On Vulnerability

Part 1

This week I find myself in a very interesting position, because although I have done a gob of work—on the novel draft, which I finished on Wednesday; at the piano; on my chess game—I’m not ready to share or show any of it.

The work, across the board (two key, one chess) has been pivotal.

Is currently being pivotal.

Or maybe pivotal isn’t quite the right word, because that implies I’m pivoting, and what I’m doing is more like deepening.


Specifiying (you knew I’d get to “specificity” eventually).

I don’t want to share this work with you not because it would be imperfect—goodness knows I’ve shared my errors before, and analyzed why I made them—but because it would be too personal.

In other words, I have arrived at that part of the learning process that must be done on one’s own.

The part where you take on a new level of ownership, and because of that must protect what you’re doing as you work out exactly what it is you’re doing, since a lot of what you’re doing is new—maybe not to everyone, but at least to you, and the last thing you want is some well-meaning reader going “ooooooh I have an idea HERE IT IS.”

This is a different type of vulnerability than the type where I play Mozart for you and point out all of the mistakes in it, because that isn’t really me being vulnerable; it’s me identifying problems I know how to solve and telling you that I’ll keep working until I solve them.

This particular vulnerability is about me digging into problems I’m not sure I know how to solve yet—and the part that makes me vulnerable is not the part where I don’t know how to solve the problems, but the part where a well-meaning suggestion could collapse the original work I am trying to do on my own.

“Original” in this case referring both to the product itself, e.g. the novel, and to the process by which I am attempting to shape and improve it. This is not to imply that I am not drawing from Best Practices; only that I have not gone through these particular practices and processes before, and for now I want the experience to be solely mine.

I mean, there are aspects of this that I’m not even sharing with L.

But I’ll share more, when it’s time. ❤️

Part 2

There’s another kind of vulnerability—one, perhaps, that I am aspiring towards.

L and I were talking about it last night; the kind of vulnerability that comes not because you’re wondering whether or not you will make a mistake, not because you’re worrying about whether what you’ve done is “good enough” (while understanding, consciously or subconsciously, that you’re actually avoiding the work involved in going from “good enough” to “great”), but the vulnerability that is present when you are sharing your best work with an audience.

The emotional specificity that you can offer after you’ve mastered the technical specificity.

The opportunity to say something meaningful within the work, because you’ve mastered the work to the point in which you can make those kinds of choices—and the vulnerability that comes with knowing that the self you’re putting into the work, the ideas you’re trying to share, the connection you’re hoping to make, could be ignored or dismissed or misunderstood.

We saw an example of that kind of vulnerability last night; a performance that was so precise that the musician was allowed to transcend the technicality. In fact, I don’t think we thought about the technical aspects of the piece at all. We were too busy thinking about everything else that the musician was choosing to share with us, since those aspects of the piece were now available to be shared.

Sometimes you see, very clearly, the filter of “uuuuuugh I don’t know this part”—and you spend the entire performance rooting for the musician to succeed (or, if you are less [or perhaps more?] charitable, rooting for the kind of unsuccessful performance that might inspire them to go back to the practice room).

But sometimes the performance or the novel or the painting is so specific that all you experience is the complete, riveting, connection.

And that is a very vulnerable moment—for both the person initiating that connection and the person receiving it.

May we all experience it, from whichever side of the experience we prefer. ❤️

Where I got published this week


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Job Opportunities for Writers: September 24, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for September 24, 2021.

Submission and Pitching Opportunities: September 24, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for September 24, 2021.

Why Do Problems You Think You’ve Solved Come Back?

We’re going to start, as usual, with a bit of piano:

What’s interesting about this video is that I was pretty sure I had this particular technical problem solved. You’ve heard me play it before, after all—in fact, you hear me play it pretty darn well at the beginning of the video—but today it fell apart when I repeated the exposition.

So I worked it, got it to a point where it didn’t feel like a problem anymore, worked a few other issues in the piece, and started the sonata again.

The exact same problem, in the exact same place.


At first, I thought that maybe I took the repeat faster than I started the piece—the increase in tempo prompting the decrease in form, as it were.

But the tempo on the repeat is exactly the same as the tempo at the start of the piece. So is the tempo I use on the section in question; I didn’t suddenly speed up or anything like that. (You can check it yourself, by starting the video at 0:30 and 2:40.)

The only thing I can think of is that I’m still not-not-not-not-quite-sure yet. The part that falls apart during the repeat isn’t perfectly aligned the first time, after all; it’s good enough to pass, but the right and left hands are just the tiniest bit out of sync.

So I need to keep working.

Because feeling like you’ve solved a problem after playing a few measures over and over until they are error-free doesn’t actually mean you’ve solved the problem.

You need to be able to play them error-free within the larger context of the piece, consistently, both during the exposition (when your brain and choices are fresh) and the repeat of the exposition (when your brain has the double challenge of not losing focus while trying to make fresh choices).

I’ve gotten to that point with Chopin and Stravinsky, and now I need to get there with Mozart.

The interesting thing about all of this is how interesting it all is. You’d think that running an identical practice session every morning would get dull—scales and arpeggios in every major and minor key, then the Chopin Nocturne, then the Stravinsky Five Finger suite, then the first movement of the Mozart, then the second, then the third.

Each individual unit is structured in the same iterative way; play until you make a mistake, stop, work the mistake, and start the whole thing over.

The part that makes it interesting—thank goodness—is the part where I try to make as many new, true, fully-integrated choices as possible every time I run the piece.

By “fully-integrated” I mean “within the world that the composer has created.” There’s a range of tempi you can use on the Chopin Nocturne, for example, but there’s also a point at which it becomes too slow and a point at which it becomes too fast. There’s a point at which the staccatos in the second movement of the Mozart become too sharp for a piece that has been designated adagio. That kind of thing.

With that in mind, here are the choices I made with Chopin this morning:

It’s as technically and emotionally specific as last week’s recording, but it’s completely different—and at the same time it’s not different, it’s still recognizably Chopin, it still maintains the integrity of the composition, it’s not like I’m putting a “LOOK AT ME” filter over the whole thing.

It’s supposed to be Chopin, after all.

