I recently attended a Track and Field coaching seminar, where I received my first exposure to formal training for coaching. The whole experience was absolutely amazing, and I was very thankful for the opportunity to learn from such erudite and experienced instructors.
One of the most interesting things I learned about at the seminar (there were several, but this one lends itself well to blogging) involved a grounding in modern training theory. The reason I think it lends itself well to blogging is that, while each track discipline has it's specific drills, exercises, and components of fitness, all share a general understanding of how training should be approached today (or so the theory holds). So while I come from the topic from a distance-running perspective, what follows bears some application to all perspectives. That is my hope at least.
An important element of contemporary training theory assumes that specific stresses lead to specific adaptations. Accordingly, the most specific exercise you can do to prepare for an event is the event itself, repeatedly (ex: an 800m runner races the 800m over and over, or a triple-jumper performs dozens of full jumps in practice).
Due to its specificity, such an exercise has great value. It also bears great costs; you'll get a strong stimulus, but it will heavily tax your body. This leads to another important element of contemporary training theory, in that the benefits of an exercise should always be measured against its cost. An athlete's ability and available time to train is a scarce (that is to say "finite", not necessarily "small") resource, so choices must ultimately be made about how those resources can be effectively employed. Like an investor, athletes and coaches might ask, "How can I get the most goods for the lowest price?" where "goods" are adaptations to training, and "price" is the stress that compels those adaptations to occur, and the time in which it all happens. Among other reasons, elite athletes are excellent subjects for study in this regard, because they spend so much time near this margin of their training potential. Many surpass it from time to time and become injured, but that detracts little from the fact that professional athletes are constantly assessing the cost-benefit of everything they do in training, since their reputations, livelihood, and long-term health depend on it.
These are important insights, particularly within the context of training theory's history. It was long believed (and remains so in some circles) that the best training was simultaneously the most rigorous; the more pain one could endure, the faster would be one's progress. Contemporary training theory suggests otherwise. An athlete has a finite amount of time and durability with which to maximize their athletic potential. They have scarce resources with which to work, and as with money, poor investments in training can leave a promising prospect prematurely destitute. I believe this is something worth remembering.
Happy Friday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Friday, March 23, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Embracing the unplanned
I found myself flipping through various train-schedules today, searching for a combination of trains that would get me to Villanova University tomorrow by 4pm for a coaching seminar. Plotting an optimal time-schedule, I proceeded to sketch a back-up, and a back-up to the back-up. Yet I had to admit that something might still go wrong; one can't entirely eliminate uncertainty after all, and perhaps that's okay. In fact, this uncertainty may even lead to unanticipated, positive outcomes.
That is the subject of a post today by ZenHabits blogger Leo Babauta. In it, Mr. Babauta suggests that because the future is unknown (and unknowable), all future plans and predictions possess a great deal of uncertainty:
"We cannot predict the future with any kind of certainty," he says, "and the idea that we can plan based on these shaky predictions is a nice fiction, but a fiction nonetheless. We do not know what will happen today, much less the rest of the week or month."
While I believe Mr. Babauta may overstate his case (after all, how could a company of a country function without some degree of planning?), his is a point nonetheless worth considering.
As I've found on a number of occasions, plans do not always unfold as predicted. When this happens, it seems we are faced with a choice; do we become frustrated, reevaluate our plan, or embrace some combination of both?
According to Mr. Babauta, life is better lived when one learns to "let go" of the need to plan and demand certainty of an inherently uncertain world. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring can be scary sure, but it can also keep us open to new possibilities. "If you don’t expect things to go as planned," says Mr. Babauta, "you are open to the unplanned." As plans are by nature imbued with uncertainty, perhaps this is a useful habit to adopt.
Plans can help us accomplish many complex tasks, but they can also hinder our ability to embrace all the things, events, and people that unexpectedly come into our lives. This is unfortunate, particularly since all these things, events, and people have the potential to change our lives, perhaps for the better. It's hard to say with certainty of course, but then that's just the point. Plans have their value, but so too does an appreciation of their limits.
Something to consider, anyway.
Happy Thursday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
That is the subject of a post today by ZenHabits blogger Leo Babauta. In it, Mr. Babauta suggests that because the future is unknown (and unknowable), all future plans and predictions possess a great deal of uncertainty:
"We cannot predict the future with any kind of certainty," he says, "and the idea that we can plan based on these shaky predictions is a nice fiction, but a fiction nonetheless. We do not know what will happen today, much less the rest of the week or month."
