Category: Creative Writing Class Assignments

Assignment for my creative writing class, see this post for context!

Day 9 - 10/3/19
Daily Writing Prompt: Your first job, your worst job, or…

Assignment:
First (or early) jobs make great fodder for both fiction and nonfiction. Our first work experiences take us out of our comfort zones, place us among coworkers for the first time, often with very different life experiences than our own. It's no wonder they prove so memorable.
Free-write about one of your formative experiences at a first job. Be as vivid and concrete in your details as possible, aiming to show us (rather than telling us) what it felt like to be thrust into this situation, doing this kind of work. Just follow a memory.

“Don’t cover the rice like that, the customers like seeing the food they’re being served!” my supervisor barked at me. Customers?! I thought to myself, looking around my college dining hall at the bedraggled 18 year olds, shuffling around in their sweatpants and flip-flops with their trays full of pizza. “I noticed that the rice was getting dry, so I covered it,” I explained to her calmly. I adjusted my UCSC Banana Slugs hat, which was the acceptable alternative to the health board’s required hairnet. “Do what I say!” my supervisor spat at me, before storming off in a huff.

This was the second time I had been chastised for using my brain on the job. I’d only been working in the dining hall for a week, and I was already bored senseless. Serving up food at the “Global Cuisine” station in my dining hall (“Global” my ass – it was basically a poor man’s Panda Express) was just a series of repetitive actions. Grab a plate, scoop up whatever slop we were serving that day, plop on the plate. Grab, scoop, plop. Grab, scoop, plop. One, two, three. Same, old, thing. Kill, me, now.

On my previous shift, she yelled at me for separating the beef and broccoli into two piles: beef on one side, broccoli on the other. It was the obvious innovative solution for students continually requesting that I add more beef or more broccoli to the scoop on their plate. Instead of digging through the lumpy brown sauce to find the requested adjustment, I could readily access more of the bovine protein or verdant fiber with minimal effort. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with the food, this looks terrible!” she yelled at me, while she stirred up my carefully sorted piles back into an indistinguishable stew.

I learned that I vastly preferred working in the back of the dining hall, washing dishes. Yes, it was disgusting work – students liked to fashion artistic sculptures with their leftovers, mashing together their sandwich crusts with leftover soda, and creating a spire decorated with errant pepperoni and carrots from the salad bar. I was then tasked with scraping these revolting renderings into the trash, spraying the plates down with the pressurized water sprayer, loading them into the crates, pushing the crates into the industrial washer and dryer, and then unloading the scalding hot plates, stacking them into the carts. First In Last Out, the first plate in was the last plate out in the stack, I would think to myself – FILO vs FIFO (“first in first out”), just like we learned in my Data Structures & Algorithms class.

The work was labor intensive, and I’d return to my dorm room stinking of the aerosolized ketchup and mustard that the pressurized water nozzle would spray back onto me, my fingers calloused from stacking plate after boiling-lava-hot plate. But at least we were left alone back there, me and Jason (my co-worker who was also, incidentally, my weed dealer). No supervisors came to yell at us or micromanage. We listened to Tool and Metallica, and talked about our lives while we scraped the plates, stacked the cups, untangled the forks. One, two, three.

Day 8 - 10/02/19
Daily Writing Prompt: “Edible Memories”

Assignment:
Today I'm going to have you access your memories through memories of food. Its preparation. Its enjoyment--or the opposite. Serving it, or being served it. The choice is up to you. All of us have "edible memories."

My family makes jiaozi, chinese dumplings, together. When I was little, I would watch my parents make the jiaozi, just the two of them. My dad would soak the greens and then massage them with salt, grind the meat, and then mix up the filling. The entire kitchen would fill with the scent of garlic and white pepper. He would carefully mix the dough, combining flour and water, knead it, and then roll it into a long snake. Then, his trusty chef’s knife gleaming, he’d expertly slice the snake into uniform chunks before flattening them out with his palm, and then roll them out into perfect rounds with his rolling pin. My mother would then grab one of these dough disks, add a wad of the prepared filling, and then quickly fold and shape the dough into the perfect jiaozi shape. I would watch this whole procedure with wonder, eyes wide with anticipation and hunger.