I’m just the instrument. ❤️

The novel draft is ALMOST DONE

I have maybe 1,000 words left to write on the novel, and I’ll need a two-hour chunk of uninterrupted time to get them done. The 600-words-an-hour estimate has proved fairly accurate, though I’ve found it difficult to work on the novel when I only have an hour to work; you feel the clock ticking, and your choices become rushed.

With freelancing, I can get a lot more done during a single hour—I can get a lot done during 15 minutes, honestly—but that’s because the structure is different. With freelancing, I’m dealing with subheds and discrete ideas that can be dispatched in 300-word chunks, not a multilayered narrative that extends itself over a 60,000-word text.

This is also why this new novel has taken so much more work—literally—than The Biographies of Ordinary People, which was three times as long. I structured Biographies as a series of very short vignettes, each which could be dispatched in an hour or two of writing and 5-10 minutes of reading. (This was partially because I had trained myself to write that way, and partially because I knew many readers had trained themselves to read that way.)

Now I’m writing a MYSTERY NOVEL, with a PLOT (and SUBPLOTS) and the moment-to-moment writing takes a lot more brainpower because there are a lot of puzzle pieces in the air or balls on the table or however you want to mix your metaphors.


The draft should be finished next week, probably on Monday, and then I am going to take myself through Maggie Stiefvater’s online writing seminar (half price through September 25, work at your own pace, this is not an affiliate link, I’ve taken other Maggie Stiefvater classes and they’ve all been excellent) and then I am going to START REVISING.

Also, L and I are going out to dinner next week to celebrate the draft being done. ❤️

Freelancers—here is the best financial advice I have to offer

I am very excited to share the newest piece I wrote for Catapult: Financial Advice for the Freelancer. It’s a freelancing/finance FAQ, which I hope will answer a bunch of your questions about taxes, CPAs, LLCs, and so on.

Here’s an excerpt, focusing on earnings (everyone’s favorite part of freelancing):

How much can I expect to earn as a freelancer?

When I teach intro-to-freelancing classes, I tell my students that they can expect to earn between $50 and $150 per piece as an entry-level freelancer; between $150 and $350 per piece as a midlevel freelancer; and between $350 and $800 per piece as they continue to build their reputation and their client base.

If you want to know how much you can expect to earn at any stage in your freelance career, multiply the per-piece rate by the number of pieces you can realistically expect to pitch and complete in a month. Right now, for example, I generally complete fifteen articles each month. Each article is roughly 1,200 to 1,800 words, and my pay rate averages at around fifty cents a word. This means that I can expect to earn $750 per piece on average and around $11,000 per month (pretax).

Go read the whole thing—and then read the list of everywhere else I got published this week. ❤️

Where I got published this week


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Submission and Pitching Opportunities: September 17, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for September 17, 2021.

Job Opportunities for Writers: September 17, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for September 17, 2021.

The Best Chopin I’ve Ever Played

If you had told me a year ago that I would be able to play the piano this well—and that all it would take was focus, time, and what you might call “applied problem solving”—I would have said TELL ME HOW AND I WILL DO IT.

And then I told myself how, day after day.

Really, L and I told ourselves together; we compared notes (pun intended [pun always intended]) and borrowed ideas from each other and rejected the ideas that didn’t work and iterated the ideas that did.

And then, this morning, I played this:

I was able to play the Chopin this well today because I already knew I could do it.

Because I’d played it that well yesterday.

I played the Chopin that well yesterday because my family came to visit over Labor Day weekend and asked me to play Chopin and I whiffed one of the ornaments because I was nervous about not knowing it well enough.

And the next morning I told myself “okay, Nicole, you’ve been telling yourself that you are going to play a for-real piano recital on your 40th birthday, which means you need to iterate the process of giving a recital.”

So I started at the beginning of my program, played as if performing until I made an error, worked the error, and started over again.

That got me what you just heard.

It also got me this:

I’m not satisfied with some of the interpretation choices I made in this performance of Les Cinq Doigts (the Largo movement is way too fast, for example) but I am nearly satisfied with its technical precision and emotional resonance. (There are two tiny finger-wobbles in the piece that need to be eliminated; my guess is that they won’t appear during the next run, and if if they do, I’ll work them until they’re steady.)

And tomorrow I get to start the program again, and make new choices—because the thing about creating art, as Tara K. Shepersky recently reminded us, is that you can never do it exactly the same way twice.

Otherwise, it isn’t creation anymore.

Now I need to tell you about the book.

I have been steadily drafting, and just as steadily reading the draft to L.

He has said—and I agree with him—that these are some of the best ideas I’ve had, and that the writing itself can and should be reworked to make those ideas stronger.

This is a little discombobulating, because I am used to my ideas and my mechanics being fairly integrated. If I have something I want to communicate to a reader, I generally know how to find the right words with which to communicate it.

(I mean, it is literally my job.)

But L is right. The ideas in this last third of the novel, by which I mean the big old mush of plot-character-conflict-theme-setting, are the best I’ve ever had, I am getting better at all the pageturny plotbuildy novel stuff that I wanted to improve upon after writing The Biographies of Ordinary People, and the writing itself hasn’t caught up yet.

This might be because L and I are comparing my draft against the best examples of the genre. I could probably go over to Amazon and hit “self publish NOW” and send you the novel as it stands and you would say “Thanks, that was a fun read! Maybe not one of the best books I’ve ever read, but there was a lot of good stuff in there!”

I want it to be all good stuff.

And, maybe, one of the best books you’ve ever read.

Follow me on this tangent for a minute—L and I have set ourselves this project in which we pick a favorite author and read every book they’ve published in order, and we’re noticing that there appears to be this skills jump that happens when, I don’t know, the author decides to take their writing more seriously?

That’s probably not true. Writers generally take their writing very seriously all of the time.

Maybe it’s when they finally have the capacity to make their books as excellent/specific/magical as possible, whether that’s a time thing or a money thing or a career thing or a mindset thing.

Maybe it’s when they finally understand how to solve the problems that they previously ignored because their writing was “good enough.”

(Writers, if you want to weigh in on this, I am very interested in hearing your perspectives.)

In many ways I feel like I felt at the piano, a year ago. I don’t know how to do what I want to do yet, and it’s frustrating not because I don’t believe I can do it, but because I can’t yet comprehend the actions that will help me do what I want to do.

This is where a lot of people say “maybe this is as good as I get.”

That’s what I thought, as a pianist, until just last year.

