January 1st Monthly Mix-it-up post

Further thoughts on "housework" and approaching our work from inside or outside From the archives: showing and telling

My spare room… at the moment…

I’ve been wondering what to write to kick off this first of the month post. Or dare I say, New Year’s post. Resolutions are strange things; I come at them sideways, when I do. I’ve learned. At the moment I’m in the middle of household moving.

Not so long ago I wrote a post about housework, those necessary tasks that can get in the way of writing. But these last few days of helping others move their homes—one into my home, and one out—has been revelatory. Or at least provided some bit of insight (?) over how we approach our work.

It may be something to consider if you do the resolution thing:

Might you approach this year inside out or outside in?

I spent the day yesterday cleaning an apartment. You might guess, from my housework post, that I generally start with What MUST Be Done. The stuff that if you don’t do it, Something (imagined?) will happen. Or not happen. The stuff I think is important; there’s a bit if a default button to this. When we have a default, it can be useful to take another look at it. Here we go…

I started cleaning with the bathroom. Probably my least favourite thing to clean, but also the most rewarding in many ways. Most definitely a Must.

Not far into the process of cleaning, I realized that in spite of all the cleaning of the place as a whole that had been done to that point—and it had!—there was much to go. It really is quite different cleaning a home for a new tenant, for someone who is not yourself nor anyone you know. So the three hours or so I’d had in mind began to loom as possibly twice that.

At that point I realized my partner-in-cleaning was trying to clean the Venetian blinds. Always an ugly challenge, but these were old blinds and halfway through the wash-up a couple of plastic ends decided not to enter into 2025, but to throw themselves on the floor. I suggested the landlord might just replace the things—as they should—and maybe do something else. But my partner is a thorough person, and his thoroughness has served him well in many ways through his life.

Just as my approach—which I think of as “working inside-out”—has worked for me.

Yet another reminder of how we are all so different and work accordingly. We work and we write according to who and how we are.

By “inside-out,” I mean that I think in terms of what MUST be done, followed by what I’d like to do (but often doesn’t get done as the Must list always has a new iteration by the next day).

“Outside-in” for me means working on what I would consider “peripheral” tasks, secondary. Yes, they’re things that—ultimately—need to be done. But there’s a chance I might not have time, and the world will go on without that particular piece.

Understand that the blinds were not included in the to-be-cleaned list from the building management, nor were they filthy. A mop-up would have been nice. But there was the toilet to scrub and the fridge insides and the dead bugs inside a lighting fixture were casting shadows on the wall. These things seemed more pressing.

As explained in the post about housekeeping, the only way I’ve managed to write and publish as I have is with my inside-out thinking: Get done what must be, and what most means something to me. After that, let a few things slide…

But I recognize the value in starting with what might come last on my list. (No, actually he started with mending the holes in the walls. Important, and on the list! But for the purposes of my point, I’ll use the blinds as example.)

Starting with the end of your “list” might mean taking a breath and realizing the whole process will take longer.

It also means that you HAVE to get through everything for when that inspector shows up. And we’re all haunted by the inspector—even if it’s only our writer-self checking in to see if we’re getting to where we want.

This is the value in outside-in work: by starting with the peripheral, when we do get to the core, the thing has been done well. The process might take twice as long. So be it. At times, we need to take and to make that time.

As I scrubbed cupboards and shelves, I thought about how in writing, when I begin on the outside far reaches of the project, it sets a different type of pace and mode. Slow. (Might this be a piece of the “retreat” mode we’ve been discussing these past weeks?)

It’s a process of circling instead of diving in. Walking around the walls of an ancient city before entering. Researching. Allowing myself to go down rabbit holes. Allowing myself to get a bit lost. Even really lost. Maybe forgetting the word “allowing” even, and just going with a blessing. Forgetting a clock, a deadline. So often, when I get into this mode, I’ve discovered new depths for the story. It’s as if, because the foundation is deeper, I can add more floors; there’s a stability.

My approach is usually to pound out 500 words a day. And there is a lot to be said for this—to keep this constant, whether “good” days and “bad” days.

But there’s also a lot to be said for doing a little writerly reconnaissance, building, building toward whatever it is, knowing the full “work” of the task is ahead… and understanding that all effort is a part of that.

Then too, different projects might require different approaches. But before we default, we might consider a change. A project that might be deemed “quick” might develop another layer by taking this time. A slow project might be moved along by beginning with what must be done and now.

But to take that pause, to reconsider. Yes, it’s retreat, however momentary.

At the moment, as I complete this post, that extra room of mine is still filled with all those boxes and more that needs to be moved and sorted. If I’d started with the room, this January 1st post would reach your inbox mid-month.

Similarly, since my 60th birthday last spring, I feel a need to write certain stories and abandon others—with no regrets.

We pick and choose.

Those stories that I most want to write, I’m going to start with the Venetian blinds. I might even pick up those brittle broken ends from the floor and find some special magical tape to reaffix. I’m going to work on what I most want to do—as thoughtfully as they ask of me, at whatever pace they ask.

You?

Archives

Two from January two years ago, working with that dusty axiom about ‘show don’t tell’—always worthy of a re-visit.

Part I —

And Part II —

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I’ll complete the series of posts on “retreat” in the next week or so. Did these recent days and weeks have any quality of retreat for you?

Workshop update

Please note that one of our recently posted picturebook submissions has been re-written. (Check out the comment area for #25, and add your thoughts).

If anyone would like to submit work—picturebook, poetry, nonfiction, novel chapters—please let me know. Email: alison@alisonacheson.com

Here’s a post about how to access the Unschool Workshop Space.

CORRECT instructions for finding our workshop space - AND how to get notifications

And a post about how to workshop:

Note: Workshops are for paid subscribers only.

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For 2025, wishing you the fruitful tension of peace and push to write.

So grateful you are here—thank you!

Alison