As I got older, I was allowed to help my mom with the jiaozi wrapping. There were now two sets of chopsticks jutting out of the bowl of filling, one set for me, one set for my mom. I remember carefully cradling a round of the soft dough in my hands. After placing a ball of filling in the middle of my dough, my mom then directed me how to wrap a jiaozi. Make a taco fold, join the edges in the middle, and squeeze. Then, with a crimping motion, make the little folds on each side, fusing the dough edges together along the way. I quickly learned that selecting the right amount of filling from the bowl is an art in itself – grab too large a chunk of filling, and when you try to close the dough around it, it comes squishing out and prevents the dough from sealing. Too little, and the dumpling will look sadly deflated, like a mylar balloon half a month after the birthday celebration has ended. But when you scoop out just the right amount of filling the jiaozi looks plump and balanced, and rests happily upright.

Before long, we would have rows and rows of wrapped jiaozi, standing at attention like little dumpling soldiers. Half were destined for pan frying, half for boiling. All would end up in our waiting tummies. My brother would occasionally join us in the jiaozi wrapping. I have a particularly fond memory of the four of us making jiaozi together a few years ago, while listening to ABBA (a rare music choice that all four of us could agree on) and dancing around the kitchen.

Day 7 - 10/01/19 
Daily Writing Prompt: “Before that pet there was another”

Assignment:
Use "Animals," by Miller Williams as your prompt. Think back to when things were different. There was an animal then. Use that animal, perhaps a pet, perhaps not, guide you back in time and shape your free write. As always, you may write nonfiction, fiction or poetry, depending on your mood and where your pen guides you. 

Our first aquarium was kept in my bedroom, in our “old house” that we moved out of when I was still very young. Tim and I would stand with our noses pressed against it, our breath fogging up the glass. There were two goldfish in there. “Milk makes us grow up big and strong! Mom says so!” the four year old Tim says, as he dumps his glass into the tank. My dad comes in, his eyes widen in alarm when he sees the milky water.

———————————————————————-

Our outdoor fish was big. He lived in the pond in our backyard, which Tim and I had dug over spring break when I was in middle school, and my parents had finished with rubberized tarp, decorative stone, and a nice wood bridge. He had survived many winters, thanks to the pond de-icer. He seemed to thrive on a diet of bugs – especially the mosquito larvae that we continually battled against in the summertime. We would sit by the pond and talk to him, he paid us no mind at all.

———————————————————————-

My dad felt strongly that if we were to keep bunnies, they should be given as much freedom as possible, and not live a life of confinement in a cage. He built a hutch in the backyard, with a ramp, and an enclosure that gave them a wide roaming area in the dirt of our backyard. I litter-box trained our two floppy eared bunnies, by scooping their round pellets into the litter-box enough times that they learned that that corner was the one to do their business in. I don’t remember what we originally named them, but I do recall that I eventually re-named them “Beelzebub” and “Lucifer” – the freedom of free ranging had turned them feral. We spent all of our time frantically retrieving them from under various hiding places in our backyard. They had learned to dig under the fencing enclosure to escape, but would then hide in terror from all the birds, cats, and coyotes in the neighborhood. They were too dumb to realize the hutch and enclosure were for their safety.

———————————————————————-

“I’m coming by now, and I have a tiny creature with me,” Forrest texted me. We were going to meet Isaac for coffee and vegan pastries at Timeless, the morning after we had a band celebration for Forrest’s birthday. Forrest picked me up in his truck, and indeed there was a tiny black puppy nestled on a blanket in the passenger seat. She was so petite I could fit her neatly in my two cradled hands. “We heard something screaming when we were walking home on San Pablo after leaving Missouri Lounge,” Forrest explained. “She was wedged between a cooler and the wall, someone had abandoned her on the street in that cooler I think!” How could anyone be so cruel, I thought to myself, gazing down at the wriggling black critter, who was gnawing on her front paw. “She spent the night sleeping in Nick’s beard, and peed in it,” Forrest continued. “He thinks we should name her Sabbath.”

We meet Isaac in front of Timeless, and Sabbath is terrified of Isaac’s sturdy and large frame, cowering away from him. She’s clearly come from a traumatic background. She seems most comfortable nestled in my arms, or biting Forrest’s beard. She’s curious, and her tiny switch of a tail flicks in double time. I buy her a tiny collar at Pet’s Mart, fuchsia pink, to compliment her glossy black fur. We makeshift a leash out of rope, but she’s so small we think she is likely too young to safely walk around on the ground, for fear of parvo. We are astounded to learn from the vet staffing the adoption event at the Pet’s Mart that judging by the size of her teeth and paws, she’s likely around 12 weeks old! She must be malnourished to be so tiny. But at least we don’t have to worry about formula feeding her.