I’m also back to “not knowing what I need to do to get better at chess,” and this is frustrating because two weeks ago I had this breakthrough that helped me become much better very quickly, and I played a three-hour game of chess with L in which it was obvious how much I had improved, and now it feels like I haven’t made any significant improvement since.

I don’t even know why I used the word “feels,” because this isn’t an emotional thing. I can look at the numbers, on Chess.com. 20 to 25 green moves in a row and then I make an error, game after game after game.

So I’ve gone back to the daily chess lessons, partially in the hopes that I will be able to use those lessons to learn more about middlegame and endgame patterns—and partially because I don’t really know what else to do right now, and I’m buying time until I figure it out.

(Suggestions welcomed.)

I also want to give you one freelancing recommendation before I share where I got published this week, and it’s this:

If you are looking for high-quality sources for your freelance articles, sign up for Qwoted. I had been a HARO fan for years, but the signal-to-noise ratio on HARO has gotten considerably worse over the past year (not to mention that some of the people who respond to your HARO queries, like, aren’t even real [search “HARO fake personas” if you want to know more about this]).

Qwoted experts are vetted—in fact, they’ll even vet you as a journalist/freelancer before they let you sign up. That way, anyone who signs up for Qwoted as a source knows that their insights will be shared by a reputable writer working for reputable publications, and anyone who signs up for Qwoted as a writer knows that they’re only going to be connected to reputable sources.

That’s a win-win. ❤️

Where I got published this week


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Job Opportunities for Writers: September 10, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for September 10, 2021.

Submission and Pitching Opportunities: September 10, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for September 10, 2021.

In Which We Iterate Again

We’re going to start this week’s work-showing with yet more piano—but this one’s only a minute long, and you probably haven’t heard me play it before.

I started re-learning the Barber Excursions last Saturday, mostly because I was curious whether the “play until you make an error, stop, work the error, and start from the beginning again” method would work just as well on a piano suite I hadn’t played in 20 years.

It does. This iterative learning process is just as effective for a (relatively) brand-new, (relatively) untouched piece of music as it is for the music that I’ve been studying since last August.

In other words, you don’t need to “learn” the music before you “learn” the music. (This is for all of you who were potentially mentally arguing that the only way I was able to iterate the Mozart to such specific depth was because I’d spent so much time learning it already.) You can start with the first measure, run it through the “can I play this perfectly yet” test, and then move on to the next one.

Also, this iterative method ensures you memorize as you go, which is a bonus.

I know I know I know that the true test of this iterative practice technique will come when I start working on a piece of music I’ve never seen or heard before, not a piece of music I learned (somewhat sloppily) back when I was in high school.

But I had the Barber close at hand, and sometimes you start with the music that is easiest for you to grab.

Especially when it’s a piece you already love. ❤️

For me, the most remarkable aspect of this week’s work-showing isn’t that I re-learned a page-and-a-half of Samuel Barber, but that I am so relaxed in the performing of it. This is what knowing feels like. There’s another scenario in which I put just as much time into the Barber but focused on breadth rather than depth, getting the entire movement halfway into my fingers and performing it with an incredible amount of tension because I know that I don’t really know what I’m doing.

Knowing is better.

Even if it means fewer measures “learned” in the service of learning those measures correctly.

An update on the book

A few weeks ago I told you that I thought I’d probably have the draft done this week, which I probably shouldn’t have told you because now I have to tell you that the draft is still incomplete.

I spent the past week focused entirely on the CLIMACTIC CHAPTER, which I didn’t expect to take quite as long as it took—and then, as soon as I read the freshly-drafted chapter to L, I immediately came up with a dozen ways to make it better-tighter-stronger-more-compelling-more-specific.

In general, I know which parts of the draft are really good. I also know which parts still need work. Getting to read each chapter aloud to an interested listener often helps me clarify in which ways the draft still needs work. It also forces me to push past “good enough,” because this book could definitely pass for “good enough,” especially if you’re the kind of reader (or author) who skims over the parts that aren’t great.

Reading aloud eliminates any possibility of skimming, both from the listener’s end and the author’s end.

But yeah, the draft isn’t done, I have probably 10,000 words to go, at least 2,000 of those words have been written already (like, two years ago) but need to be incorporated into what I’m currently writing, I have time blocked off to work on the book so I know the work will get done but I don’t yet know how long it will take, blah blah blah.

It’s odd that I feel like I have so little control over “when the book draft is completed,” given that I know to-the-minute how long it generally takes to complete a 1,200-word freelance article. Shouldn’t I be able to say “at 600 words an hour, it should take me between 13 and 15 hours to complete the draft”? (I should time it and see how close it actually turns out to be.)

After the draft is done I’m hoping to apply the same kind of iterative practice that I’m currently putting towards my piano and chess study towards my revision process. Start at the beginning, read until I come to something I don’t like, fix it, and start the book over again. ❤️

Where I got published this week


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Job Opportunities for Writers: September 3, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for September 3, 2021.

Submission and Pitching Opportunities: September 3, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for September 3, 2021.


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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood.

I heard a poem today, and I fell in love. It’s called Things to Think, by Robert Bly. I must get it by heart on my next walk. It resonated so strongly with my ruminations shortly before I heard it, on a mini-roadtrip undertaken in the day’s middle hours. 

I had met a friend for lunch, on the other side of a spine of low, arid mountains near the sea. I got there by car in the conventional way: there’s a many-laned freeway that connects coastal plain to valley in about five minutes (when the traffic’s light). I returned — having planned this with happy anticipation — via a series of one-lane backroads. A question I was considering as I did this: why do I go out of my way, whenever I can, to travel on backroads?

It isn’t just aesthetic, though there’s that in it too. Today is not an example. This is the sere season in Southern California; my route is mainly brown, dry, blasted. People talk about winter as the time when the bones of the land show through, but here that’s summer, which lasts until the rains come. Sometimes that’s January — or the January after that.

So why else? I answered as if conversing with myself: They get me off the freeway. They make me read the map. Or get off the map, and navigate for myself. 

And that’s it, literally and metaphorically. In a material act that you do with your hands, feet, and senses, driving a backroad requires you to re-examine your known ways of getting places. 

They take longer, backroads. You have to brake, coast, pass, get passed, take very sharp curves quite slowly. If there’s construction or an accident, you’re far from surface streets, so you just have to wait. Cruise control doesn’t work for long, and there’s little zoning out. 

