Clear out the deadwood

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I met my mom and dad when I was young, so I didn’t see them in their prime. But the tiny bronze bowling trophies on their matching Danish Modern bedroom bureaus gave away their secret. They were league-level bowlers. The fallout from my parents’ brief athletic era is a term helpful for January resolutions: deadwood.

Deadwood means knocked-over pins. Alley clutter that makes it tough, if not impossible, to know what to do next. While the bowler curses or cheers over their last roll, a triangular gadget lowers, grabs any still-standing pins, and lifts them out of the way. An automated arm sweeps away the downed pins, and whoosh goes the deadwood. The remaining pins are re-set in their places so you can take another crack at them.

Long after Dad’s bowling trophies were gathering dust, he used that term for anything that created chaos. Dirty clothes on the bathroom floor? “Clear out the deadwood!” Fallen tree branches after a storm? “Clear out the deadwood!” Toys swamping the living room? “Clear out the deadwood!”

Every year, everybody I know makes resolutions (recently rebranded as “intentions”). We write lists and pester accountability partners. We vow to the heavens that we will –fill in the blank–. For most authors, it’s usually some version of “This year, I’m going to start/finish/get serious about my writing!”

And I’m here to tell you that won’t happen unless we clear out the deadwood.

What is our deadwood? Anything that makes it impossible—or very, very difficult—to accomplish your heart’s desire. And it’s usually perfectly obvious what your deadwood is. It’s RIGHT THERE, cluttering up your vision, delaying your dream.

For me, it’s the dratted internet. It’s sticky. Sneaky. Seductive. Shelob in sequins. Why do you think they call it the WEB?

I bought my first flip-phone strictly for emergencies. (I see your rolled eyes and rueful nod.) I told everyone it would live in the bottom of my purse. Ha. Several upgrades later, this device of the devil is my bosom companion. The first thing I pick up in the morning. The last thing I touch at night. Oh, I know. I know. I’ve read the stats. The addiction warnings. But I still find myself watching doggie voice-over reels and giggling at pajama-clad baby goats. Cute, yes. Helpful for my writing career? Hardly.

Let’s get real (irony alert)—Instagram and Facebook these days are about 75% AI-generated deadwood. I would say 100%, but there are some great writing gurus out there and a slew of really supportive fellow authors. Since I use both to learn my craft, build community, and promote my books, I haven’t completely deadwooded them (yet), but I have set time limits. (Instagram’s automated timer reminder stings like a nun’s ruler.)   

Bearing all that in mind, here’s my new year’s deadwood clearing plan:

1. Make it hard to waste time by “hiding” the app on my phone screen’s dark regions. Stick to time limits OR ELSE. Rig up a carrot or a stick, whatever works best for you.  
2. Declutter authorial resources (binders, books, printouts) by consigning everything about traditional publishing to the trash. (Learn why here)
3. Scrutinize my time and energy commitments: What’s the ROI?
4. Apply deadwood filters:
   • Does this activity draw me closer to Jesus?
   • Does this help me craft authentically passionate love stories?
   • Does this behavior support the desired outcome?

If something clutters my life and clouds my focus, whoosh, baby, whoosh. (I know you’re listening, iPhone, so watch your back.)

Making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. Ephesians 5:16-17