All Hail the Phone Note (and the Hot Tub)

A musing about writing a book, recent reads on awe and purpose, etc,. after discovering I can actually write and publish from my phone too.

Published January 24, 2025

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Kindle and hot tub
Disclaimer: I actually did go back and finish this post later. But it sets an excellent precedent.

Oh, this is dangerous to know. For the last two months or so that the blog’s officially been live again, I’ve been under the impression I could solely write from my laptop. (Or, more accurately, rough draft in a paper notebook, transfer over, and realize I’ve added approximately a thousand words in the process.)

When first re-launching Words Like Silver, I considered “phone note”-style posts peppered in with the others. Muscle-wise, I know that practicing “writing short” benefits my craft, my point, and my readership. I’ve had annotated quotes to share, thought maps to eventually unfold, etc,. etc,. It hasn’t quite happened yet because whenever I turn to WLS instead of paid work or book edits, I end up lingering and getting into a rhythm—usually a longer one.

The CMS (content management system) strikes me as ever-so-slightly finicky on mobile, but this will do nicely. I’m sure it won’t be as strictly formatted as my other shares, but (!!!!) all you need to know is that I’m writing this from a hot tub and rather pleased about the turn of events.

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To Paint a Picture of the Current Moment

I’m not sure what’s in the air — fresh eyes and the finality of my book process, reconnecting with old hobbies, spending as much time as possible outside, a sense that I’m so where I’m supposed to be (both physically and intellectually) — but I’m feeling really good.

I consider myself a very grateful person overall, but fall 2024 felt way more anxious than my usual. I was so flattened by burnout that’d accumulated over the course of a few years of book fatigue but felt simultaneously undeserving of the exhaustion. I build a lot of my identity around being an infinitely capable person, so the persistence of the fatigue threw me off-balance.

I don't necessarily feel like I was my best self, but also like trying to push past it was necessary to getting to the next step, so I don't regret it or feel like I could have handled it differently. I didn't feel depressed (although I did try medication at a doctor's recommendation and didn't think it was for me) but just so worn-out, to the point of slight neuroticism. The weight of the pursuit really hit, right before the end.

Still, I tried to remind myself that most people who try to write a book quit. And then again for people who try to get literary agents. And then that small population of us who got literary agents, left them, got new representation again by going through the querying process a second time, and then rewrote an entire book from scratch four times in four years.

1% odds maybe, then the <0.06% odds, then the 0.06% odds again—all in preparation for (still low) odds on submission. And then all the rest.

And then, of course, there's the difference between finishing writing a book and finishing a book you consider good (to whatever level you deem worthy of that definition.) Because most writers would agree that your first draft usually sucks.

But all in all, I think everyone roughly feels equally wiped. My pursuit of a high standard in my own goals will never entitle me to believe my tiredness is somehow deeper than anyone else's. I’m pushing myself as far as I can based on my limits, not a standardized set, and I know mine just happen to be (perhaps unusually) stringent within my domain—and perhaps somewhat foreign to others. I’ve recently been on a kick of craft-related memoirs by writers, and recently finished up Novelist as Vocation by Haruki Marukami — which I’ll link when I’m not in the aforementioned hot tub.

A lot of his points about physical strength and stamina struck me, and aligned so entirely with my perception of writing as a pursuit. I’ve tried to reorient myself to chase excellence instead of perfection, and his musings and rhythms fit with what I’ve learned about my own.

Keep your head down. Work hard. Nobody will understand the process (so it’s isolating by definition) but you do it anyway because that's "you." And you never stop until you feel like it’s your best work. A lot of the pleasure and success in it can be visible to others, but if you only focus on the visible wins—well, you'll never make it. Because 95% of it will never matter to anyone else.

I still have a few to-dos to check off for my author career before relaxing my grip on this project, at least, but I’ve reached the point of knowing that I will not regret this. I have done everything possible. I have given Mountain Sounds my all—for much, much longer than I even wanted to, and I stuck with it anyway.

As Murakami pointed out, it’s very easy to give up the more “traditional” spheres people think of when they think of making sacrifices for your calling. It's not all that hard to sacrifice things.

I didn’t mind the all-nighters or the 5 AM wake-ups, juggling multiple jobs to “pay myself in time,” going days without seeing anyone because I couldn’t risk losing a specific flow zone. Time, money, energy, happiness, whatever. I can endure pain, I can handle rejection, and I can push myself long past the limit. I know I stay in hard things I've committed to until the bitter end, even when others quit.

But it's much, much harder to sacrifice the other things you deeply want within the process, and your book might ask you to do that too. (Mine did.) It’s dedication long past desire, the willingness to give up those core things that “make you you,” at least temporarily. That’s the real test. The actual sacrifice—the things you want almost as much as what you're doing but have to triage.

