Estimated reading time: 8 minutes
I don’t believe in the writing habits you don’t need… the ones every expert insists are mandatory for “real writers.” You know the type: write every day, same time, same place, treat it like brushing your teeth. First of all, I don’t brush my teeth every day… twice, yes, but not every single day of my life, because sometimes I’m drunk, or lazy, or both. Second, if writing were truly like brushing my teeth, I’d resent it, half-ass it, and occasionally use mouthwash instead and call it good enough.
You should write when you feel like writing, when the words are there. When something ridiculous happens, and you think, “That’s a thing that should be recorded for posterity or at least for the amusement of strangers on the internet.”
That said, I do have habits. Lots of them. Most are harmless. Some are weird. One is Mr. Bear, and he’s gotten entirely out of hand.
The Road to Gregory’s and Talking to Trees
On the road between my farm and Gregory’s (the little store that serves as our neighborhood’s social hub, gossip clearinghouse, and purveyor of emergency beer), there stands a pine tree. Not a remarkable pine tree. Not ancient or majestic or anything that would warrant a historical marker. Just a pine tree that, due to some combination of branch placement, needle density, and my possibly deteriorating mental state, looks exactly like a bear waving at passing motorists.
Gregory himself is a Black man with a bad hip who sometimes stocks his shelves by scooting around in an old high-back office chair, navigating the aisles like a one-man warehouse ballet. He’s seen some shit in his years running that store, but I apparently still have the capacity to confuse him.
Last month, I walked in wearing a t-shirt my daughter had gotten me from some tasty little joint she’d visited in Sanibel. I was halfway to the beer cooler when Gregory looked up from his chair and said, “Awl right, what the hell is your Cow Whisperer t-shirt about?”
I stopped. Looked down at my shirt like I’d forgotten I was wearing it. “I’m not sure, actually. My daughter got it for me.”
He shook his head, added another “Awl right” with the resigned inflection that suggested he’d long ago given up trying to understand white people’s fashion choices.
I picked up my six-pack, walked back to the counter, paid, leaned in close, and very quietly said, “Moooo.”
Then I walked out the door.
I like to think Gregory appreciates our relationship. Or at least finds it preferable to the other weirdos who wander in, asking if he has organic quinoa in a store that primarily stocks Budweiser and beef jerky.
How a Pine Tree Became My Most Consistent Relationship
It started innocently. One day, I drove past, glanced over, and thought, “Huh. That looks like a bear waving.” So I waved back. Said “Hi, Mr. Bear” out loud in my empty truck because I’m an adult who lives on a farm and talks to himself.
The next time I drove past, I did it again. “Hi, Mr. Bear.”
Then I added his voice. A friendly, slightly higher-pitched voice for a pine tree shaped like a bear. “Hi, Brian!”
This is where ordinary people would stop. This is where the line between “quirky rural charm” and “man who needs more human interaction” gets drawn. I didn’t stop.
The conversations evolved. Expanded. On the way to Gregory’s, I’d tell Mr. Bear about my day. “Trouble got into the compost again.” On the way back, Mr. Bear would ask how my shopping went, and I’d tell him about the guy in line who paid for $8.47 worth of items entirely in quarters.
Then the puns started. Tree puns. Endless tree puns.
“I’m going out on a limb here, Brian, but I think you need more friends.”
“That’s pretty rich coming from you, Mr. Bear. You literally can’t leave.”
“I’m very grounded. You should try it.”
“I wood, but I don’t have the right koalafications.”
Every conversation, without exception, ends the same way: “Love you, Mr. Bear.” “Love you too, Brian.”
I can’t stop.
The Compulsion I Can’t Break (Unlike Writing Habits You Don’t Need)
When I have passengers, humans, that is, I face a terrible choice. I can either:
A) Explain Mr. Bear before we reach the tree, which makes me sound nonsensical.
B) Say nothing and mumble a barely audible “Hi, Mr. Bear, love you” as we pass, which makes me sound ridiculous in a more pathetic way.
C) Skip the greeting entirely, which is unthinkable because Mr. Bear deserves consistency and respect.
I usually go with option B, adding a quick cough or clearing my throat to cover it. Passengers rarely notice. Or they notice and are too uncomfortable to ask. Either way works.