The act of backroads-driving can be — it was for me today — an incantation, a declaration of intent to seek a new path. Or an old path perhaps, but one with wisdom you haven’t yet encountered. Or wisdom you’ve forgotten.  

There’s a lot of time on backroads journeys for observation. It is not, for example, only brown and blasted out here; I’m noticing the sea-born haze that hangs in the air (all day), and the way every color is hazy too: the sky a heathered bluish taupe; the chapparal and citrus trees a muted olive green. Even the ocean is a dusty sort of turquoise, like someone dug it out of the mountain five minutes ago, and left it lying. 

Noticing, I realize: this is what I want.

I mean that I want this road specifically, and many like it, today and tomorrow and the days after that.

And I mean, in the larger and metaphoric sense, that I want to get off the freeway. I want to find new and slower ways through my life. 

My life has half-a-dozen standard lanes, all blazing along well over the speed limit. The one that concerns us here is my creative practice: a reasonably well-established, regular and crucial part of my everyday routines. A well-maintained fast-track to who I want to be.

The inertia of this lane is strong. I suspect this is because it is successful, by the definition I previously set for success: I have written a book of poems, which is currently being edited and illustrated and produced, in an intensely beautiful and gratifyingly official way, by a small team of wonderful human beings. I love this book, and I love the making of it, every stage.

Staying in this lane creatively seems natural, feels good. It worked, didn’t it? It’s telling me exactly how to do what I most want to do, which is make the next book.

I recently finished assembling 100+ poems into a manuscript draft of the next book. Though there is much (much) work left to be done, I have already revised and polished most of them significantly. And I have made a first attempt at structure. I have printed out a thing that looks like a book-in-the-making, and now I have a satisfying stack of physical paper that has let me remove from the internet, and engage entirely with hand, pen, lips, tongue, breath, body, word, rhythm, and form.

And it isn’t working. 

Back from the backroads and crunching some day-job data, I have stumbled upon — in that lovely serendipitous way that feels like a sort of benign divine intervention — the exact interview I needed to hear. Martin Shaw, a storyteller and mythologist, interviewed Mark Rylance, a stage and screen actor. Rylance talked about creative integrity from one performance to another, employing a metaphor of “reheating the meal.” When you do something well, and you can feel you have done, and people come up to you and tell you how good it was, you think: Great! I will do that again. And then you do it again, and it’s stilted and it doesn’t work. 

So I have some words now for my realization: I don’t want to reheat the meal. My next book (next project) cannot be Tell-the-Turning-with-different-themes. 

What is it then? I don’t know! Which is why I’ve decided to take a break from Shaping it. 

Rylance says in the interview: “focus on your intention,” rather than “the memory of the form.” I don’t know what my intention is, even, for the next project. So I’m waiting. 

“Waiting” sounds passive, which makes me uneasy. But in fact this particular waiting isn’t passive. It’s perfectly active — it’s just not art.  

A poet — any artist — needs to be consistently exploring the subjects, themes, and patterns that give them life, that root their art in the necessary and true. By “explore,” I do not mean “produce art about.” I mean physically engage with a thing itself, not analyze or make accessible, or otherwise publicly represent that thing or the experience of it. 

This hands-on, all-in exploration is a pre-requisite for art. But it is not art and it does not necessarily lead to art, either. If it has a goal outside itself, that goal does not serve our egos or advancement.

In the exhaustion of pandemic and depression, I have been pushing hard to produce art. And neglecting, in that process, these explorations. 

For example, I have not been walking. Granted, it’s too hot for me in summer to walk for hours. But that seasonal loss ought to be attended, and mitigated. I’ve barely noticed.

I have also let my journal go. Where I used to channel enormous flows of imagery, effort, leisure, and love into my personal writing — which I do for play, and which never has an audience —  instead I’ve been pouring all of that into poems for publication. I can do both, of course. But I can tell (now that I’m attending) that the two are out of balance. My journals from the period of writing Tell the Turning are full and vibrant. My journal as I’ve Gathered and begun to Shape the next book? Nearly empty. 

And I have largely forgone my habit of taking the literal backroads. 

In consequence of all this neglect, I have forgotten how, as Bly’s poem has it, to “think in ways you’ve never thought before.” I’ve remained on the freeway, in my creative lane.

Having noticed all of this, I have already begun to repair it. 

What sort of art will come, eventually, to fill the expectant, active space I’m leaving as I press pause on the next book, and instead resume exploring? 

Tell the Turning was invited into being with a handwritten letter. What will make the next invitation?

Faith is not some kind of literal belief. Faith is trusting. Trusting, in this case, my own self, to do what my soul and my body need to survive — and if possible, eventually, to thrive. Trusting the creative process I love, that I’m still discovering. 

And perhaps there is a new phase to the process of making a given creative work. I’ve identified The Gathering, The Shaping, and The Singing. Is this The Resting?

What would The Resting consist of, so I can look out for and encourage it when it’s needed? 

Get off the freeway. Take the backroads. Fall in love with a poem or two — or a person, perhaps, or a season. Wait. Watch. Do the non-art things that make you you

A response — like a storm, or the fog rolling in, or the sun cracking through — is surely coming, on a future shift in the wind. 

I pay attention to winds. I’ll be able to smell it. 

On Iteration, and the Time Required to Complete Enough Iterative Cycles

First, before we do anything else—

Let’s have some Mozart.

There are four errors in the 20 minutes of music I just shared with you. Two of those errors were small enough that you might not even notice them (mere wobbles, as it were); the other two were a bit more obvious, though neither of them were the kind of thing that would ruin a performance. That said, If I had been practicing instead of performing, I would have stopped after each error and started over again.

Iterating my way towards error-free performance—by starting each movement from the beginning, playing until I made an error, working the error if necessary, and immediately beginning the movement from the beginning again—yielded better results in a shorter amount of time than any other practice method I’ve tried so far.

Yes, it probably helps that I have been working this piece for a year already—but I’m already excited to try this iteration method with a piece I haven’t fully learned (like the Bach Ricercar a 6) or a new piece of music I’ve never tried playing before.

I’m currently testing the iteration method on Ravel’s La Valse (the Garban four-hand duet arrangement, prima part), which is yielding similar results—faster learning, better recall, more secure performance.