After some debate, we decide she is going home with Isaac – he’s the only one who has a lease that allows dogs. Sabbath is ours.

Day 6 - 9/28/19
Daily Writing Prompt: “What I won’t remember”

Assignment:
Inspiration is "Bullet In The Brain," by Tobias Wolff (https://pov.imv.au.dk/Issue_27/section_1/artc2A.html)
Once you've finished reading, I want you to imagine that you're the person who was just held up at that bank. You just got shot. What don't you think about? What is your last memory? Following Wolff's example, be as concrete and vivid as you can. Give us images, and sensory detail. Show us the final scene that your mind conjures up in its last moments on earth.  

As the bullet passed through her brain, Amanda did not remember any of the things she thought she would. And she had engaged in this thought experiment often, in line at the grocery store, waiting while her car was smogged, or laying awake at night in bed. It was a common game for her to imagine which of her seminal and consequential life memories would bubble up in that moment when her life “flashed before her eyes.” 

Now that the moment of her death had arrived, with a literal bang, Amanda did not think of any of those life moments she had rehearsed. She did not remember her first love, Jimmy, or the way it had felt to fall in love for the first time, when she was too young and naive to be afraid of the inherent vulnerability it takes to love and be loved in return. Nor did she remember how shockingly painful it was to have her heart broken for the first time, the gnawing ache in her chest that she harbored for months on end. 

She didn’t remember the first time she rode her bike on her own, the streamers on her pink schwinn flapping in the wind while her dad hooted and hollered in pride behind her. She didn’t remember peering into her baby brother’s bassinet for the first time, turning to her mother and exclaiming, “You have to be very careful, you know, he’s very little!” 

This is what she remembered. Her cheeks prickling, red from the cold. A field of white. Her small frame crouching down, constricted by her winter layers, hat, snow pants, her mittens hanging down to the ground, held in place by yarn. Gazing in wonder at each individual snowflake as it landed on the mille-feuille. One snowflake, joining a thousand layers of other snowflakes. Each one unique, but indistinguishable in the crowd.

Day 5 - 9/27/19
Daily Writing Prompt: “Exploding the moment”

Assignment:
Show, don’t tell. Readers don’t want to be told information, they want to experience the writing. As we’ve already discussed this week, we experience life through our five senses and we experience writing when those senses are explored on the page in a concrete way that we can understand as readers.
Think of a moment when you did something that got you in trouble. It could be from childhood or something more recent - or you can make something up. First, write it in “told” form, and then explode that moment.

Moment:

I forgot to call my mom one day after school in 3rd grade. Instead of going straight home, I got lost in fun, and went home with my friend Mindy. I meant to call my mom when I got there, but we were so excited to get to her backyard to play with her rabbits that we ran straight there and bypassed the house via the side gate, so I forgot to call. My mom shows up suddenly at Mindy’s house after frantically searching the neighborhood with my little brother in tow, and she’s hysterical with worry, and then once she finds me, she is irate with anger. 

Exploded moment:

The tiny baby bunny sits in my cupped hands, like an oversized gray cotton ball, looking back at me inquisitively with shining black eyes. “How many babies did Ariel have?” I ask my friend Mindy, turning my gaze upward, since she is a good half foot taller than myself. We wouldn’t learn about the mechanics of reproduction until next year, in fourth grade sex education classes. But I had heard through the grapevine that rabbits were prolific when it came to producing offspring. “She had six at first, but the runt of the litter died a few hours after it came out,” Mindy answered, her breath smelling like graham crackers. I nodded. We scooped the other babies out of the hutch, and piled them into a basket, where they looked like wriggling furry Easter eggs with tall ears. 

We march the basket into the house, with the intention to find some soft things to line the basket and make a bed for the babies. The kitchen is bustling, Mindy’s many siblings yelling and vying for speaking time, steam and the scent of mashed potatoes fills the air. I hear Emily, Mindy’s older sister, talking to someone at the front door, her voice rising, “I already told you when you called 30 minutes ago, Jessica isn’t here!” Noticing my name, I peek around the corner to see who she is talking to. My stomach suddenly drops to my feet, cold dread making my hands go numb.

