The Counting Game
Remember, you have to count all the way down to zero. No peeking!
One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight …
The last time I played Hide and Seek was probably more than ten years ago, but I feel like I still experience it a bit every day. Counting down or counting up, doesn’t matter—my brain insists on organizing things with numbers. Is this weird? I don’t know.
Here’s a sampling:
Two hundred = the stairs down to the Lake Michigan shore. To hypnotize myself back to sleep in the middle of the night, I count this descent step-by-step in my mind.
Four-Seven-Eight = the breathing pattern I employ as my backup means of sleep hypnosis.
Forty-five = the minutes I allow myself to get back to sleep before giving up on hypnosis and getting out my book.
Two = the hours I’ll read before trying, again, to sleep. I’m apparently kind of obsessed with this issue.
Four to eight = the hills my daily dog walk encounters (varies per route).
Seven = the big roots I must climb over on one section of the trail.
Twelve/eight = the compound quadruple meter (four beats per measure, three eighth notes per beat) of a rhythm that beats in my head while I walk. Sometimes I catch myself clacking my teeth to it.
Two = the “rev-up” words I recommend agility students use to get their unmotivated dogs blasting off the start line (Ready? Steady?)
Six to Eight = the hours I once practiced per day, back when I aspired to be a professional musician.
One (or one thousand) = the maximum number of chapters (or minimum number of words) I try to write daily for a first draft. Depending on plot complexity, this often ends up as a single scene within a chapter.
Forty to fifty thousand = the total number of words I aim to write for each MG manuscript.
Two = the number of drafts I write before anyone other than my dog experiences a word of it.
Twenty-five to sixty = the number of agent rejections I force myself to endure per manuscript, before giving up and moving on to the next one. (I know you’re supposed to acquire at least 100 rejections, but my spirit can’t handle that many.)
Two = the chocolate-chip cookies I get to eat at the end of a good day. (Thus, every day becomes a good day.)
Looking at my list, I see that it highlights things that are central to my life: sleep, food, dog/walks, music, and writing. Not bad. Except for the music and writing parts, it’s pretty much a dog’s life. A lucky dog.
Do you stratify your days with numbers, too? Writers in particular: I’m curious whether you religiously keep track of your word count, or the number of minutes per day that you write, or anything else numeric related to writing.
I’m starting to think that the childhood game of Hide-and-Seek should be part of a training manual for How to Navigate Life. It requires tremendous self-control, yet it nurtures excitement for what comes next.
And what does come next?
Simple. It’s the release of restraints, the sudden transition to a new stage. if you’re the counter in that game, it’s literally the time to unmask your eyes and set yourself free. You might tiptoe or clomp, walk or run—you choose. The best part is that you finally get to search for those little devils who’ve been hiding from you. And the structure, patience, and anticipation leading up to this point make the whole thing worth it.
Back to counting. But watch out, because pretty soon … here I come!
Happy Tales!
I count up 30 seconds in my head after flipping my fried egg before I take it out of the pan (over medium), but then I often forget to stop counting as I get the rest of my breakfast together and eat it. Sometime later I realize I've gotten way up in the hundreds without noticing that I'm still counting.
I'm a sort of counter, too--it's there for any repetitive job--chopping the carrots, whatever is repetitive and in no "official" need of being counted. I think I do it even when I don't notice I'm doing it. Thanks for this post--it's nice to know I'm not alone in this! When I asked one of my sons if he counted anything in this way, he said he always counted the number of syllables in his words when he spoke, and he can't keep it from happening. but it doesn't affect his actual speech in any way. This does seem to be an 'innocent' manifistation of a bit of OCD--pretty mysterious.