I was listening to a CD on the way into work that I had last heard years ago. When I put it in this time, I was expecting waves of nostalgia, but instead, it was just really bland. This is the biggest fear of nostalgia, where when we boot up our old computer hardware, we launch into our former favorite game and realize that actually it was kinda terrible. Should we not revisit nostalgic favorites?
Seeing this copy of The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up at a thrift store would probably make Kondo Marie proud. Throughout the book, Kondo returns to a central thought explored more thoroughly in her next book, Spark Joy, namely: Keep only the things that “spark joy” in your life. If you read this book, got everything that you needed from it, and don’t feel compelled to read it again, she’d probably enjoy seeing it donated.
I will generally give anything about one month to sell. If I place a premium price on something to begin with, every week it doesn’t week, I’ll drop the price down on it by a significant amount until it’s more value for me to drop it off at a thrift store than drive somewhere, deal with hagglers or no-shows, and just be done with it. I plan to be done selling most everything by May 2020.
Didn’t Kondo Marie already write a book about getting rid of stuff? Why would there need to be another book? Which is the better one? Both have their advantages. Whereas The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up broaches the topic of reducing clutter in general terms, Spark Joy goes into specifics with drawings and applicable examples. If the former book is like an essay arguing a point, the latter book presents the execution on those arguments.
I think, secretly, we worry too much about what we think others think of us. What if we accepted ourselves for ourselves, what we look like, and our flaws? This would undermine many organizations – materialism, pharmaceuticals, fashion – and help us feel better. What if you like wearing a shirt that has a hole in it and no one cared about that hole? You wouldn’t need to buy a new shirt. Why not try that lifestyle?
Post Office, by Charles Bukowski, has a vibrancy that has faded somewhat from American consciousness. Some sections are vile, but not all. If it weren’t for the stories I’d heard from workers over the years, some of the vignettes in this fictionalized tale of what it was like for Bukowski to work in the postal system in the 70s might have been obscured to time. It is telling, then, how immediate it feels even today.
For months and years, I have been trying to figure out how to parse through the many boxes of many things I want to sell or donate. I’d get flirtations of inspiration here, then get distracted until there. It wasn’t until spending a month writing my first novel, where most of my focus was on writing, that it clicked: I was over-complicating things. The most important aspect of selling is dedicating a space for selling.
It’s fitting that I’m writing this review of The 4-Hour Workweek while on the clock. I’m currently paid to be “ready” to take a call. Over the course of the past two hours, there’s been nothing for me to do, even while scratching around at things I can do. Not enough to exceed a comfortable middle ground. I do, after all, am prioritizing my writing. In this sense, I think Tim Ferriss would be proud.
Now that I’ve finished writing my first novel, “A Story of Self-Confidence: What’s In A Name?,” I’m sorting through everything I had in deep storage to reassess what I want to keep, donate, or sell. When I retrieve or sort through one box, I’ll use another box for storage, resale, or donation. When I start my second novel in May, after renewing my lease and paying taxes, I’ll have more space both figuratively and literally.
When is it worthwhile to salvage some forgotten childhood memento? Is it when that memento brings you back somewhere special? Is it when that memento can be resold for an amount of money worth the hassle of selling it? If neither of these apply, should we keep these things if we can compact them down? Or if they’re beyond repair, not necessarily nostalgic or valuable, should we then give ourselves permission to throw them out?