, in a single lifetime - in our own - together slay the creation; rip it apart.

They left the plaster molding intact.
It is a crude appendage of an era barely remembered - an era that has been lost, her artifacts destroyed. Everyone who enters the space is immediately aware of its barbaric reuse: the evidence of the destruction everywhere.
Everywhere.

Even the beams at one far end of the incredible, yawning, hollow space are still, after all these decades, clutching desperately to the heavy, dark burgundy fabric that hung over what was once the stage.
It is a ribbon, most surely from the pigtail of a child long gone missing, found weathered and tattered, tangled and caught, in a chain link fence.

To say that moment is marked in "heartbreak" is, you can understand, an understatement.

It is a gruesome reminder of what it once was, and what we have done.
Such is the Michigan Building.

Detroit | a cherished landscape

I love Detroit.

I am captivated by it; consumed by its poetry. There is no other place quite so mesmerizing, as far as the accidental art of an urban landscape goes, as Detroit.

And, to be clear, that is the real merit: "accidental."

It is not nearly so interesting to see something that was intended for your consumption, positioned in such a way so as to seem more beautiful to a passerby than it truly is - everybody loves the frosted windows; nobody considers the trash dragged out the back.

In Detroit, nothing is hidden. Everything is raw and honest. It has to be. It has no other choice but to stand, bare breasted, with stretch marks and scars outlining the lines as they really fall, drawing hashes over our airbrushed mental image. She stands, with blemishes and burns across the body; all the while with her face turned upwards into the hot, hot summer sun.

I love her for that. I am captivated by her sincerity - the simplicity and circumstantial display of everything that we are taught is ugly. While everywhere else, we see things nipped and tucked and tanned and toned and then turned, in just such a way, so as to dazzle and taunt; mislead and manipulate, here, in Detroit, we see only what it is - what is real, straightforward, "unpretty." And yet, as we look, she is also unmoving - accepting our gaze, unapologetic, as we stand there feeling very much as though we, too, are staring at the sun.

There is so much beauty in the grittiness of things - so much more aesthetic depth and richness to a landscape that evolves exactly as it was meant to, without pretending that it didn't. Here: the textures of broken glass and falling brick; the cacophony of a city's fabric tearing apart at the seams; dozens of textiles, strewn about in the streets or stood up along their edges.

One scarcely has to point and click, and the photo turns out beautiful.
I said that about Santorini, too.
I mean it more with Detroit.

Aesthetically speaking, never before have I seen such an interesting subject in a city. Where every other city's photos have been captured a million times, every story a regurgitation of another, here I feel that the images go on forever - I could stay for weeks and still discover more; turn a corner, widen my focus or narrow it, and see something new or different. I feel as though it is a fresh story - one just now being written and (unlike horrific Vegas) one that will not - cannot - be scripted, but must rather be written organically.

Perhaps I'm glamorizing - romanticizing.
Or, perhaps not.

From a study of The City as a reflection and manifestation of her people, Detroit is my favorite.
And I want, somehow, to be one of them.

Why I hate Vegas (it's not what you think)

Vegas and I don't see eye to eye.

We were destined, from the beginning, to exist apart from one another. For me, Vegas' role will always be the acquaintance kept at arm’s length rather than the hot fling she is for everyone else.

Vegas embodies everything I dislike. It is not because I'm opposed to gambling - I think gambling is fine, in and of itself (and, quite frankly, each time someone writes off my feelings for Vegas as an issue I must instead have with gambling, I kind of write off their intelligence.) Vegas has an identity that runs deeper than gambling. Everyone knows what the issues are; few take the time to name them.

So, in the interest of clarify, here's my critique of Vegas:

· It’s fake. The lighting is artificial. There are waterfalls falling out of and into nowhere. They pump oxygen into the air. (While I’m at odds with just about all the Vegas properties, it should be said that The Venetian’s “always-3 pm sunlight gondola” gives me some serious heebie-jeebies.) To be clear, I do know that, for many Vegas visitors, the charm lies in the fantasy. People often try to win me over by saying: “it’s like Disneyland!” (Often they emphasize their point by adding “…for adults!”) And yes, I can see the similarity, but that fact would carry a lot more weight if I liked Disneyland. But I don’t. (That shouldn’t surprise you – again, I too see the similarity...)