The simple answer might be that working towards error-free performance leads to error-free performance. We don’t often tell people that they can in fact play something perfectly. We tell them that people make mistakes.

But the “people make mistakes” argument gives you an out, if you would rather make the mistake than do the work of correcting it.

For the past two weeks I have been working within a system that forces me to not only correct my mistakes, but also create positive controls that help prevent future mistakes.

I had my first error-free runthrough on Monday. It was just the first movement (since then, I’ve had error-free runs of both the first and second movements); but it was enough to make me see exactly what this kind of practice could do.

It was also enough to make me see how this kind of practice could change me, as a pianist. Look at how relaxed I am. My mind, as I play, is equally relaxed; in fact, it almost feels the way it does when I do epsom-salt floats at the local sensory deprivation center. It would be meditative, if I didn’t also have the hugest smile on my face the entire time—knowing, in this case, gives me the ability to devote my entire energy to loving. Loving the piece, loving what I’m doing with it, and loving that I get to share it with you.

You might be wondering whether this kind of practice regimen is more tedious or frustrating than the way I’d been previously working the music. It hasn’t been; not for a minute—in fact, it’s much less tedious and much more engaging. I hate to throw around the word gamify, but there’s a certain old-school sidescroller element to it; the idea that you start at the beginning, go until you accidentally fall off a cliff or run into a Koopa, and immediately begin again. It’s a full-brain, full-body challenge—how can I play this in such a way that allows me to keep playing? Where do my hands need to go, what does my breath need to do, what mental cues can I put in place to help me remember what needs to happen next?

It also makes the process of finding and fixing errors feel joyful, instead of frustrating. My practice has gone from “euugh, I just made that mistake again” to “here comes a new problem to permanently solve.” Errors, essentially, have gone from weaknesses to opportunities.

On the subject of gamification: I did not get as far on my chess study this week as I did on my piano study. If you follow me on Twitter, you probably already know that L and I played a nearly-three-hour game of chess this weekend (he was astonished by my progress, he didn’t expect it to take three hours to beat me when it usually takes 30 minutes, he still won); other than that, I haven’t had more than 15 minutes in a row to devote to chess study this entire week.

And sure, at first I thought I could progress just as well with a bunch of teeny-weeny practice sessions—but it doesn’t look like the iterative system works that way. My biggest chess breakthroughs, in terms of understanding structure and seeing patterns, came when I had three hours in one evening to do nothing but start new Chess.com games and play until I made an orange or a red move.

It makes sense, doesn’t it, that iterative learning requires a long-enough chunk of time to see the results of the iteration? Like, you wouldn’t practice until you made a mistake, look at the clock, and say “well, I messed up, I don’t have time to start another runthrough right now, but I’ll try again tomorrow.” Playing chess against the Grandmaster Robot until I made a mistake, looking at the clock, and saying “well, I don’t have time to start another game right now, but I’ll try again tomorrow” hasn’t led to much progress.

But I’ll have an entire evening next week to devote to chess study, if I want to.

Where I got published this week


How to do a balance transfer with Bank of America

A Bank of America balance transfer credit card can help you avoid costly interest charges with a 0% intro APR offer.

Credit Cards Dot Com

What is a good credit utilization ratio?

There’s no magic number, but the lower your credit utilization ratio, the better – here’s how to achieve that.

Best startup business credit cards

Whether you’re looking for a travel card to help make business trips a little more comfortable or a corporate card to issue to your new employees, we have a list of the best cards to help you get your startup off the ground.

Haven Life

Tips for parents of children returning to school this fall

With younger children unvaccinated, and the Delta variant surging, schools are still figuring out the safest ways to re-open. Here’s how you can prepare yourself and your children.

Don’t Write Alone | Catapult

Job Opportunities for Writers: August 27, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for August 27, 2021.

Upcoming Submission and Pitching Opportunities: August 27, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for August 27, 2021.

Knowing vs. Guessing

Our refrigerator stopped working this morning (technically, it probably stopped working last night). None of the food got so warm that we had to throw it out; the freezer ice trays hadn’t even begun to melt before we had everything out of the fridge and into another (temporary) refrigerator.

We suspect it’s a compressor issue, since something we believe to be the compressor had been buzzing angrily at us for the past two days. Interestingly, as soon as we removed all of the food, the thing-that-is-probably-the-compressor started right up again, a happy little hum this time, and the refrigerator went back to its proper temperature(s).

There are several reasons why this might have happened. Maybe the compressor was failing, and the fact that it started up again after we took the food out was a fluke. Maybe something in the freezer was jamming the compressor function, which is why it started buzzing and then decided to stop compressing completely. Maybe it isn’t even the compressor at all, and we just think it is because that’s one of the refrigerator parts we can identify by name.

The point is that we don’t know yet.

And the fact that we don’t know is making it a lot harder to solve the problem.

Knowing vs. guessing: Chess

Last week, I told you that I was changing the metrics by which I measured my chess study:

I would play the Hardest Robot until the point when I lost tempo. (Tempo is a music word that is also a chess word, and losing tempo means losing the advantage.)

Then I would resign the game and start another one, and play until I lost tempo again.

I’m going to keep track of the number of moves it takes me to lose tempo, and the types of blunders that cause me to lose tempo, and work specifically on increasing the number of moves and reducing the number of blunders.

This has turned out to be an incredible way to learn how to play chess.

It took me less than a day to figure out how to go from 10 moves (without losing tempo) to 20 moves (without losing tempo). I did this entirely through iteration; I’d play until I made an error—which is to say that I’d play until Chess.com told me I’d made an orange or red move instead of a green one—and then I’d immediately resign and start a new game.

I’ll go ahead and answer the two obvious questions:

  • Why not keep playing after making an error? Because I didn’t want to waste my time finishing games I was likely to lose. If I want to know how to win chess games, I need to practice winning.
  • Why not keep playing after making an orange move, which only means questionable and not terrible? Because I wanted to train myself to only make green moves.

After a couple dozen iterations, during which I studied patterns and memorized common sequences, I was able to consistently get myself into the middle of the middlegame before making an orange or a red move.

It took the rest of the week to learn how to get all the way to the endgame. This is not a bad thing. Middlegames are more complicated; they literally have more moving pieces.