My mom is standing at the door, her face creased with worry. My younger brother Tim is clutching her hand, his eyes wide with fear. Realization dawns on me and fills me with panic: I hadn’t remembered to call my Mom and tell her that I wasn’t coming straight home from school. I was in big, BIG trouble.

Assignment for my creative writing class, see this post for context!

Day 4, 9/26/19
Daily writing prompt: “Obsessions”

Assignment:
"Your main obsessions have power; they are what you will come back to in your writing over and over again." - Natalie Goldberg
In my experience, writers tend to manifest an obsessive quality more than people who don't write. As Goldberg says, obsessions feed writing. And writing might be a way that unusually obsessive people find to channel their obsessions into something useful and concrete. Free write about an obsession or compulsion of your own. Something you feel (or felt) you MUST do, where logic and reason didn't really play into it. Be funny like David Sedaris if you want, or treat it seriously. Take whatever tone comes naturally when writing about this obsession of yours. It can be one that you've gotten over, or one that is persistent. Or you can make something up, attribute an obsession to a fictional character, if you prefer. 

Ever since I was a little girl, I have been obsessed with music. Listening to it, talking about it, playing it. The story goes that when I was two and a half years old, my parents took me to a record store. My eyes went wide when I heard the music of Michael Jackson playing over the house speakers, and I planted myself next to his cardboard replica, refusing to leave the store until my parents bought his BAD album on cassette for me. It was my very first album. Timeline-wise, this story lines up – I was born in 1985 and MJ’s BAD was released in 1987. 

I began piano lessons when I was four years old. Another of my earliest memories is of being dropped off at a strange lady’s house for my first lesson, sitting on the piano bench with my little legs swinging far off the ground, staring down at the keys while she pointed out “Middle C” to me. 

My mom told me that I used to lay in the grass of my backyard, and sing at the sky for hours. 

As an adult, this obsession with music has continued. This passion sometimes impedes on my day to day life. Case in point, if I am trying to have a conversation with someone at a restaurant or bar that is playing music, I have to fight to concentrate on the speaker and the discussion at hand. It sometimes feels as if I must force my brain to focus on the topic of discourse, rather than on the background music. My mind naturally wants to focus on the music filtering through the venue – to identify the song, the instrumentation, the artist. My thoughts naturally want to follow the thread of notes that are winding their way into my eardrum, and get lost in the melodies and the organic thought processes that accompany them in my mind. 

Oftentimes, it feels like music is the only place where I can leave my anxiety behind. Playing my instruments and making music with others is one of the only ways I can achieve a “flow state.” I become fully immersed in music and bask in the enjoyment of being fully present in the harmonies we are creating together, rather than ruminating on worries for the future or regrets about the past.

Assignment for my creative writing class, see this post for context!

Day 3, 9/25/19
Daily writing prompt: "Observe in words"

Assignment: 
Observation notebook (ideally daily) - this journal is a place to write down concrete things: images (things you see), lines and other sounds overheard, smells you notice, sounds, tactile sensations (what you feel), not abstractions (even if the concrete things you write down hold abstract feelings for you). You don't need to know why these observations matter, or even if they matter. It's a scrapbook for sensory observations. A sensory catch-all. Why? Well, we observe the world through our senses. And when we write, we communicate our experience of the world by finding the words to convey those sensory experiences. Also, the things you notice and find the words for probably are things that bring out feelings in you. There's a reason you notice them, even if you may not realize that reason when you notice them. In these notebooks, you will learn to observe in language. Later, when you’re looking for things to write about, I will invite you to mine these notebooks. They should be absolutely full of things that you can use .

What I did:

• Woke up, stared at my phone
• Made tea and muesli for breakfast
• Vacuumed and cleaned the house
• Practiced dance routine
• Ate lunch
• Walked to bus stop, hopped on the bus
• Took BART to the city
• Walked from Embarcadero to meet my friend Angela
• Took 38R together to Japan Town
• Scrub and oil massage at Korean Spa
• Udon dinner

What I saw:

• A tiny bright yellow bird hopping through the branches of the tree outside my kitchen window.
• A very stout pit bull with adorable wrinkles adorning his flanks.
• The kind and smiling face of the Korean Ajumma gazing directly at me as she very lovingly and gently dried my face, asking me if I am ok.
• A startlingly gorgeous gradient sky over Japantown, deep violet blending into a rose pink blending into saffron orange.