· It's maliciously deceptive. This is deeper than artificiality alone. I know that the people around me are being seduced and duped, and I don’t like that feeling. It's like sitting in a bar and watching a nice girl fall for the good-looking, charming guy who dresses well, smells nice, and tells her what she wants to hear. It’s a sinking feeling to later watch her leave with him. She sees him as the materialization of a dream. He sees her one of countless girls with whom he plays out this choreography every single night. And to suggest that she “knew what she was doing" - just like Vegas visitors - while it may be true, doesn’t ease my discomfort that she’s being had – just like so many people who make mistakes because they’ve “fallen for” the casino environment. Knowing this is happening isn't "part of the fun" for me.

· It's creepy. The "Big Brother" element weirds me out. Folks marvel at the sophistication of Vegas hospitality. I sleep in until 2 pm and the maids will never once knock on my door. The moment I leave my room for more than 5 minutes, though, my bed's made when I get back. That's not "cool." It's creepy.

· There is no community. Nearly everyone in Vegas is either transient or paid to be a part of the experience. There is no feeling of depth, and there are few genuine "locals" who can actually vouch for anything without being paid to do so. There are no roots and no relationships. (In other words, everyone may “know your name,” but it’s from a place of showmanship rather than sincerity.)

· There is no substance. Sure, gambling is obviously the biggest revenue for Vegas. The second biggest, however, is conventions and conferences. If your second largest economic driver is empty space, you don't have a soul. Plain and simple.

· I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Women aren’t regarded very respectfully in Vegas. We don’t just get checked out by men; we get “valued.” Money buys you a lot in Vegas - to most of the guys strolling the casino floors, every woman is there to be paid off, and they have no qualms about eyeing her accordingly. I don’t like that.

To be brutally honest, my sentiment on Vegas is that it’s a place to escape the real world when the reality you’ve built isn’t good enough. And because I so deeply value the process of investing in a rich reality for ourselves, I will always be incompatible with a place that stands for escapism and emptiness.

buildings | feathers

The buildings of small towns seem, to me, like feathers stuck in a barbed wire fence.

Driving on road trips from Chicago to our respective childhood homes, JD and I often pass through small towns. Very often, these small towns have one or two buildings originally erected, years before, to meet a specific purpose and have, since then, spent decades in slow deterioration; the paint blistering away to infinite tones of gray.

Seeing them prompts me to wonder about their story. I wonder how they got there, how long they’ll hang on like that, clinging. There’s no apparent ecosystem of infrastructure to validate or support their presence. They merely are, with little reason to be; as such, they could cease to exist altogether one day, and nobody would be the wiser.

Buildings in cities, however, are the feathers of a bird. One doesn’t have to wonder about their existence; for the most part, their story is immediately apparent. You don’t have to agonize over a building’s longevity, either: should it ever cease to be where it is, another will quickly take its place.

Feeding Strays

Most of the dogs on Santorini are not entirely stray - a sharp contrast to many of the town's we've seen. The residents put collars on the dogs, let them lie inside the doorway of their shops, and offer them food. The exception is one little black dog we nicknamed "Little Girl." She has a small frame, maybe 25 or 30 pounds, and is all but skin and bones, which, under a short coat, would be revealed to every passerby. As it is, her weight is disguised by long silky fur - like that of a border collie - all over her body.

The first night we see her, we pause to pet her sleeping figure. We both run our fingertips over the small ribs; press our palms gently against her side, her back. We feel the definition of a protruding spine. And a hollow place where a belly should be. She is warm to the touch but gives no response to our hands or our gentle words.

Never have I seen a dog refrain from so much as single tail twitch in response to human affection.
She was virtually lifeless - a dog form of sharp, small angles rather than curves.

The second night, we planned ahead, and collected a small baggie of dog food from a dispenser we'd spotted. We find "Little Girl" curled up in the same tiny ball form, this time hunkered down away from the crowd, in the shadows against a wall. We approach her, and I pour a small pile of food out in front of her I feel skeptical, given her demeanor the night before, and prepare myself for the possibility that she might refuse it.

She lifts her head, though - slowly - and sniffs at the food. She leans and takes just one piece into her mouth. She chews it slowly.
One more piece, and chews slowly.
Over and over, first only one piece at a time and gradually several together. I pour more out as she eats, always scooping it closer to her muzzle so she doesn't have to stretch to eat it. Each time I put my palm to the ground, against the food, my hand only an inch or two from her mouth, she pauses and waits for me. Not once does she growl or snip; never does she give any indication of fear that I may take the food back. If it crosses her mind, it doesn't show. If she fears it, she's already acquiesced to the possibility.

She's quiet and patient.
Each time I put my hand down, however, I do so only to add more food. And push it closer.
She eats it, more quickly now - taking mouthfuls and chewing at the pace of a normal dog.