While I believe Mr. Babauta may overstate his case (after all, how could a company of a country function without some degree of planning?), his is a point nonetheless worth considering.
As I've found on a number of occasions, plans do not always unfold as predicted. When this happens, it seems we are faced with a choice; do we become frustrated, reevaluate our plan, or embrace some combination of both?
According to Mr. Babauta, life is better lived when one learns to "let go" of the need to plan and demand certainty of an inherently uncertain world. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring can be scary sure, but it can also keep us open to new possibilities. "If you don’t expect things to go as planned," says Mr. Babauta, "you are open to the unplanned." As plans are by nature imbued with uncertainty, perhaps this is a useful habit to adopt.
Plans can help us accomplish many complex tasks, but they can also hinder our ability to embrace all the things, events, and people that unexpectedly come into our lives. This is unfortunate, particularly since all these things, events, and people have the potential to change our lives, perhaps for the better. It's hard to say with certainty of course, but then that's just the point. Plans have their value, but so too does an appreciation of their limits.
Something to consider, anyway.
Happy Thursday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Creative Problem-Solving: Its Two Forms
An adaption of Jonah Lehrer's new book, "Imagine: How Creativity Works," appeared this weekend as The Wall Street Journal's Saturday Essay. It's an interesting read, particularly in the way Mr. Lehrer describes the application of creativity in problem-solving.
According to Mr. Lehrer, creative problems come in two general forms: those requiring insight, and those requiring industry. The former--that is, creative problems requiring insight--are often solved through the introduction of novelty, while the latter--creative problems requiring industry--find their solution through trials of tinkering, experimentation, and the exhaustion of possibilities.
Day-dreaming, grogginess, and exposure to a variety of information and experience tend to help with solving insight problems, while diligence, patience, and logic help with industry problems.
As Mr. Lehrer points out, however, it's not always clear what type of problem one is facing. In his own words:
"If different kinds of creative problems benefit from different kinds of creative thinking, how can we ensure that we're thinking in the right way at the right time? When should we daydream and go for a relaxing stroll, and when should we keep on sketching and toying with possibilities?"
His answer is based on an understanding of perspective and feeling; that is, where does one stand in the process of solving the problem?
"When we don't feel that we're getting closer to the answer" he says, "[when] we've hit the wall, so to speak—we probably need an insight. If there is no feeling of knowing, the most productive thing we can do is forget about work for a while. But when those feelings of knowing are telling us that we're getting close, we need to keep on struggling."
Mr. Lehrer's description is therefore interesting because it highlights the way creative ventures can--and often do--require both forms problem-solving approaches. At times we need insight, and at times we need industry. For example, some people have ideas about a book they'd like to write, but few combine that insight with sufficient industry to write it. Others possess great diligence, but lack ideas or insight. Combined, be it in a single person or in a group, the two approaches seem likely to produce a great deal of creative output. Understanding how and when to apply each approach, however, would seem essential.
Something to consider anyway.
Happy Sunday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
According to Mr. Lehrer, creative problems come in two general forms: those requiring insight, and those requiring industry. The former--that is, creative problems requiring insight--are often solved through the introduction of novelty, while the latter--creative problems requiring industry--find their solution through trials of tinkering, experimentation, and the exhaustion of possibilities.
Day-dreaming, grogginess, and exposure to a variety of information and experience tend to help with solving insight problems, while diligence, patience, and logic help with industry problems.
As Mr. Lehrer points out, however, it's not always clear what type of problem one is facing. In his own words:
"If different kinds of creative problems benefit from different kinds of creative thinking, how can we ensure that we're thinking in the right way at the right time? When should we daydream and go for a relaxing stroll, and when should we keep on sketching and toying with possibilities?"
His answer is based on an understanding of perspective and feeling; that is, where does one stand in the process of solving the problem?
"When we don't feel that we're getting closer to the answer" he says, "[when] we've hit the wall, so to speak—we probably need an insight. If there is no feeling of knowing, the most productive thing we can do is forget about work for a while. But when those feelings of knowing are telling us that we're getting close, we need to keep on struggling."
Mr. Lehrer's description is therefore interesting because it highlights the way creative ventures can--and often do--require both forms problem-solving approaches. At times we need insight, and at times we need industry. For example, some people have ideas about a book they'd like to write, but few combine that insight with sufficient industry to write it. Others possess great diligence, but lack ideas or insight. Combined, be it in a single person or in a group, the two approaches seem likely to produce a great deal of creative output. Understanding how and when to apply each approach, however, would seem essential.