What I heard:

• HOA landscapers raking the leaves outside, the steady scratch against the concrete.
• Birds chirping and trucks braking as they navigate down the narrow street.
• Lively conversations in spanish under the window.
• Buckets of water being thrown, one after another.
• Multiple hairdryers blowing a cacophony of hot air.
• A comforting undercurrent of Korean grandmas chattering away.

What I smelled:

• The morning breeze tinged with the scent of diesel fuel and exhaust.
• The grape scented aloe gel that was smeared all over my face.
• The acrid scent of San Francisco’s financial district on an unnaturally warm day: a mix of hot asphalt, shit and piss, food carts, perfume, sweat-soaked synthetic fibers, and entitlement.

Assignment for my creative writing class, see this post for context!

Day 2, 9/24/19
Daily writing prompt: “Two lies and a truth”

Assignment: 
3 stories - 2 fiction, 1 non-fiction. Have fun writing these stories with lots of vivid details. Try to transport us there so that each paragraph feels true, and we have a hard time guessing which is the real one.

Story 1:

I’ve only had one celebrity encounter. My good friend George and I flew down to Southern California for a visit to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Before our day at the theme park began, we went to grab brunch from a Yelp-recommended restaurant. I don’t recall the name. We stood out in the bright Los Angeles sunshine waiting for our table, I remember the glare was so bright that I had to squint my eyes. I didn’t have my sunglasses on me because they didn’t go with my outfit. Being the nerd I am, I was wearing my handmade Hogwarts student uniform, proudly showcasing my Ravenclaw colors in preparation for the Harry Potter festivities later that day. 

While blocking my eyes from the intense golden light, I felt someone’s cold arm brush against me while they pushed past me to get to the hostess. She was a brunette woman, of slight frame, wearing enormous bug-like sunglasses (I was jealous that her eyes bore such effective protection) and Lululemon yoga pants. She looked a little damp, the fine hair around her face was beaded with sweat. I assumed she had just come from a pilates class. The rest of the brunch crowd was twittering, the rustle of their whispers rising up around me. I didn’t quite catch on right away. 

This tiny woman cast her gaze around, surveying the crowd and doing the mental calculus of determining if the wait was worth her while. Flinging her ponytail to the wind, she called out to her dining companion, “It’s too crowded, there won’t be any patio seats available, let’s try somewhere else!” And they were off in a cloud of expensive perfume. My brain was piecing something together, and it finally clicked. I turned to George, “Wait, was that – ?” and a woman next to me continued “PATRICIA HEATON! From Everybody Loves Raymond! Right?! Yep! I am pretty sure!” 

Story 2:

I remember the day my baby sister was born. At least, I think I do. They say that memories are malleable, that it’s nearly impossible for us to decipher which of our memories are real, and which are stories we’ve been told and have then adopted for ourselves, stitching them seamlessly into our minds eye. 

I was in my favorite pink romper. I liked it because it was super soft, but more importantly, it was festooned with bunnies. It was fall by then, and there was a crispness to the air. The wind had some bite to it when it blew past my ears. My aunt June had tried to get me to put on a coat before I went outside because it wasn’t really romper weather anymore, but I had refused, squirmed so much that she gave up. I was crouched in the grass, which was half brown by this time, yellowing in time with the changing of the leaves. I was on a mission to search for bugs. For what reason, I couldn’t tell you.

 I remember concentrating on each patch of grass with intense scrutiny, my little toddler fingers spreading deliberately between the green and brown blades. The New Mexico sunshine, which normally blazes bright and hot regardless of season, was muted that day due to the gray clouds that hovered on the horizon. This made finding the bugs more challenging, but I was already stubborn at that age. My aunt June called out to me, “Jessica! Come inside! We have someone for you to meet!” I looked up towards the house, my gaze shifting reluctantly from the myopic view of the ground. I saw that my mom was home, and she was standing in the doorway of our back deck, carrying a squirming bundle in her arms.

Story 3:

I have interviewed for many jobs at this point in my adult life, but one experience comes to mind. It was for my first job out of law school. I graduated earlier that year in June, and spent the summer studying for the bar exam. I needed to find a job while I waited to get the exam results, and I was sorely in need of cash. I was kind of desperate. Since I couldn’t get a job as an attorney until I received my license, I turned to a temp agency to find a job that could tide me over until then. The temp agency had sent me on an interview with a financial consulting firm in San Francisco, they needed a receptionist who could man the front desk, answer the phone and direct phone calls, and order lunch. 