And its not until two-thirds of the way through our baggie, when perhaps she sense a filling belly, that she pauses after swallowing.
And then she looks directly at us.
Her expression is deliberate - neither cowering nor begging.
She instead simply looks at us and regards our figures, for the first time, in the shadows.
This is the first I've seen her eyes, and am startled that they are not the dark espresso of most dogs, but a light golden brown; a gentle, brilliant color.
When she looks at us, she is for a moment absolutely still, and I think all that matters in the entire world is communicated between our brown eyes.

My heart melts seeing her expression.
She likely knows we've never met.
I assure her that it's okay.

And then, just like that, she turns back to eating, still delicately.
I pour the rest of the food out for her.

We watch as she transforms back into a dog, re-adopting the typical mechanics and characteristics. She stretches a paw forward to braces herself as she eats. She thumps her tail once, tilts her head.

And, with a bit of kibble still left, she suddenly stands, chewing and swallowing her last bite, sniffs the ground and then approaches us - not to be pet, but rather, to our delight, to stretch, very doglike - first reaching her front paws forward while leaning back on her hind quarters, then repeating the motion the other way.

We coo at her like she's our dog - "good girl!" - and she sways her tail in response.
All this from a dog who didn't so much as twitch 24 hours ago.

She leaves those last few bites of kibble - as though to say, "I may be hungry, but I'm still a lady" - and jumps down onto the sidewalk, trotting across it to sit in front of a restaurant patio, at which one or two patrons have watched the whole thing, eyeing us with the same expression - the chin resting in the heel of the palm, eyes gentle, and mind in a different place - we had just given her for 15 minutes.

Her gait is dainty, her position poised, as she sits in front of the restaurant. I would like to imagine that, now that she's made herself known by emerging from the shadows, she will likely garner herself enough scraps to survive.

Indeed, the next night, we collect another bag of dog food, searching for her. We see her, for the first time, no longer curled tightly against the shadows of a wall, but trotting, gaily, along the sidewalk. And though she's happy to greet us, wagging her tail at our "Little Girl" calls though I doubt she actually recognizes them and diverging from her path to greet us, she is uninterested in the food this time around.

"Good." I observe. "Maybe she's done better for herself."
She doesn't linger long, but allows herself to be pet, briefly.
Then she leaps over a low wall, with the mannerisms of a fox, pausing just a moment on the other side before trotting off into the dark.

I think, for a moment, that perhaps we fabricated an image from the two nights before. I know, however, that the ribs, still sharply defined beneath her coat, don't lie. As she regards us, wagging her tail, I feel satisfied with my effort, confident that it made a difference, however small, to her.

I wish, suddenly, there was a way to make her know it was mutual. 

An Artist's Paradise

Oia is an artist's paradise - the stuff of dreams for sculptors, photographers and architects. The town is a sculpture - with walls meeting the edges of streets, boosting them up through narrow staircases or down along others; everything - a surface space, a line - washed white and loudly honest in the sunlight, at all times of the day. It yields new forms, new masses, new rhythm. The plants, even, are of the utmost architectural characteristics - neither cactus nor flower, they are succulent, confident, understated - potted as a single statement, a presence along a line, an articulation on which to give pause in an otherwise fluid sentence.

The homes are carved neither out of nor into the stone face of the cliff, but hang suspended while simultaneously nestled somewhere between the two - such a brilliant and efficient use of its environment, one can't help but to infer that all architects were meant to include this place in their formal study of the discipline. Without it, they fail to fully experience the pleasure of being embedded in places so balanced, so pure in their details, very few are needed to hurl the individual into a new understanding of place.

It's a symphony of balance - the use of white space versus color is almost witty; the wash of crisp solids and the tiny spurs of a potted plan set against it; the angles, seeming both measured and accidental - poised yet relaxed - that cast shadows with such proportion it can scarcely be improved upon, should we ever try. Intricate texture showcased against smooth walls; wood grains highlighted in sunlight; every color, brilliant in the sun - an artist's paradise.

You scarcely have to do anything but hold your camera out in front of you and click - much like the technique employed in firing muskets during the Civil War - and you've captured something flawless. With the right eye of a ready mindset, this is precisely how one feels with every moment the continue to look. 

The Sensation of Your Heart's Shape

I loved Istanbul.

From the first morning there, I knew. More than love at first sight, based not on superficiality or chemical reactions or coincidental timing, it was a place that the human psyche knows without knowing - the manifestation of your best dreams, things you never knew you never knew; things you always wanted. And here they are, in a place. And you're there too.

There are a handful of moments in Istanbul that will forever define my perception - or, more specifically, serve to transcribe the experience into words.

