For me, minimalism is not about having too much or too little but just the right number/amount. We have a good-sized library of kids’ books (reading on Kindle isn’t the same), board games, puzzles, art supplies, LEGOs—all of which we use. We hardly have anything we don’t use, and when we come across it, we toss it or, if it can be donated, we donate it. I have tons of glass jars from instant coffee, baby food (see my glass menagerie of kept jars?), and so forth, which I use to organize. We do lots of reusing and recycling, and our house is pretty tidy for having two kids. We saved almost everything from Baby #1 so that we didn’t have to buy near as much for Baby #2—about seven years’ worth of clothes. Minimalism is not about having a sterile, generic-looking house but about not having a bunch of clutter or junk you don’t use. This year, I’ve been channeling my inner Buddy the Elf and paper crafting whenever and wherever I can. I’ve noticed that pages on minimalism consider experiences better than things. However, missing from that rationale is that the experiences of reading a book, playing a game, doing a jigsaw puzzle, painting a picture, and building a LEGO creation include using things. You can spend thousands of dollars on a Disney vacation (experience) that lasts a few days or a hundred dollars on a handful of board games (things) that will give you many more hours of enjoyment. And the memories made in Disney World (speaking from personal experience) are not as sharp or wonderful as the thousands more made elsewhere—in the everyday.
Bill was an outdoorsman,
Phil, a door-to-door salesman.
The first made hats out of rabbits,
the second pulled rabbits out of hats.
though cut from the same cloth,
had been sewn into different patterns.
Though they didn’t always understand one another
when it came to what they liked to do for fun,
they shared what it was like to be
the children of the people
only they had ever known as parents.
He was a loiterer,
she, a litterer.
It was a match made in Lincken Park,
for what was trash to her
was treasure to him.
When she cleaned up her act,
he found a new trade as a junk collector
& she, a junk dealer.
When they reconnected on a park bench
over brown-bagged tuna fish sandwiches,
they went into business together,
making bank from Marie Kondo’s
She was the honoree at every society,
the awardee at every ceremony,
& the All-American, Latin-speaking valedictorian
who immersed herself in the Greek life.
He was the backseat driver of the clown car
in Driver’s Ed one summer
for the non-criminally offensive,
the 1-liner, 49er during last period Study Hall
for 4 straight years,
& the cafeteria cut-up on Fried Chicken Day.
When these 2 met at their 20-year high school reunion,
she realized that her accomplishments
were what she was able to make herself do,
what he was able to make others do,
which was to laugh & forget—
even if it was just for a moment—
about why they were crying.
Experiences are better than things, but a thing can lead to experiences.
The minimalistic creed that experiences are always better than things is untrue, for I say it depends on the experience (and the thing).
The experience of going to the library was okay, but the experience of a book I buy and read multiple times is better. Since Covid, I have subscribed to Amazon Kindle Unlimited for me and have added many more books to my daughter’s physical library.
The experience of shopping for a new phone was a hassle, but using that phone to group text my friends for a girls’ night out, promote my Instagram poetry, or play Scrabble is better; buying a new TV was forgettable, but having a 42″ screen where my husband and I watch Wheel of Fortune is better. We bond over skewering Pat for some of the !@#$ he says and the contestants for the bad calls they make.
The experience of going to the Pensacola Interstate Fair was all right (I make better, and cleaner, fair food at home), but I’ve had just as much fun playing with my daughter in the big blow-up pool (a “thing”) in our backyard.
Some experiences have sucked (like revisiting the Italian restaurant where my husband and I used to go when we met ten years ago), where my time would’ve been better spent watching the current Holiday Baking Championship.
However, some experiences have been wonderful. Sometimes, the simplest experiences are best, such as having a meal at Chick-Fil-A with my family (before Covid), meeting friends for drinks and tacos (or one-on-one for coffee), reading a new bedtime story, playing board games, singing Christmas carols, trying a new baking recipe (will be making my first savory cheesecake next week), making Christmas placemats (a laminator is a must for any homeschooling classroom), creating unique Christmas cards via TouchNotes for some of my friends, and so forth.
Experiences like these are what life is made of, and most of them aren’t Facebook or Instagram picture-worthy.