Something to consider anyway.
Happy Sunday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Learning to Teach Ourselves: Adaptive Learning's Potential
This morning, I found a fascinating blog post by writer Christina Yu entitled, "Why Students don't like school--and what Adaptive Learning can do about it (part I)." In it, she discusses and extrapolates upon some ideas from a recent work by cognitive scientist Daniel T. Willingham on modern research into how people learn. In broad strokes, the basic premise of both (though I have yet to read the book, but this is what I gather) is that the learning process is improvable through the use of adaptive learning.
Yet what is adaptive learning? At first glance, it would seem a nebulous topic with many manifestations (see an earlier post on a similar subject here). At its base, however, adaptive learning's central idea argues that learning is optimally achieved when it conforms to the particular needs of the learner. That is to say, the teaching process should, ideally, continuously "adapt" to the evolving abilities of the student, addressing particular needs with particular interventions.
A core assumption of this system is that every "learner," while sharing several general characteristics, is in other ways highly unique in their abilities, needs, personality, and circumstances. To the extent that it's possible then, "adaptive learning" seeks to make the teaching process congruent with the unique learning-characteristics of each individual.
In this regard, adaptive learning has methodological affinities with the coaching philosophy of exercise-physiologist Jack Daniels (you can view that post here). Both approaches seek first to ascertain basic abilities, strengths, weaknesses, motivation, and overall goals, and second to apply general physiological or pedagogical principles to individual cases, noting how the athlete or student responds. Over time, experimentation, experience, and a growing understanding between teacher/coach and student/athlete may reveal the specific ways in which the strengths and weaknesses of one's charges may be optimally improved. Following this process, each student/athlete should have a program that suits their particular needs for challenge, engagement, feed-back, and recovery.
Jack Daniels has often said that "Runners should understand exactly what each day's training is designed to accomplish" (Daniels' Running Formula, Second Edition, 8). Perhaps students would benefit from a similar approach, particularly with regard to how the day's "training" is designed to help them personally. Such an approach might be difficult for modern teachers to implement on a mass scale in classrooms, given the way school is currently conceived as a sphere of activity divorced from the rest of life. It is perhaps one reason why adaptive learning advocates have been pushing for greater use of technology in the classroom, giving teachers the space they need to address individual learning-snags while keeping everyone else engaged.
Yet technology has yet to reach a point where the ideal of adaptive learning can be fully realized. This is not necessarily a bad thing, just something worth remembering. As a society, we put a lot of pressure on teachers (and ourselves, when we leave school and become our own teachers) to produce results in a world where education is becoming a sort of arms-race. Adaptive learning may prove an exceedingly fruitful approach to pedagogy in the coming years, but that doesn't mean it will turn everyone into mathematicians, engineers, and other professionals that contemporary American society deems (in the abstract anyway) valuable.
If anything, adaptive learning's real promise may lie in the way it helps individuals understand the particular characteristics of their own cognitive machinery. Such self-knowledge may help people understand why some abilities come to them easily, and others do not. On another level, it may also help them empathize with the unique mental characteristics of others, particularly those who see the world differently. At its root then, adaptive learning may not only help us learn new things, but it may also help us learn to teach ourselves, and that is as worthy a goal of formal education as I can imagine. Something to consider, anyway.
Happy Tuesday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Yet what is adaptive learning? At first glance, it would seem a nebulous topic with many manifestations (see an earlier post on a similar subject here). At its base, however, adaptive learning's central idea argues that learning is optimally achieved when it conforms to the particular needs of the learner. That is to say, the teaching process should, ideally, continuously "adapt" to the evolving abilities of the student, addressing particular needs with particular interventions.
A core assumption of this system is that every "learner," while sharing several general characteristics, is in other ways highly unique in their abilities, needs, personality, and circumstances. To the extent that it's possible then, "adaptive learning" seeks to make the teaching process congruent with the unique learning-characteristics of each individual.
In this regard, adaptive learning has methodological affinities with the coaching philosophy of exercise-physiologist Jack Daniels (you can view that post here). Both approaches seek first to ascertain basic abilities, strengths, weaknesses, motivation, and overall goals, and second to apply general physiological or pedagogical principles to individual cases, noting how the athlete or student responds. Over time, experimentation, experience, and a growing understanding between teacher/coach and student/athlete may reveal the specific ways in which the strengths and weaknesses of one's charges may be optimally improved. Following this process, each student/athlete should have a program that suits their particular needs for challenge, engagement, feed-back, and recovery.
