I used to think creativity was a lightning bolt. A divine, unpredictable jolt that would yank me out of bed at 3 a.m., force me to scribble genius on a napkin, and then vanish for weeks while I shuffled around in my bathrobe, eating cold pizza and waiting for the next flash. I was a …
I have a confession. Every morning, I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes. Not because I’m a dental hygiene zealot, but because my electric toothbrush has a built-in timer that buzzes every thirty seconds to tell me to switch quadrants. I stand there, half-asleep, moving the brush from lower left to lower right to …
I have a confession. I am a creature of habit so deeply entrenched in my own little rituals that if you were to map my morning, it would look like the schematic for a very boring, very predictable Rube Goldberg machine. The alarm clock triggers the cat, the cat triggers the kettle, the kettle triggers …
I have a confession. Every morning, I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes. Not because I’m a dental hygiene zealot, but because my electric toothbrush has a built-in timer that buzzes every thirty seconds to tell me to switch quadrants. I stand there, foaming at the mouth like a rabid spaniel, waiting for the …
I have a confession. I am a creature of habit, a slave to the clock, a woman who has, on more than one occasion, wept genuine tears over a misplaced day planner. My friends call me predictable. My therapist calls it “adaptive structuring.” I call it the only thing standing between me and a life …