There’s a great quote in the movie Tully, in which Tully tells Marlo (a married mother of three young children who seems to be struggling with the baby blues) that she hasn’t failed but has made her biggest dream come true: “That sameness that you despise, that’s your gift to them [Marlo’s children]. Waking up every day and doing the same things for them over and over. You are boring. Your marriage is boring. Your house is boring, but that’s … incredible! That’s a big dream, to grow up and be dull and constant, and then raise your kids in that circle of safety.”
You don’t have to experience something new every day because every day in and of itself is an experience. My best experiences haven’t always included pictures but are in the stories I tell and the memories I share.
When my job situation often changed (the nature of being a student worker), with my husband and I moving every two or three years (you have to go where you can afford to live), I found myself in a constant state of anxiety. However, we are finally reaching a level of homeostasis that feels an awful lot like contentment (not to be confused with complacency).
I love my life as it is, which doesn’t mean that I don’t want more; I am just working towards being more. I tell my daughter in homeschool: The more you know, the more you can do, and the richer your life will be, for the more you will be able to do for yourself and others.
I remember a motivational speaker once saying that the two things that make us happiest are helping others and creating something. This Christmas season, I have been fortunate enough to do both. I would also say that staying connected to friends and family (in-person, if possible, or via telephone, not text) is the third part of that, for being giving of your time is the greatest gift.
” … remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).
Every year, my husband’s family has a Dirty Santa Christmas party. There’s the pepperoni bread that all the teenagers love, the Bisquick sausage and cheese balls that are like savory truffles, and the peanut butter balls that take an insane amount of powdered sugar to make. When my husband’s aunt was alive, it was an Italian feast, even though she was from Maine and of French heritage. (My husband’s father, however, was Italian.)
I don’t even bring food anymore because there is so damn much, and there are always too many desserts.
My brother-in-law (BIL) works for a liquor distributor, so there’s always plenty of booze—a must-have for any holiday gathering where you’re seeing people you only see once a year and only because you happen to be related.
As an introvert with social anxiety that I happen to hide very well (unless I’m around someone I think is hot or who I swear is laughing at me on the inside, which is sometimes the same person), I’m not a fan of parties with lots of people I don’t know well. It’s emotionally exhausting, but my six-year-old daughter is an excellent buffer.
As I am not friends with any of my husband’s family on Facebook, and my husband ditched his account last year, we’re like the black sheep (my husband likes to call himself the stray sheep) of his family; in my family, I’m like the golden fleece, so think what you will about that!
I cannot compete with my husband’s successful sisters, whose careers have been established for years, while I’m just figuring things out. Their kids are either grown or practically grown, whereas my daughter is in the first grade, and I am working on my bachelor’s degree at 38. I guess my husband and I are both late bloomers.
So, “Dirty Santa” is always my favorite part of the party. I don’t have to mill around and mingle, as we are all sitting in a circle, opening presents. Honestly, gift giving is a lot more fun when it doesn’t cost anything, and it’s all in fun—when you don’t give a rip about what you’re going to get because you already know it’s probably going to suck.
The year I was into couponing, I tossed some Maxi pads (with wings; it isn’t an angel in need if it doesn’t have wings) in a gently used gift bag. That might have been the year I threw in a Bing Crosby CD in which he dreamily crooned about white Christmases (what the hell is wrong with a green Christmas where we don’t have to worry about dying in a blizzard?). So yes, sanitary napkins + Bing = a hard candy Christmas.
Another year, I gave away some DVDs when a lot of the same movies I could just DVR (I will never, however, ever part with my Wings and I Love Lucy collection). Last year, I threw in some unused candles (from my candle collecting days), and this year, there’s “The Shrimper”—a running gag that’s been passed around my husband’s family for years. I don’t mind getting stuck with it, as I am the queen of regifting. Most of the gifts probably end up donated or regifted anyway; I am not spending money on a nice gift so I can get a bobo present. A good third of Dirty Santa gifts were left behind last year, which, to me, shows a complete lack of regard for the hosts, who have to figure out how to (probably) dispose of them.