Jack Daniels has often said that "Runners should understand exactly what each day's training is designed to accomplish" (Daniels' Running Formula, Second Edition, 8). Perhaps students would benefit from a similar approach, particularly with regard to how the day's "training" is designed to help them personally. Such an approach might be difficult for modern teachers to implement on a mass scale in classrooms, given the way school is currently conceived as a sphere of activity divorced from the rest of life. It is perhaps one reason why adaptive learning advocates have been pushing for greater use of technology in the classroom, giving teachers the space they need to address individual learning-snags while keeping everyone else engaged.
Yet technology has yet to reach a point where the ideal of adaptive learning can be fully realized. This is not necessarily a bad thing, just something worth remembering. As a society, we put a lot of pressure on teachers (and ourselves, when we leave school and become our own teachers) to produce results in a world where education is becoming a sort of arms-race. Adaptive learning may prove an exceedingly fruitful approach to pedagogy in the coming years, but that doesn't mean it will turn everyone into mathematicians, engineers, and other professionals that contemporary American society deems (in the abstract anyway) valuable.
If anything, adaptive learning's real promise may lie in the way it helps individuals understand the particular characteristics of their own cognitive machinery. Such self-knowledge may help people understand why some abilities come to them easily, and others do not. On another level, it may also help them empathize with the unique mental characteristics of others, particularly those who see the world differently. At its root then, adaptive learning may not only help us learn new things, but it may also help us learn to teach ourselves, and that is as worthy a goal of formal education as I can imagine. Something to consider, anyway.
Happy Tuesday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Patience with your self: How I learned the flip-turn
Listening to an account of how my brother, after nearly a decade in repose, made his triumphal return to competitive swimming today, I was reminded of a story from my own swimming past. For lack of a better name, let's just call it, "How I learned to do a flip-turn."
For those who don't know, a flip-turn is a technique used by pool-bound competitive swimmers to reverse direction at a wall during a race. It's only legal with two of the four strokes (freestyle and backstroke), but it's basically essential for competition (here's a video explanation).
It's not necessary early in one's swimming career, as most races last only a single lap; no change in direction, no problem. As one gets older, however, the race distance grows, as does the need for fast, efficient turns. It's at this point when most young swimmers begin learning the technique.
As I recall, this happened about the same time I took up long-division, and the initial results of both were about equal; that is to say, spectacular failures. I tried to make up for my seeming lack of natural ability by obsessively studying the mechanics of each from afar, watching, noting, and trying to imagine the process in my head. And while all this watching, noting, and imagining did succeed in heightening my anxiety over the matter, if did little to further my progress in learning the technique. A test-trial here and there confirmed my suspicion: I was not getting any better, and would soon be left behind by my peers.
I did master both skills eventually, and the break-through--much like the hang-up--occurred for very similar reasons. In both cases, forward progress occurred when I did the following:
1.) I stopped belittling my lack of skill.
2.) I broke down the difficult task into manageable components.
3.) I found that "manageable" was still too much, and simplified further.
4.) I performed the "simplified-manageable" components repeatedly.
5.) Finally, I gave the process as much time as required. It was a long time by most standards, but eventually it worked.
This was a very important learning experience for me, and may prove illuminating for others. Most everyone at some point has a hang-up, or becomes frustrated for lack of progress in a desired direction. I found that frustration is normal, but rarely leads to much good. As a friend once told me, all emotions are valid; all reactions are not.
In learning to do a flip-turn, the first step for me involved an act of patience; I had to stop hating my lack of skill before proceeding. After that, it became a matter of reasoned action, finding the optimal approach for mastering each component according to my specific needs. It took a while for me to master the flip-turn, but it might never have happened had that act of patience not occurred, and "never" is a whole lot longer than "a while."
Learning something difficult seems to take time and well-considered action. One's progress varies according to circumstances and the pace of one's learning curve. Accordingly, a little patience with your self in this endeavor may go a long way. Something, perhaps, to consider.
Happy Sunday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
For those who don't know, a flip-turn is a technique used by pool-bound competitive swimmers to reverse direction at a wall during a race. It's only legal with two of the four strokes (freestyle and backstroke), but it's basically essential for competition (here's a video explanation).