Now I have to figure out how to memorize common endgame patterns, which is going to be even more complicated because there are mathematically more endgame possibilities than there are opening game possibilities.

But I will tell you this: I tried doing the thing where you turn on the “undo move” option, play all the way to the endgame without allowing yourself to undo a move, and then practice moving and undoing and moving again until you pick a green option.

This quickly proved to be a terrible way to learn, or at least a terrible way for me to learn something. Knowing that I can just guess, over and over again, and undo all my guesses until I pick the right one, teaches me how to guess instead of think.

Which means I have to do it the slower-but-better way, and start the entire game over from the beginning if I make an orange or red move during the endgame.

Because if you want to know how to choose green moves, every single time, that seems to be the best way to do it.

A short note on book-learning vs. experiential learning

If you’ve been following my blog for a while (before I started posting on Substack) you might remember that I spent a lot of time over the past year reading chess books and completing Chess.com tutorials.

Those books teach you things like “it’s a good idea to create bishop pairs.”

This is true. Having two bishops next to each other gives you a lot of offensive and defensive options.

But there’s a huge difference between thinking “I’m going to use my next move to create a bishop pair because the chess manual said it was a good idea,” and thinking “wow, the best move in this situation will result in a bishop pair.”

Because that’s the truth, about chess—and I didn’t understand it until I spent all week iterating and watching for patterns.

The best moves automatically lead to the book-recommended scenarios: octopus knights, connected rooks, etc.

And you can only learn that by playing a hundred games against a grandmaster-level opponent.

Knowing vs. guessing: Piano

I don’t have a recording to share with you today because I spent a good chunk of the morning moving food from one refrigerator to another, but I will tell you this: as soon as I figured out that “resigning and starting a new chess game as soon as you make an error” helped me anticipate and avoid errors, I immediately decided to apply the same thing to my piano practice.

In other words:

  • I would begin Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 12 in F major, K. 332.
  • I would play until I made an error. This could be as large as a missed note or as small as “that run wasn’t as even as I hoped it could be.”
  • I would stop, do some specific practice to fix the error if necessary, and begin the piece again.

This is a tremendously successful way to practice error-free performance. To train yourself to remain focused throughout the entire piece, because if you mess something up you have to go all the way back to the beginning. To train yourself to both create and activate positive controls. To not let anything slide, or tell yourself you’ll fix it later, or tell yourself that every performance has a few mistakes in it.

Imagine being able to play a piece while knowing exactly what you need to do to make every note sound the way you want it to. Imagine being able to trust your own knowledge, instead of thinking “euurgh, here comes the hard part” and then getting nervous and messing things up. Imagine never, ever having to guess—and never getting frustrated because you guessed wrong.

I have felt a bit of what that could feel like, this week.

I want more of it.

And then I want to play for you again.

A short note on practicing even when your refrigerator breaks

When something happens to throw you off your usual work/life routine, you have three options:

  • Write off the entire day. Do the minimum amount of work required to fulfill your work/life responsibilities; spend the afternoon scrolling Twitter and reading about everything that could potentially be wrong with your refrigerator even though you’ve already made an appointment with a refrigerator repairperson. Grumble about the day being wasted, if you choose.
  • Cut whatever would have happened during the thing that interrupted your routine—in this case, my morning piano practice—and get right back on the schedule. Grumble about not getting to do the thing you wanted to do, if you choose.
  • Truncate your routine without cutting anything that’s essential or important. I only practiced the piano for 20 minutes today, and I only played chess for 20 minutes, and yesterday I needed to shorten the time I had set aside for novel-writing by an hour. I still feel really, really good about the work I was able to accomplish. No grumbling necessary.

Knowing vs. guessing: Novel-writing

When I began re-working the novel I had started writing a year ago (after reading the first few chapters to L and having him say “yep, I want to know what happens next, you should finish this one”), there were about five chapters left to write before the book was complete.

These weren’t necessarily the five last chapters, btw. The last chapter of the book was written a year ago. One of the unwritten chapters, which has since been drafted, came very early in the story.

The point is that I should have a completely-written novel within two weeks—at which point I will need to figure out what knowing vs. guessing means, in terms of taking a novel from its fully-written, partially-revised stage to its final draft stage.

So far I’ve been using the metric “If I think this sentence can be better, then I need to make it better.” In most cases, better equals more specific. More detail, for example. More variety, in terms of word choice. Fewer clichés. (Zero clichés, if possible.)

It’s interesting, because I already know how to go from guessing to knowing in my freelance writing. It’s all about understanding the specs of the assignment, creating a path to completion, and making the most efficient choices in terms of both project management and sentence construction.

I’m not sure that’s exactly the same for fiction writing, because you don’t always need to make the most efficient word choice—but you still need to make the most specific one. (Same goes for plot choices, character choices, and so on.)

I wonder what I’ll learn as I continue revising. What’s the equivalent of an all-green-move game, when you’re writing a book?

A short note on how to know when a book is finished

There’s one more metric I want to apply to my novel process, once I finish writing the last few chapters and begin the next round of revision passes. It comes from Hank Phillippi Ryan, in the just-released anthology How to Write a Mystery (which I very, very much recommend, even if you aren’t currently writing a mystery):

I always know when I’m finished, because I forget I’m editing, and realize I’m simply reading the story. It’s not my story anymore, it’s its own story.

Want to be interviewed for an upcoming Money Talks post?

I’m putting together some upcoming Money Talks posts for Vox, and I’m interested in talking to people who might be able to speak to any or all of the below:

  • Couples whose financial priorities changed during COVID
  • Couples who come from different financial backgrounds/socioeconomic statuses
  • Siblings who grew up with the same financial background but now have significantly different financial priorities/incomes/etc.

If you’d like to be interviewed for the series, email me at dieker.nicole@gmail.com.

Where I got published this week

Credit Cards Dot Com

What are low-interest credit cards?

Consider these three options if you’re looking for a low-interest credit card.

Haven Life

Do college students need life insurance?

Life insurance could help protect some college students in the event of worst-case scenarios — but it isn’t a prerequisite.

Don’t Write Alone | Catapult

Job Opportunities for Writers: August 20, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for August 20, 2021.

Upcoming Submission and Pitching Opportunities: August 20, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for August 20, 2021.