Since I have run out of things to regift (ain’t minimalism great?), I thank God for “The Shrimper,” as it’s recurrence keeps another item out of the landfill.
This book was absolutely unputdownable. It also had a strange effect on me: It put me into decluttering mode, bigtime, and I’m already a minimalist (which is not about having nothing but about having just the right amount). The Girl Before made me think of all the clutter in my life, including the clutter inside my head as well as virtual clutter.
The questionnaire scattered throughout was a novel idea (no pun intended)–a nice change from opening a chapter with a quote that someone else said.
Here is just a glimpse of the great writing in The Girl Before (p. 170): Sometimes I have a sense that this house–our relationship in it, with it, with each other–is like a palimpsest or a pentimento, that however much we try to overpaint Emma Matthews, she keeps tiptoeing back; a faint image, an enigmatic smile, stealing its way into the corner of the frame.
Any book that gets me to learn a new word must have something going for it.
I found it interesting that there were no quotation marks in Emma’s story, and even more surprising that it look me halfway through the book to notice this. Is this a UK thing? I remember reading Harlequin Presents (a long time ago, so don’t judge) when apostrophes were used instead of quotations. I am curious what the symbolism was concerning this.
Edward Monkford (what a pretentious name) evokes an image of Howard Roark from Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead; other goodreads reviewers have said Christian Grey (I’ve seen the movies but never read the books and don’t care to). His crazy house rules were fascinating–like the technology that controlled the house was fascinating. The concept that a house can change the way you live–actually help you live a better life–was fascinating, but Monkford himself was not. He was a pig–just a well-spoken, better-dressed, affluent pig. (I guess you really can put lipstick on a pig, if you got enough to smear it with.)
The women, Emma (THEN) and Jane (NOW), are both incredibly stupid because they think with their sex and not their brains. Emma seemed like a closet hoarder who called her paramour “Daddy” (ew) and liked angry sex (even when the anger was directed at her). She was a freak (yet we are told that she has charm).
Compared to her, Jane was milquetoast.
Even though the women were not portrayed positively, it’s fairly realistic as a lot of women choose to have babies with losers (because they don’t need a man and think their sons and daughters don’t need a father). Sometimes, they even marry these losers and put them above their children. It’s incredible how many male inmates (who are in prison for murdering women) get fan letters from women–women they’ve never even met.
I never knew whether Emma’s last story was for real but it doesn’t matter. THEN & NOW were both enjoyable.
But, back to Monkford: A lot of women like egotistical, controlling men because they see it as take-charge masculinity. Monkford is one of those ruthless corporate types who is also a temperamental artist (an explosive combination) who would blow up a perfectly decent development that would provide affordable housing to families if it had his name on it, but there was something about the aesthetics (just like the idealistic, anti-hero Roark) that didn’t align with his vision. Furthermore, Monkford uses women until he uses them up (after all, he finds them so easily). He is incapable of love, for he can’t even love his own, imperfect kin. He likes his women damaged (and in the beginning anew stage), so he can turn them into blank canvases he can manipulate. His structures may be beautiful, but I didn’t get the impression they were very green. All that extra, empty space has to be heated and cooled.
Monkford was such a commanding presence in the book that the other male characters barely registered.
The ending was weak, but the journey was so intriguing, the destination didn’t matter (it just knocked off a star). It had the mysterious feel of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, which I appreciated, but the nightshades of Gone Girl came out of the blue, for there was a turn in one of the character’s motives that wasn’t led up to or hinted at in any way. I understand the author doesn’t want the reader to figure out everything too soon–in case the reader loses interest, but if the writing’s good, your reader won’t; a well-written story always trumps a twist ending. What’s more, when the true villain is revealed, it’s anticlimactic, for it seemed I found out at the same time the author did.
Jane could’ve used a little more to wrap up her story but then we’re introduced to Astrid, and the story stops (and, I’m sure, begins again there). I did, however, like the tie-in to the title in the last part of her story. Nicely done!
Besides being unputdownable, The Girl Before has immense readability.
One gripe that has nothing to do with the book: I don’t like authors going by different names. What is the point of this? Are they not allowed to cross genres with the same name? There is another author who does this, and I find it irritating.