One of those happened on the ferry from the Prince's Islands to the Asian side.

J and I were riding side by side. We'd been lucky enough to get a seat on an increasingly-crowded ferry, and after a long day of bicycling up and down the gentle hills of car-less island roads, alongside the horse drawn carriages and underneath the trees that hung low in the humidity, we were quiet together, lulled by our exhaustion, our buzz, and the sound, the sensation of the boat.

I was people watching.
(The people in Turkey are some of the most watch-worthy.)

Near us, another couple was sitting. He had his arm around her; two adolescents who were suspended, for the moment, somewhere timeless in their own lives. He was utterly invested in her; he leaned in as he spoke to her, politely, his head against hers. I eyed them as one does a mirror - I felt that the four of us were riding together, and I felt their affection as our own.

Two old men got on and made their way to the area where the four of us were sitting.
The first one sat between us two couples, scooting toward J and I to leave space for his companion to do the same.
The second man, moving hesitantly, bracing against his cane between steps, reached the bench and began turning to sit down.

And then came the moment when my whole world - my entire perception of the human spirit - changed forever.
The boy, who just moments before was so completely absorbed by his existence and that of his companion, suddenly glanced up at the man next to him and, reacting by instinct rather than analysis, stood quickly and, with obvious care, took the man by his shoulders, one in each hand, and helped him sit down on the bench.

The man, once seated, thanked the boy.
And the boy, it was plain to see, nodded back with the utmost genuine expression.
It read such sincere compassion for his fellow human that, had I been his mother, I would've cried over what a beautiful person I'd manage to raise.

My heart absolutely melted that day. For a moment, it turned to liquid inside my chest and hung heavy between my ribs, pulling on the base of my throat. And then it gradually re-assembled itself into its shape. 

El Salvador

There's a group of seven us arriving on the same flight for the wedding that weekend. One of the individuals in the group is returning to El Salvador for the first time in a decade after living there for a few years during their civil war.

Seeing her eye the countryside outside the window while we're en route to the hotel, I ask, "does it look the same to you or different?"
"Both," she says. "It's more developed, but it's also so much dirtier than I remembered."

So much dirtier, presumably, than many of us prefer.

"Dirtiness" is a fascinating concept - a subjective evaluation we cast over places that are not our own while traveling. The word - and the environment to which it is assigned - is held at arm's length, like something we will endure in the short term and not something by which we want ourselves associated.

We cast the "dirty" judgement on places that contradict the "standard" we have established as the default (that which is "dirty" is the opposite of that which is "clean" - and therefore that which is "good.") The perplexing thing about "clean" is that, in the American mindset, it often belongs to images of suburbia: the white picket fence, the bright green grass, the freshly waxed SUV.

And while these elements are certainly "clean" (that is, largely free of litter, graffiti, homelessness or grime), they are also so resolute in the pursuit of "flawlessness" that they tend to border "sterile." So while they may not be "dirty," they also aren't fully alive.

Humans aren't perfect; to be fully human is to be a little bit gritty - even "dirty." Places that maintain their grittiness seem, to me, a more honest extension of the people living there and, as such, more real. In the same sense that we assert that we feel more comfortable around genuine people, it seems we should, by extension, feel comfortable in genuine surroundings.

I know I myself will choose an honest environment over a fake one in any circumstance, and it prevailed even on this trip, when J and I left the luxuries of our hotel to spend an afternoon in Centro - an area densely populated with wooden fruit stands and coconut water, porn videos and electronics - an area so sharply contrasting the plushness of our accommodations, we were informed to stay inside the taxi and lock the doors.

"If you do get out," the concierge said, "you will have to take your watch off."
"Done." I thought. "A few hours of an experience as rich as this or a few hours wearing my watch and talking about celebrities with everyone else out by the pool? That's an easy one."

In the end, we did convince the driver to let us walk around.
And, yes, it was dirty. And impoverished. But it was also energized. And full of life.
We came back smelling of body odor, frier oil and city grime.
And we were all the richer and more fortunate for it.

Tan skin

Pink bodies in the sun, soft along their ribcages and across their chests. They rub oil all over themselves and lay motionless; surrender their skin to the sun. 
Still they are pink. They will not tan. 


Tan, instead, are the locals, whose skin maintains a rich brown year-round, built deep through the layers over years of being in the sun. 


"Time for another beer!" The pink ones yell.
Lots of beer, but just one brand, so they booze themselves the same way day after day. 
They're happy to do it.
It's holiday, after all. 


The locals bring it, smiling back, in a different way. 
Is there anything else?
Not right now. Cheers. 