It's not necessary early in one's swimming career, as most races last only a single lap; no change in direction, no problem. As one gets older, however, the race distance grows, as does the need for fast, efficient turns. It's at this point when most young swimmers begin learning the technique.
As I recall, this happened about the same time I took up long-division, and the initial results of both were about equal; that is to say, spectacular failures. I tried to make up for my seeming lack of natural ability by obsessively studying the mechanics of each from afar, watching, noting, and trying to imagine the process in my head. And while all this watching, noting, and imagining did succeed in heightening my anxiety over the matter, if did little to further my progress in learning the technique. A test-trial here and there confirmed my suspicion: I was not getting any better, and would soon be left behind by my peers.
I did master both skills eventually, and the break-through--much like the hang-up--occurred for very similar reasons. In both cases, forward progress occurred when I did the following:
1.) I stopped belittling my lack of skill.
2.) I broke down the difficult task into manageable components.
3.) I found that "manageable" was still too much, and simplified further.
4.) I performed the "simplified-manageable" components repeatedly.
5.) Finally, I gave the process as much time as required. It was a long time by most standards, but eventually it worked.
This was a very important learning experience for me, and may prove illuminating for others. Most everyone at some point has a hang-up, or becomes frustrated for lack of progress in a desired direction. I found that frustration is normal, but rarely leads to much good. As a friend once told me, all emotions are valid; all reactions are not.
In learning to do a flip-turn, the first step for me involved an act of patience; I had to stop hating my lack of skill before proceeding. After that, it became a matter of reasoned action, finding the optimal approach for mastering each component according to my specific needs. It took a while for me to master the flip-turn, but it might never have happened had that act of patience not occurred, and "never" is a whole lot longer than "a while."
Learning something difficult seems to take time and well-considered action. One's progress varies according to circumstances and the pace of one's learning curve. Accordingly, a little patience with your self in this endeavor may go a long way. Something, perhaps, to consider.
Happy Sunday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Friday, March 2, 2012
Beyond traditional work
Approximately ten months ago I graduated college, and already I've heard several stories of people my age who, fed up with a lack of opportunities to do work that makes them passionate, have decided to make their own job from scratch. For some this is a radical approach, fraught with hard work coupled with much uncertainty. For others, it's an opportunity to figure out how to earn a living while doing something they love. Why settle for work you hate, they argue, if you can devise a way of converting your passion into a career?
This is an important issue, and one that may affect ever more people in the coming years. As Sara Horowitz has argued in The Atlantic, the labor market of the future may require a majority of us to embrace some form of non-traditional and/or freelance work to make ends meet. Others see much of the same, and suggest this may not be bad thing.
The declining availability of traditional work (a stable, 9-5 job held over the course of decades) may require us to make some difficult choices. Earning a living under such circumstances could prove a challenging endeavor, particularly if you're simultaneously attending school, paying off debt, and/or raising a family. There seems little use in suggesting it would be otherwise. But as we discussed in an earlier post, challenging circumstances are also opportunities-by-another-perspective; difficulty is uncomfortable, but it needn't be unprofitable as well.
In her article from above, Ms. Horowitz states that while many people during the recession took up freelancing and entrepreneurship by necessity, others chose it "because of greater flexibility that lets them skip the dreary office environment and focus on more personally fulfilling projects." It's not that everyone who left traditional work did so against their will; rather, some left because they wanted to do something more with their life than work a "dreary" job.
In short, current trends point not only to a decline in traditional work opportunities, but also to the growth of a class of workers who look beyond traditional work to pursue their passion. This is an interesting trend, and one that may do much good for the world. It is a path riddled with challenge and uncertainty, but also an increasingly-viable alternative to work traditionally understood. It's an opportunity to take something you enjoy and make it your life. If nothing else, it is something worth considering.
Happy Friday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
This is an important issue, and one that may affect ever more people in the coming years. As Sara Horowitz has argued in The Atlantic, the labor market of the future may require a majority of us to embrace some form of non-traditional and/or freelance work to make ends meet. Others see much of the same, and suggest this may not be bad thing.
The declining availability of traditional work (a stable, 9-5 job held over the course of decades) may require us to make some difficult choices. Earning a living under such circumstances could prove a challenging endeavor, particularly if you're simultaneously attending school, paying off debt, and/or raising a family. There seems little use in suggesting it would be otherwise. But as we discussed in an earlier post, challenging circumstances are also opportunities-by-another-perspective; difficulty is uncomfortable, but it needn't be unprofitable as well.