Mrs. Gladys Georgana Green lived in the poor house—
just under the poverty line.
She wore her shoes till they lost their soles,
her hand-me-down clothes till they became careworn,
after which she would tear them into strips
for the rag rugs that scattered her floors.
Her margarine tubs were repurposed as Tupperware
and often filled with potato cookies at Christmastime
for the less-fortunate children.
All her furniture had come to her secondhand,
sometimes even thirdhand,
and she was grateful to get it from those who had
cared for their property so well.
Her electronics were outdated,
and her desktop computer was a dinosaur near extinction,
but they worked well enough to suit her needs.
She was not a minimalist by choice—
she’d never been privileged enough to make that choice,
for it had always been made for her.
Yet this frugal way of living had become a part of her,
for she saw the wisdom in making things last.
On Thanksgiving Day,
when she was minding her own damn business,
enjoying her weekly indulgence of Salisbury steak,
and her holiday slice of pumpkin pie that had her name on it
(in whipped cream, no less),
some whippersnapper in a Greenpeace shirt
started filming this “cow killer”
with his brand-new iPhone.
Being more going-of-age than coming-of-age,
she’d had enough of these people and their hypocritical crapola,
and so, with a spry little sprint,
she confronted this little mockumentary maker,
this propagandist punk,
and rammed her paper straw where it never meant to go.
So I am getting ready to start summer school—another semester of work-study, a class I don’t care about, and Intermediate Algebra, which is very scary indeed. I made a D in it about 15 years ago, and I allowed my fear of failure—that I wasn’t smart enough to finish college—keep me from finishing.
Like Buddy Sorrell on The Dick Van Dyke Show, who could make a joke out of any word (including “milk bath”), I can write a poem on the spot about any word, but algebra has always been the bane of my educational existence.
Except this time, I am so close, with only a handful of credits left before I can work as a copy writer somewhere in the medical field.
This time, I will have access to free, on-campus and virtual tutors.
This time, I will have a few hours a day at work to focus on this class I will never use again, but will help me get to wherever I am going—that place called Career Contentment. I don’t know where that is yet, for I am still following the map, but I have a pretty good idea of what I will be doing when I get there.
My time is more limited than ever now, so I’ve decided to cut most of my weekend posting (I’d just had enough of dealing with self-inflicted “homework” first thing in the morning). The one exception is a single #SundayInspiration Instagram post (see bottom) with what I hope will be considered “thinking outside the candy box” (https://www.instagram.com/sarahleastories/?hl=en).
I’d forgotten I even had an account until a recent Facebook friend followed me, and I thought, well, I do have one of those phones now, and I can take a shot of virtually the same thing (which will help establish my “theme”). I’d tried Pinterest, but it’s more for consumers than creators, and I like the cleaner, sleeker look of Instagram. Pinterest also seems like it’s more for crafters than writers or photographers. Furthermore, Instagram seems much more personal, more real. It has a freshness Pinterest does not.
Streamlining your writing process is a form of minimalism, and it can help you focus on the more important aspects of writing (like improving your craft and getting paid). It’s good to have a social media presence (any publisher expects this if you’re unknown), but the thing that will get you noticed is submitting, submitting, and submitting [quality] work.
Instead, I will be posting two writing “workshops” (basically, writing tips) the first and third Mondays of the month, and two book reviews the second and fourth Mondays (as I will be dropping the Micropoetry Monday segments at the end of the year). The latter will help me read more (as I’ve been reading poetry this semester, mostly), and the workshops are bits I post on my Facebook author page, so they’re already “baked in.”
This is one way of maximizing your writing. To come up with brand new content for every social network isn’t worth it, because chances are, your friends, fans, and followers won’t catch your post on every network anyway, so it won’t seem like you’re repeating yourself.
One Instagram post a week is much more doable than six a week on Twitter—that’s too much time taken away from submitting. LinkedIn is limited, because it’s what I call “businessy-boring.” I rarely write a post specifically for the network but if something I write works on there as well as my blog, I’ll post the whole piece on there (as people hate being redirected to another site).