On Tempo, and the Importance of Knowing What to Work On

Last week, I told you all that I had decided to start playing Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number 12 in F Major, K332 at tempo. I was in the process of adjusting my schedule to accommodate more focused freelancing so I could free up two days for more focused novel-writing, and it seemed appropriate to refocus my practicing as well.

As I explained, in last week’s post:

[…] asking myself how can I focus my time to ensure accuracy at 140 and how can I focus my time to ensure I complete five freelance assignments in 2.5 days has really helped me, for lack of a better phrase, FOCUS MY TIME.

This is still true. My practice sessions are much more focused, my freelancing sessions are very very focused, and I’ve given myself two full workdays per week to devote to my novel-in-progress without cutting back on my freelance work or my piano sessions.

In fact, I’ve increased the time I’m putting towards the piano, but that’s also because I’m spending more time knowing what I want to do and doing it instead of guessing at what might work and then getting tired because guessing takes a lot of mental work and then getting frustrated and giving up.

(This difference between knowing what you want to do and guessing at what you might want to do is significant, btw. It might be the biggest factor in all of this increased focus—that, and the ability to prioritize both work and rest—and I should probably write an entire post about it at some point.)

This week, I spent my piano practice sessions in much the way I spent my novel-revision sessions: by isolating specific problems and specifically addressing each of those problems in turn.

Not at tempo, but at the speed at which I could uncover a potential solution to the problem.

And then I went back to tempo, to see if the solution worked, and then I continued iterating between at-tempo and not-at-tempo as necessary.

You’re going to want to see my work, so here’s the last movement of K332 at tempo. I spent much of this week working on getting my pinky finger uncurled, and you can see definite improvement there. The performance isn’t where I want it to be yet; there are still a lot of problems to be solved, especially in the development section. But it’s a lot better than it was a week ago.

This week, I also started spending my chess practice sessions in much the way I spent my piano practice sessions—play at tempo, figure out why you can’t play at tempo, adjust until you can.

Playing at tempo, in this case, means playing the hardest Chess.com robot.

Previously I had been doing what you were “supposed” to do, which was playing each level of robot successively until you could beat them (same as what you are “supposed” to do at the piano, which is playing a passage at 40 and 50 and 60 beats per minute before you ever try to play it at 140 or 200), which at this point has grown frustrating because I know enough about chess to recognize when the mid-level robots are making obvious blunders.

But I don’t precisely know why I’m still making my own blunders. Otherwise, I wouldn’t make them.

So I started playing the Grandmaster-level Robot, and after a few games in which I got my chess handed to me and a few games in which I used Chess.com’s “give me every hint” function to win, I settled on a different strategy.

I would play the Hardest Robot until the point when I lost tempo. (Tempo is a music word that is also a chess word, and losing tempo means losing the advantage.)

Then I would resign the game and start another one, and play until I lost tempo again.

I’m going to keep track of the number of moves it takes me to lose tempo, and the types of blunders that cause me to lose tempo, and work specifically on increasing the number of moves and reducing the number of blunders.

This actually reminds me of the early days of freelancing, when I set myself two goals:

  • Increase the amount of money I earn every week
  • Reduce the number of assignments it takes to earn that money

Tracking these metrics was one of the best things I did as a freelancer, because it helped me focus on what I considered to be the most important aspect of freelancing: earning as much money as possible per word. When I began strategizing all of my freelance choices around increasing my income and decreasing my workload, I automatically began seeking out better-paying clients.

I’d like to think that strategizing my chess choices around increasing the number of moves it takes before the Hardest Robot starts winning and reducing the number of obvious mistakes that give the Hardest Robot an easy win will be equally gamechanging—but we’ll have to wait at least a week to find out.

Where I Got Published This Week


How to use a credit card

Here’s how to choose and use your credit cards to hit your financial goals this year.

2020 was hard on my finances. Here’s what I’m doing in 2021 to get back on track

In December 2020, Alainta Alcin got laid off a month after buying her first home. Here’s how she turned the situation around and got her finances back on track.

Cash or debit vs. credit: What’s the best way to pay?

Use this guide and think twice before deciding which payment type is best next time you’re in the checkout line.

Credit Cards Dot Com

Capital One Quicksilver vs. Bank of America Unlimited Cash

Both cards offer 1.5% cash back on every purchase – but that doesn’t mean they’re identical

How to pay for immigration fees

Learn how you can finance these fees with a credit card

Don’t Write Alone | Catapult

Job Opportunities for Writers: August 13, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for August 13, 2021.

Upcoming Submission and Pitching Opportunities: August 13, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for August 13, 2021.

On Anxiety, Scheduling, and Making Specific Choices

“There are three different kinds of anxiety,” I told L.

“Just three?” he said. “I think there are at least fifty-six different kinds of anxiety, and we’re finding new ones every day.”

“There are three different kinds of anxiety,” I continued. “There’s anxiety about performance; that’s when you’re not sure you’re going to be able to do the thing you have to do, or the thing you’ve said you’re going to do, or the thing you want to do. Then there’s anxiety about outcome, in the sense that you’re not sure what the outcome of a given situation is going to be and so you worry about it. There’s also anxiety about opinion, in which you worry about what other people are going to think about you, or your performance, or the outcome of your performance.”

“Okay,” L said.


I am, in fact, no longer anxious about the book.

(You can tell because I’ve started sleeping through the night again.)

I told L, the other day, that I felt about the book much the same way that I’ve started to feel about my piano practice—that is, that I know I can make this project as good as I want it to become (which is to say, excellent) as long as I keep working at it, and as long as I keep specifically working on making more and more specific choices.

Let’s start with the “keep working at it” piece.

Time management is choice management

One of the biggest anxieties I had about this book centered around when I would find the time to work on it. I ended up deciding to batch my work into “freelance days” and “book days,” putting freelance on MWF and book on TTH (or, if you went to a certain type of college, TR).

This meant figuring out how to complete the same amount of freelance work in 3/5ths of the days, which is not the same thing as 3/5ths of the time; at the moment, for example, I am scheduling my day so that I complete one assignment in the early morning, practice the piano for two hours, and then complete one assignment in the later morning/early afternoon.

That gives me five freelance writing slots (M1, M2, W1, W2, F2). The sixth slot (F1) goes towards writing this weekly blog post.