The pink ones eye the tan shoulders as they walk away.
They slather on more oil. 


It is the benchmark against which they measure the success of their hours beside the pool.
And it is simultaneously the identifier of who to call at, when it comes time for another beer.  

Turkish coast

Off the Turkish coast, the water is warm; almost too warm. And it is like nothing I've ever been in before, with the calmness of a lake, but the salinity of the ocean. Diving in, I momentarily forget that this is the Mediterranean Sea and not the freshwater my intuition knows; as my body breaks the water and I taste salt along the inside of my lips, for a second, my instincts feel deceived, and I suspect there's something wrong with the water.


By the time I surface, however, rationale - always the slower companion to our instincts - has reminded me that it is only a nook of the Mediterranean, which in turn is only a nook of the world's oceans and is, as such, salt water.


I wipe the water from my face, pressing the flat underside of my knuckles to my brow. The water clings to the skin, latching to the body even where it is submerged below the surface, and after several separate efforts across my face, I can feel that the salt molecules remain. I acquiesce.


The body floats easily in salt water, rendering swim and play more enjoyable; leisurely. The entire boat - over a dozen of us - dives into the water from the railing. 


The water, however, though it is welcoming, also corrals us away from the sloping, rocky shores; though nearly dead in sea life, one creature prospers here. 


"Sea urchin," we decipher through the charades of one of our boat companions, whose English, much to our amusement, offers the initial translation of "sea eagle."
Sea urchins, all along the shore, with needles that cannot be pulled out, she warns us - as attempting to do so leaves broken fragments buried beneath the skin - and must instead be doctored with olive oil.
"You cannot go onto the shore."


I nod, but am skeptical, sensing that the warning is not a real danger but rather the precautionary result of one or two accidents shared between boat captains after tours like ours. 
I wager that the shore could feasibly be conquered around the sea urchins.


However, our next anchoring, pulled closer to the shoreline, reveals, just under the surface of strikingly clear water that occasionally rivals the Caribbean, dozens of black mounds the size of tennis balls tucked between rocks only a little larger. The ratio of urchin to rock is roughly 2:3.


I quickly calculate the logistics: urchin density, foot size versus footing size, likelihood of accurate foot placing.
I decide that they're probably right. 

Turkish coffee

"It's perfect," we assure him.

The table is no more than a piece of laminate wood - reminiscent of desktops from school days, but with no more surface space than a pizza box - braced unevenly on four long legs; shafts of cast aluminum.
It wobbles. It is the cobblestone sidewalk and it is the table.

The café owner, an older man who just moments before was deep in conversation with the only other patron in the restaurant, is holding the table with both hands, one on either side, trying to reposition it evenly.

"It's perfect," we say.

We wish we understood the Turkish word for "perfect."

They probably have one even better than ours – a word that serves the purpose of expressing not only evaluation, but gratitude.

Such diction would suit them.

He steps back from the table, only mildly satisfied.
We order two coffees.

"Şeker?" He asks.

It's close enough, when spoken aloud and in this context, that we understand.
"No." Simply, without thanking him for asking.
Here, we grant one another the courtesy of simplicity.

He stares at us.

He thinks it's him - you can see immediately, there in his eyes: a flash of concern.
He wants us to be happy with our coffee, and he knows coffee takes "şeker."
Especially when ordered by the tourists.
But he's nervous to ask again, so doesn't. And leaves.

Moments later, however, he returns to our table, with two teeny empty coffee cups, two teeny saucers.

And the şeker cubes.

He gestures as though to drop a cube into one of the delicately painted cups, repeating: "şeker?"

He urges us to understand the question; to understand that our proper answer is "yes."

"No," we try again, as gently as we can, so as not to bruise his efforts in hospitality.

He looks down at the tray, bewildered, and retreats back inside.

A few minutes later, he brings the coffees - no şeker - leaves them on the laminate, and goes back inside.

I brace my knee gently against the table to steady it, so that the coffees are not inadvertently capsized.

We each take our teeny cup between two fingertips, and bring them to our lips.

I am sure he watches us from inside the cafe, and, as we drink, likely experiences a wash of relief and surprise; a sentiment of pride.

We drink slowly, to savor his efforts.
We maintain that at least that should be done "right."

The coffee is good, as they all are.
It hangs in temperature, warm from first sip to last - a balm to the senses.
And it is marked by the same gentle-gritty charm of the table, of the neighborhood itself.
It is vibrant but understated - a comfort without pretension or showmanship.
In that sense, the coffee is a true extension of the people.

It's perfect.