LinkedIn is basically Facebook-lite, complete with memes. All too often, I see “connections” sharing someone else’s quotation. Have an original thought in your head, for goodness sakes! It doesn’t do anything for your brand, only the person’s you are quoting. Though I haven’t been guilty of posting such things, I have been guilty of sharing them.
For me, it’s all about creating content. The only new blog post I have to create is on Wednesdays—the Writer’s Digest poetry prompt. Fridays are taken care of, because the posts are based on my novel, rewritten in verse form (which I’ve decided to make a separate, promotional chapbook out of called Mormons on the Beach).
I plan on spending the writing part of my weekends writing new work, editing existing work, and submitting to publications. I haven’t been doing enough of that lately, but then when I come home from work and school, my daughter’s just gotten off the bus and I only have about about three hours with her till it’s time for her to go to bed. I need that time with her as much as she needs my attention. If I didn’t have her, I’d be spending too much time clacking at my keyboard, my eyes glazed by the glow.
Social media has its place, but it should be used wisely and sparingly. Though Twitter is the equivalent of a bathroom wall, it isn’t a complete waste of time, as one of my friends hooked up with a local philanthropist through it who self-published her book; I got a guest blogging gig.
As for WordPress, don’t waste time reblogging (people never return the favor), unless you’re reblogging your own guest post. Don’t waste valuable real estate on your blog with someone else’s work. Again, this is elevating their brand, not yours.
What’s more, it’s one thing to use stock photos on your blog (I balked for the longest time, but I’m just a fair photographer with a lousy camera), but photography is Instagram’s focus (pun intended). Strive for authenticity.
The moral of this post: Write, edit, and submit—that’s the real work. That social media stuff is a hobby. A blog is the best of both worlds—a hybrid, of sorts. Someday, I hope it will make me money (either directly or indirectly), but in the meantime, I’m having lots of fun doing it.
It starts with the self
Minimalism and mindfulness
Productivity over busyness
Variety of experiences
Eat well, pray often, love the one you’re with
Making time, taking time
Endless intellectual curiosity
Not afraid to say no
Thank you, please, and I’m sorry
Making Love to the Max
She saw the American world as a stewardess,
the European one as a Navy officer,
but when she saw Max,
she saw the entire world.
She was minimalist,
in her not-so-little-black dress;
he was a maximumist,
in his double-breasted,
they made 2.
Red, white, & blue had turned his heart purple
his eyesight dim, his limb
but he came home to a child
whose future been fighting for.
She was shampoo,
for she cleaned him up,
He was conditioner,
for he softened her,
tho’ they spent their nights
getting tangled and dirty.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
She loved crosswords,
he, word searches,
they found the clues to the mystery
that was their unsolvable life.
To be fair, I didn’t finish this book (which is why it gets one star). I was only able to finish the Introduction (which was promising), and most of the first chapter. When Mr. May talked about design (and I’m not even a design major, much less an artist), I was engaged, but as soon as he started talking about cars, I could feel myself enter outer space.
I like to say that “Brevity is literary minimalism”; Mr. May broke his own rule by using the phrase “shrug our shoulders” (xii)–what else would one shrug?
I was actually looking for a book on minimalism (not the art, but the lifestyle), and this book just seemed to go on and on about other things. I must say, the title was clever, but the six simple rules he comes up with don’t make a lot of sense to me, such as “Doing something isn’t always better than doing nothing”. (One could replace “doing nothing” with “doing something else”.) That said, I did like his “better with less” (xiii) adage (in conjuction with, but not opposed to, “more with less”). Another quote I liked was “The ability to use patterns to create meaningful relationships from seemingly unrelated elements is a uniquely human attribute and the hallmark of creativity” (12). This has to be one of Glenn Beck’s favorite quotes.
However, he lost me when he said, “If I could figure out how to get this particular portfolio of insight and inspiration into your head with an affordable form of magic that removes the written word entirely, I would” (xv). A writer wishing the abolition of the written word? I don’t think so. Not enough people read now.
I do believe that “what isn’t there” is as important as “what is there”. We always talk about the need for plenty of white space in writing or “reading between the lines”.
I tried to read a few of the contributors, but couldn’t get into those either. This book might’ve made a good series of heavily truncated blog posts, but that’s about it.