This is the same number of freelance time blocks I had given myself before, five freelance writing slots per week (M1, T1, W1, TH1, F1), but now it’s been compressed into fewer days.

More on this in a minute. It’s important.

Never mind, more on this right now.

Time management is choice management, Part Two

This actually ties in with what I’m currently doing at the piano, which is to say that I’ve been working on getting Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number 12 in F Major, K332 up to tempo, which is to say fast, and although the traditional pedagogy suggests that you’re supposed to set the metronome at 80 and then 90 and then 100 and then 120 and then (finally) 140, making sure you can play everything perfectly at the preceding tempo before acceding to the next one, I’m trying something a little different:

What if you had to play this piece at 140, without all the stops in between?

What would that change about the way you practiced?

How would you focus your time to ensure accuracy at 140, if you didn’t have the experience/crutch of ensuring accuracy at 100 first?

This is, as these things often are, a gamechanger.

It’s also worth noting that I have been studying K332 for a year at this point, and I’ve been freelancing for nearly ten years. I would not suggest jumping into at-tempo playing (or, for lack of a better term, at-tempo freelancing) without that kind of background and prep work.

But asking myself how can I focus my time to ensure accuracy at 140 and how can I focus my time to ensure I complete five freelance assignments in 2.5 days has really helped me, for lack of a better phrase, FOCUS MY TIME.

It’s also helped me prioritize rest.

Essentially, I can’t dilly-dally when I’m working—but I can’t dilly-dally when I’m not working, either.

Otherwise, none of this works.

Specificity management is choice management, too

That’s all great, Nicole, I can hear you thinking, but let’s get to some WORK-SHOWING.

Okay. Here’s what I’m doing on the book, in terms of making increasingly more specific choices.

Let’s start with the original first page:

“I’m not going to choir practice tonight,” Larkin told her mother.

“Yes, you are,” Josephine Day said, not looking up from her laptop. “I already told Ed you’d be there.”

“You can’t tell people I’ll be places,” Larkin said, not getting up from the sofa. “That’s not how this is going to work.”

“I think I get at least some say in how it’s going to work,” Josephine said. “Since you are living in my house.”

“Temporarily,” Larkin said. 

“I’m well aware.”

“And I’m supposed to be taking some time off,” Larkin continued, projecting her voice towards the kitchen table in the hopes that it would loom over her mother and withdraw with some sympathy extracted. “To think about what I want to do with the rest of my life.” 

“Are you thinking about it?”

“I’m thinking that I don’t want to sing in community choir.”

“It’s not a community choir. We’re bringing together all of the choruses in the Corridor for this concert.” At least her mother had not called it the Creative Corridor this time, emphasis on creative, as if that would entice Larkin to get off the sofa and get back to creating. She did not want to make art in Iowa. Not in Iowa City; not in Dubuque, Des Moines, Davenport or any of the other towns they listed in The Music Man; and certainly not in Cedar Rapids.

“Are we getting paid?”

“Of course not.”

“Then it’s a community choir.”

Here’s the first page as it currently stands:

“I’m not going to choir practice tonight,” Larkin told her mother.

“Yes, you are,” Josephine Day said, not looking up from her laptop. “I already told Ed you’d be there.”

“You can’t tell people I’ll be places,” Larkin said, not getting up from the sofa. “That’s not how this is going to work.”

“I think I get at least some say in how it’s going to work,” Josephine said. “Since you are living in my house.”

“Temporarily,” Larkin said. 

“I’m well aware.”

“And I’m supposed to be taking some time off,” Larkin continued, projecting her voice towards the kitchen table in the hopes that it would loom over her mother and withdraw with some sympathy extracted. “To think about what I want to do with the rest of my life.” 

“Are you thinking about it?”

“I’m thinking that I don’t want to sing in community choir.”

“It’s not a community choir. We’re bringing together all of the choruses in the Corridor for this concert.” At least her mother had not called it the Creative Corridor this time, emphasis on creative, as if that would entice Larkin to get off the sofa and get back to creating. Larkin did not want to make art in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She didn’t want to make art in any city where you had to say the name of the state afterwards.

Larkin didn’t even know if what she did qualified as making art, anymore. At one point Larkin was very sure she was going to make art, staging plays and musicals that revealed truths that no one in her audience had ever considered. At a different, slightly later point, she’d told herself it was just as worthwhile to teach other people how to make art—although she’d also asked herself how she could teach something she hadn’t actually done. Larkin had considered this truth and then ignored it, not that it mattered. At this point, nobody was interested in hiring Larkin to teach or make anything.

“Are we getting paid?” 

“Of course not.”

“Then it’s a community choir.”

I feel like I should explain what I did here, but I also feel like it’s kind of self-explanatory. The first draft has a somewhat pandery Music Man joke. The second draft cuts the joke and makes a more specific choice: it not only clarifies what Larkin doesn’t like about Iowa, but also what she doesn’t like about herself. It also introduces the primary internal conflict that Larkin will need to resolve by the end of the story (the primary external conflict being, of course, CAN LARKIN SOLVE THE MURRRRRRRDER [also it’s a murder mystery]).

Anyway. I’ve been doing a lot of this kind of work on the book, and I’ve been reading it all to L in the evenings, and we are all agreeing that this story is progressing in exactly the way it ought to go.

Now let’s show some piano work, which is also getting more and more specific every day:

(I should tell you that immediately after I recorded and watched this video, I asked myself “how many of the technical problems would be solved if I uncurled my right pinky finger?” and it turns out the answer is A LOT OF THEM.)

And let’s end this, as we always do, with my freelance work:

Where I Got Published This Week


How long can a debt collector pursue old debt?

Debt collectors will keep calling even after the bank stops. Here’s what to expect.

Credit Cards Dot Com

A financial guide to college extracurricular activities

The impact of extracurriculars can last long past graduation – both the friendships formed and the financial decisions.

Haven Life

What is collateral assignment of life insurance?

Don’t know what collateral assignment of life insurance is? That’s ok — read on to find out what you need to know.

What are the different life insurance risk classifications?

Curious about the different risk classifications involved in life insurance? Read on to find out more.

Don’t Write Alone | Catapult

Job Opportunities for Writers: August 6, 2021

We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for August 6, 2021.

Upcoming Submission and Pitching Opportunities: August 6, 2021

We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for August 6, 2021.