I arrived at the imposing concrete skyscraper on California street, and took the ear-popping escalator ride up to the 34th floor. I was wearing one of my cheap suits that I had purchased from H&M for one of my many past law school internships/clerkships. I remember that the lining material was scratchy, and that it left the tops of my bare shoulders (I was wearing a sleeveless blouse underneath the suit jacket) red and irritated. I tried to ignore my discomfort, and pasted what I hoped was a confident smile on my face. 

A man who introduced himself as Steve met me at the front desk. He was tall, imposing, and his hand was so large that it enveloped mine almost completely when he extended it for a hand-shake. He dressed casually in khakis and a button down, but I could tell that his outfit was rich in a low-key way. His watch gleamed, his shoes had nary a scuff, and I was willing to bet his belt cost more than all of my cheap suits in my closet combined. He asked me a steady stream of questions, where I went to school, why I was looking for a temporary job. His hand rubbed his jawline, which was covered in second day stubble. I found the sandpaper scraping sound to be annoying, but tried to act nonplussed as I answered his questions in what I hoped was an enthusiastic and cheerful manner. 

I really needed this job, my student loan money had run out, and I had to take out an additional private loan to float me while I was studying for the bar. Unfortunately, that revenue stream had also dwindled away to almost nothing. I got distracted, trying to figure out if I had the money to both pay my rent AND my electric bill that month, when I realized that Steve was looking at me expectantly. “Wha-what? I mean, pardon?” I stammered, realizing that he had asked me a question which I clearly had missed. “Does that sound ok, I said? Can you start Monday, 9 AM?” Steve asked, looking slightly bemused. I heaved a sigh of relief, “Yes, I definitely can do that, thank you for the opportunity!” I replied. Thank god, I thought to myself. I was gonna be ok. 

Assignment for my creative writing class, see this post for context!

09/23/19, Day 1
Daily writing prompt: “The one ironclad rule is that I…”

Assignment: 
From this prompt, write for 20 minutes (or longer), don’t put the pen down. Can be fiction, non-fiction, or hybrid.

The one ironclad rule is that I pursue intrinsic joy and motivation. For too long, I have done things because I felt that I “should” do them. I should go to law school. I should be a lawyer. Or, conversely, I have avoided doing things because I “shouldn’t” do them. I shouldn’t quit my job which makes me deeply unhappy, because I worked so hard to get to where I am, and because I have the privilege of having a good paying job with good benefits, and so many people would kill to have this privilege. I shouldn’t try a pole dancing class, because it’s “slutty” and people would judge me and stare down their nose at me. So many of my decisions in life have been dictated by what society says is right. 

Motivation came from outside of myself, from extrinsic sources that promised that happiness and fulfillment would come if only I followed the “right” formula – do A followed by B, then C, and before you know it BAM here comes joy. Get a doctorate degree, press your nose to the grindstone in your career, “prove your worth” and don’t take vacations because you can’t afford to slip up or relax, don’t you want to be successful? Following the formula did lead to “success” – in the societal definition, but I wasn’t happy. Is anyone happy when they make decisions that are dictated for them? I pondered the same question that the venerable Brene Brown presented: “Are we ‘should-ing’ all over ourselves?” 

Over the last few years, I have slowly decided to not follow this formula. I have decided to look inside myself to find direction, to tap into that internal compass inside me which quietly points me in the right direction. Not the “right” direction that comes from what society dictates is the norm, and what we “should” want in life. But the direction that comes from within, that says, “Hey yeah, try this thing you’ve always been curious about, sure it sounds a little crazy/weird, but doesn’t it also sound truly and purely fun?” It’s tapping into this “gut” sense, and determining what intrinsically motivates me, which has helped me to shift my perspective. If something sparks curiosity inside me, if an idea triggers excitement and wonder? That’s a good sign. 

Furthermore, if a topic or idea comes up and my “gut” responds with a “meh” or fatigue, even if intellectually the idea “makes sense” or “has value” – I will proceed with caution, or perhaps not proceed at all. 

I try to distinguish between this “gut excitement” vs “gut malaise.” Because this difference determines when my intrinsic compass is pointing toward true north and joy.