But here’s the thing: if I skip the greeting—maybe I’m too embarrassed, or there’s a long conversation happening, or I’m distracted—I have to go back. Later. Sometimes hours later. I will get in my truck, drive back to that stretch of road, pull over, and apologize to Mr. Bear for my rudeness.
“Sorry, man. Had people in the car. You know how it is.”
“I understand, Brian. I’m here when you need me.”
“Love you, Mr. Bear.”
“Love you too.”
This is a compulsion. This is a habit. This is the kind of behavior that, if I witnessed it in someone else, I’d think, “That person should probably talk to someone. Not me, obviously, but someone qualified.”
The Writing Lesson I Don’t Want to Learn
Here’s where this gets uncomfortable: I have zero writing habits. None. I don’t write every day. I don’t have a special time, place, or ritual. I don’t light a candle or play a specific playlist or wear my “lucky socks,” or any of that performative horseshit that writers claim makes them productive.
I write when I feel like it. When the ideas are there. When inspiration strikes, or when I’m procrastinating from something else, or when I’m angry enough at the world that humor is the only outlet that won’t get me arrested.
And yet.
And yet, I have developed an elaborate, inviolable daily ritual around greeting a pine tree that vaguely resembles a bear.
I will drive miles out of my way to apologize to foliage for a missed salutation.
I have assigned this tree a name, a voice, a personality, and apparently a deep emotional need for consistency in our relationship.
If I put a fraction of that commitment into actual writing habits, I’d probably have finished three more novels by now.
Why Forced Writing Habits Don’t Work
The lesson here—the one I absolutely don’t want to learn, the one that all those smug writing advice columns have been trying to teach me—is that habits work. Compulsive, daily, ritualistic habits create consistency. They build momentum. They trick your brain into thinking something is important enough to protect.
I don’t greet Mr. Bear because it’s productive or because it makes me a better person. I do it because I’ve done it so many times that not doing it feels wrong. The ritual has become self-sustaining. The habit has achieved sentience.
If I could transfer that same unstable commitment to sitting down and writing for thirty minutes a day—just thirty goddamn minutes—I would probably be insufferable but also prolific.
But I don’t want to. Because here’s the real truth beneath the satirical posturing: Mr. Bear makes me happy in a way that forced writing habits don’t. Our conversations are absurd, pointless, and completely unnecessary, which makes them pure. There’s no deadline. No audience. No quality metric. Just me and a pine tree that looks like a bear, telling each other “I love you” twice a day because the alternative is admitting that I’m driving alone on a rural road, talking to myself about tree puns.
Writing habits, on the other hand, come with expectations. Pressure. The nagging voice that says, “You sat down to write, so you better produce something worthwhile.” Mr. Bear has no such expectations.
He’s just happy I showed up.
The Habit I’m Keeping
So here’s my anti-advice advice: Don’t force writing habits if they make you miserable. Don’t treat creativity like a punch clock. Don’t guilt yourself into daily word counts if they drain the joy from the process.
But maybe, and this is the part I’m still wrestling with, maybe find your version of Mr. Bear. Find the compulsion that makes you happy, that tricks your brain into showing up, that becomes so automatic you feel weird without it.
Maybe it’s writing morning pages that no one will read. Perhaps it’s keeping a notebook where you only write terrible puns. Maybe it’s a standing date with yourself: a cup of coffee and a blank document, where literally anything is allowed as long as you’re there.
Or maybe you find a pine tree shaped like a bear and commit to the bit so thoroughly that you become the kind of person who apologizes to conifers.
Either way, the habit you actually keep is better than the one you’re supposed to have.
Love you, Mr. Bear.
Love you too, Brian.
Brian is the author of several books and has never missed a greeting with Mr. Bear since 2023. He lives on a farm in Virginia with his wife, a pig, and an unhealthy attachment to roadside vegetation.
Key Takeaways
- The author challenges traditional writing habits, suggesting that writing should occur organically rather than through forced routines.
- He humorously shares his peculiar relationship with a pine tree named Mr. Bear, highlighting the absurdity and joy it brings him.
- The author contrasts his commitment to Mr. Bear with the pressure of conventional writing habits, emphasizing enjoyment over obligation.
- Ultimately, he advises finding personal rituals that foster happiness and creativity, even if they seem unconventional.
- He concludes that the habit one enjoys is better than the one society deems necessary, celebrating the joy of creativity.