And the commitment comes before any assurance of an end result. You just have to know that you just have to do it the best way you can, because anything else would be a disservice to you, the work, and the process. For however long, and however much that takes.

The last revision before this one didn’t feel great, even though I knew I’d made the book so much better. It was the right revision, at least, and thorough, and I would have been extremely satisfied going out on submission with that draft.

Getting the news I still had more edits to do — even small ones — before going on submission broke me in early November. It was author equivalent of your high school lacrosse coach going, “I know I said those were the last ones, but get back on the line” after your supposed last all-out sprints. You know you still have more in the tank, but Sisyphus be damned—you also might end up yakking in a trash can on the side of the field afterwards. (Hence, Murakami's musings on athleticism and novel-writing's parallels. Stamina and conditioning, baby.)

I’m glad and lucky that, at the end, I’m finishing* on a revision that’s felt euphoric the whole way through, and I am so, so unshakably proud of my novel. I pray and pray that Mountain Sounds is the manuscript that breaks me out, because that would be the privilege of my life. If not, there is not a single thing I could have done differently. And that was the line I needed to hit.

So maybe I’m satisfied because I hit that line. Because I finally know that whatever happens, I did that. I’m not referring to the book itself or the time dedicated to it or even the depth of what I gave up in order to do this — but that I can finally feel at peace knowing I didn’t listen to anything other than the need to give it everything I had until I was personally, finally, done. (I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of “earned beauty” lately too in regards to nature, hiking, awe — and this feels similar. But more on that connection later.)

So I really should give myself more credit for always saying “I don’t think I can do this anymore” and then forging ahead anyway. Especially on here, I feel like I've probably only ever shared the trenches and my moments of absolute weakness in the name of transparency. Feeling weak has nothing to do with actually being so, and I know that my endurance, discipline, and patience will pay off in some form, even when a lot of the nuances of the process will only ever be known to me.

So, a Short Happy List:

So recently, I've felt way more like myself again. Not even because of time off or the holidays. I just hit a point of resonance, or grace, or a sense that this is all right—maybe because of the books I'm reading or where the book is or even what interactions I've had lately. I'm an optimist, I seek beauty, etc,. so I can't imagine a reality in which I am not hopeful. But I'm not always at peace.

The weird arc of a long-form project is that, as Their Eyes Were Watching God says, "There are years that ask questions and years that answer."

I absolutely loved 2024; it was one of my favorite years, and undoubtedly also one of my hardest. I absolutely loved so much of it, but it was also the low point of this process: when you're so close to the end that you almost feel like you've lost.

It's not like I suddenly have more time (I absolutely don't) but I've felt extremely balanced and real and connected with a lot of my old, pre-book self in a way that makes me overall feel way more "like myself." I often say that I'm a happy person, but don't necessarily know if I'm a very peaceful one alongside that, and I've generally been at peace lately. I'm not sure if that's because of my book status or my growth as a person—probably a little of both, because one always affects the other. Either way, I don't think that specific grip of turbulence will come back, at least not for a long time. Someone once asked me how writing this book had changed me, and this is a moment that's answers.

It's not like everything is perfect right now. But, out of what I can control, life is good and I'm open to seeing what happens in the rest—either being surprised or continuing on my projected factors. Hoping for the best possible outcomes, of course, in all domains.

For now, I have a cadence I'm appreciating, projects and trips and people I'm excited about knowing, and all in all am really relishing some of the details of my life. There's a lot of newness in January that is actually secretly oldness, meaning that pieces of myself have come back because I finally have room to value them. It almost makes me feel like I'm back in high school again.

I'm the epitome of a Renaissance gal, in that I generally feel best when I have a healthy balance of pursuits: an instrument, a visual art, a sport, etc,. Or maybe that's just how my parents raised us for that good ol' college admissions checklist. Either way, it's wired into me.

And it's not just hobby-wise, either. I'm keeping up with enough, and not guilty over the rest (because I'm doing my best, even when things fall through.) For the past year or two, I've very careful about never, ever saying I "don't have the time" but that I'm "not prioritizing something" at a given moment—because we, for the most part, all have the time but I decide in a given season what matters most to me.

I feel best about myself when I'm in the thick of a long-running creative work, and I'm finally feeling the benefits of the Mountain Sounds process ripple into who I am personally—so I have a newfound appreciation for how it's shaped me. I'm not getting everything I want, but I was never meant to either.

