One of my favorite writing mentors, John Brogan, claims the secret to writing is simply the power of one. Simply write about one thing at a time. It’s so easy to choose a subject like “My Grandfather,” “I Love my Family,” or the ubiquitous “What I did Last Summer.” Those ideas are too big. I have 12 Uncles and Aunts plus 17 cousins. Grandpa lived 87 years, no one is going to read the tome it would take to tell about his whole life, no matter how heroic he was. And last summer had 90 days, a trip to Dallas, mountains of laundry and fireworks. No one wants to read the disjointed story of last summer, not even the teachers who assign it the first day of school in the fall. So, pick one idea and tell about it. I’m choosing the most mundane of those subjects to write about, laundry. In fact, I’m going to narrow my subject even further. The one thing I’m going to write about is:

Socks In my family a new pair of socks is pure happiness. Soft and pristine, a new pair of socks cuddle the feet. If I could wear a new pair every day, I would. I wish socks were disposable. My son throws away a pair of socks in every country he visits, even if it’s just a layover at the airport. “It’s the opposite of a souvenir,” he said. “It’s forensic proof that I was there.” It’s a bit different, but we are a sock family. So, I can relate to this logic. My daughter spends hours knitting rainbows of yarn into socks. She uses the softest wool available on the internet. The time and cost of the finest yarn make them cost prohibitive to sell. Instead, she gifts them to important people for Christmas and birthdays. I’m blessed with seven pairs of these hand knit beauties. But, there’s a dark side to all this sock love. It’s the heaping basket of unmatched socks dripping onto my laundry table. As much as I like them, I dislike folding them. Digging through pile before work to find two matching socks is like winning the lottery. That’s the start of a really good day. The mountain of socks didn’t bother me until my sister came to visit. While I was at work one day she found them. Doing me a favor, she popped a movie on and started sorting socks. When I came home from work she met me at the door. “Do you know how many pairs of socks you have?” she said. “Ummm,” I said staring at my feet. “307 pairs. Do you know how many socks you have without a mate?” “No, ummm, twelve?” I grinned at her sheepishly. “186.” I think my sis is planning a sock intervention for me. Honestly, someone should invent disposable socks.

When writing, remember John Brogan’s secret. It will make your work concise and readable, even if you’re only writing about socks.