In her article from above, Ms. Horowitz states that while many people during the recession took up freelancing and entrepreneurship by necessity, others chose it "because of greater flexibility that lets them skip the dreary office environment and focus on more personally fulfilling projects." It's not that everyone who left traditional work did so against their will; rather, some left because they wanted to do something more with their life than work a "dreary" job.
In short, current trends point not only to a decline in traditional work opportunities, but also to the growth of a class of workers who look beyond traditional work to pursue their passion. This is an interesting trend, and one that may do much good for the world. It is a path riddled with challenge and uncertainty, but also an increasingly-viable alternative to work traditionally understood. It's an opportunity to take something you enjoy and make it your life. If nothing else, it is something worth considering.
Happy Friday, friends :)
If you liked this post, feel free to share it with others. Many thanks!
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The One-month Assumption Test
I heard a quote this morning that I enjoyed. Perhaps you will too. It went something like this:
"Humans often overestimate what they can accomplish in a day, and underestimate what they can accomplish in a year."
I don't know who coined it, or in what context it was delivered, but hearing it inspired a question.
What if the statement concerning a year is also applicable--on a smaller scale--to a month? In other words, humans underestimate what they can accomplish in the span of a year, might it also prove true for a single month? I suspect it might be so, and as it's the first day of March, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to try an experiment and find out.
So here's the experiment, and if it appeals to you I encourage you to try it as well: set a project that is just above what you feel you can reasonably accomplish in a month's time. The project should probably interest you, offer a reasonable challenge, and compliment your current life situation. It can be school and/or professionally related, or completely unrelated. The main point is to put yourself in a controlled yet stimulating setting in which an assumption about your ability is tested in light of experience. I've no idea what we might call it, except perhaps the "One-Month Assumption Test," or OMAT.
Anyway, if this appeals to you feel free to share your challenge in the comment section below (though of course, there is no pressure). To help things along, I will here note my challenge.
In the month of March, I will write a complete story of at least 15,000 words.
I arrived at this challenge in two ways. First, I've wanted to write a story for several years, trying a number of times, but never quite finishing. Second, writing a 15,000-word story requires approximately 484 words a day for 31 days. The number is high by my usual productive standards (which aren't great), but seems doable with planning and some effort. Placed within the context of a single month, the project seems challenging but reasonable, and that's the idea really.
Feel free to give it a try if you like. Even if you come by this post after today, it seems reasonable enough just to start the challenge on that date, and continue until the same date the following month. I'll post updates from time to time on my own progress, and at end of the month we'll see where we stand and how the process went. Much luck!
Happy Thursday, friends :)
"Humans often overestimate what they can accomplish in a day, and underestimate what they can accomplish in a year."
I don't know who coined it, or in what context it was delivered, but hearing it inspired a question.
What if the statement concerning a year is also applicable--on a smaller scale--to a month? In other words, humans underestimate what they can accomplish in the span of a year, might it also prove true for a single month? I suspect it might be so, and as it's the first day of March, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to try an experiment and find out.
So here's the experiment, and if it appeals to you I encourage you to try it as well: set a project that is just above what you feel you can reasonably accomplish in a month's time. The project should probably interest you, offer a reasonable challenge, and compliment your current life situation. It can be school and/or professionally related, or completely unrelated. The main point is to put yourself in a controlled yet stimulating setting in which an assumption about your ability is tested in light of experience. I've no idea what we might call it, except perhaps the "One-Month Assumption Test," or OMAT.
Anyway, if this appeals to you feel free to share your challenge in the comment section below (though of course, there is no pressure). To help things along, I will here note my challenge.
In the month of March, I will write a complete story of at least 15,000 words.
I arrived at this challenge in two ways. First, I've wanted to write a story for several years, trying a number of times, but never quite finishing. Second, writing a 15,000-word story requires approximately 484 words a day for 31 days. The number is high by my usual productive standards (which aren't great), but seems doable with planning and some effort. Placed within the context of a single month, the project seems challenging but reasonable, and that's the idea really.
Feel free to give it a try if you like. Even if you come by this post after today, it seems reasonable enough just to start the challenge on that date, and continue until the same date the following month. I'll post updates from time to time on my own progress, and at end of the month we'll see where we stand and how the process went. Much luck!
Happy Thursday, friends :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)