And a happy list (or some wins) because why not:

  • I’ve gotten to be outside a whole lot. I’ve figured out my bistro table setup so I can spend most of the work day on my lanai too.
  • My ballet muscle and memory for it has started coming back, and I've been so pleasantly surprised by how right it all feels. I'm never going to be the best dancer ever, but I'm definitely meant to have it as a core part of my routine.
  • I’ve been able to keep my small goals and promises to myself—so get a little thrill over cooking more, darting around the island, following through to make plans with old (and new) friends I wouldn’t naturally see.
  • My friend and I figured out the jets in her hot tub and they feel incredible, especially because it’s been chilly up on the North Shore lately. The state change after a long day of work, the daily dip, the recovery aspect after exercise. Absolute bliss, and reminds me of my winter in Park City.
  • I've gotten a small assortment of paid subscribers to Words Like Silver and that’s just such a win. Yeah, labor of love, but obviously, I’m trying to grow it so I can do more of it?
  • Right now, I don’t feel like anything I’m doing is wasted time. Some of it's that I'm loving my schedule, and some of it is that I've gotten better at redefining what "rest" is for me based on what my brain craves (versus the guilt of "doing nothing.") Energy-givers vs. energy-takers. Creation hours vs. consumption hours.
  • This means absolutely nothing if you’ve never danced but I also somehow got my tilt back (which used to be “my trick”) Re: the ballet wins, I definitely thought that my lines were lost to me forever, so it's been gratifying to see how much my body is meant for this specific pursuit. Energy-giver, for sure.
  • Been reading and writing incessantly, of course. Have felt very in-tune with myself, and like I'm the smartest iteration of myself that I've ever been, but not like I'm overthinking or running myself in circles, which is probably the best way to be. I've hit a good mix of internal vs. external, at the moment.

A Reading List That's Led to This Moment of Gratitude (and Major Takeaways)

I might splice this one into a separate January-inspired book list, but for now, it'll live at the bottom of this post.

  • The Nature Fix by Florence Williams — Nature is dose-dependent. The more you're outside, the better it feels. It's good for indirect focus, breakthroughs, engaging the more long-form happiness within your brain (here-and-now processing vs. dopaminenergic.)
  • Awe by Dacher Keltner — Tell me why I was blinking away tears reading this one? Why I got chills, and the sensation of awe itself? Because awe isn't just those gorgeous natural views and Pale Blue Dot-esque epiphanies, like I expected. It's also present in moments of collective effervescence (flow, like I knew) and moral beauty—like witnessing others be kind or overcome hardship, for example.
  • Novelist as Vocation by Haruki Murakami — Novel-writing is work that nobody else will ever fully understand or appreciate (and it's different for everyone.) And when it's lonely, you do it anyway because you have to. But I appreciated his emphasis on the stamina and physicality of it, because the energy portion is something I don't think gets enough credit.
  • Grit by Angela Duckworth — About your ability to stick with who you are for the long-game, but also that you're more likely to spend your grit on something that you believe genuinely makes a difference to others (true.)
  • Meditations by Marcus Aurelius — All you can control is all you can control. Do it anyway, etc,. etc,.
  • The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz — Everything that really, ultimately makes us happy looks like limitation at first. The brain has a way of justifying everything. The more options you give yourself to overwhelm your next move, the less satisfied you'll be with whatever you choose.
  • The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera — Would you rather be light and unattached, or burdened by the weight of commitment to something? How do you strike the balance?
  • Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger — The pursuit of spiritual treasure is the same fallacy as these "shallower" attempts at cobbling together meaning. So just let it happen. Someone can help you navigate your questions about this, but it's ultimately your choice. It's good to be self-aware, but there's a limit.
  • Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes — There's nothing more pure and all-consuming than this desire to do the work that you're meant to do, and the bliss of it (and impossibility of doing it all) is a constant pressure that can make it hard to feel like you're connected enough to others or like they can fully understand.
  • The Molecule of More by Daniel Z. Lieberman and Mike Long — We tend to tap into the "wanting" system more than the "pleasure" system, and then get confused why we still feel unsatisfied. The chase, the desire, the addiction.
  • Upstream: Essays by Mary Oliver — Nature and literature are two of the ways the author feels most connected to the universe, and most capable of exercising her individual will within it. A balance of sensory inundation and openness with the genuine action that she feels called to. Alone, together. (I find Mary Oliver strikes a great balance between solitude and connection, personally.)
  • How to Be Multiple by Helene de Bres — Twinhood (and my status as a twin) challenges a lot of existential beliefs about what it means to be a singular self (and has always complicated my relationship to others.) We always want to know out exactly who we are at a given time, and not having that makes us uncomfortable.
  • The Science of Storytelling by Will Storr — We all want to be the hero, and we want to believe in a myth of perfect control, and every meaningful story happens when something forces us to change or feel dissonant. (It always will.) All meaning constructed is in hindsight, anyway, alongside with every pattern we can point to that might help us go forward.

So maybe I've been a better writer lately because I've been considering the effects on myself recently, or vice versa? Either way, I have a shiny draft and a pervasive sense that everything will shake out the way it's supposed to, no matter what happens. And maybe that will help me let go of the control some more too.

Either way, 2025 is feeling good.

calvi
A favorite strip from a favorite childhood book.

1.

Asterisk because a part of me does suspect this is never actually over.

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