There is an inescapable irony that our blog about objects is itself a virtual object, almost as intangible as the associations we have written about for the past six years. Yet it also seems rather appropriate, as the subtitle of Object is this definition:

noun: a visible and intangible entity

Our objects are tangible and intangible, a favoured word on this blog for capturing the duality of physical things and their less physical attributes. This blog has truly met the mission we set out with: to chronicle the stories of objects, from the mundane to the obscure, one written post at a time. Maybe we have, sometimes, stretched our definition of an object — Katie wrote about breath, while Eleanor wrote about ice on a window — but with 400 objects under our belts, it’s only fair that we allowed our minds to wander.

What have we learnt about objects? That, even though we said we wanted to write about the “mundane”, there are actually countless objects in our lives that we never once considered writing about. The cables connecting the DVD player to the TV. The toothpaste tube. The curry-stained spatula. All the things that we use almost daily, and yet have zero emotional attachment to.

The objects in this blog, instead, even when small and everyday, are the ones we might reach for to save in a fire, the ones we find our eyes returning to as we move around our homes. Or they are objects we have spotted out and about in the world, the ones that prompted us to stop and take out our phones to photograph. We ignore telegraph poles and bus stops, but stop to observe the twisted vines along a tree, a horizon-occupying statue, or a mysterious bouquet of flowers. Even after 400 objects, it is hard to expand your focus and truly look at the dull and functional objects in your life.

When we first started Object, we framed it as “an adventure into the world of objects”. We were “curious English students”, mid-way through our undergraduate degrees in literature, and recently influenced by the new (to us) discoveries of literary theory. Re-reading our earlier blog posts, we can identify those influences: Shklovsky’s ‘defamiliarisation’ technique appears in object #3, The Outdoor Seat, while many posts feature a quotation from literature, including Dickens and Dahl. There are also numerous posts about writing, whether that be in diaries or letters or planners or poetry notebooks. We began as aspiring writers; we end as more experienced writers, with hopes for embarking on new creative ventures.

Really, what this blog documents is our changing circumstances, and how it has altered our perspective even as it has also provided us with new experiences. Object documents our growth during a significant, quickly changing period of our lives: during the past six years, we each finished those first literature degrees, and moved out of student houses. Eleanor has had multiple jobs, in different cities, while Katie has also moved cities, (nearly) completed two more degrees, and changed to a married name. Friends and relationships have changed; Brexit happened; Trump happened; Covid-19 happened. When we started this blog we were at the very end of our teen years — now, we are mid-20s, and facing a new period of our lives: the 26-and-over category, which lacks discounts and makes us question what we want to do with our lives.

But as we face these new challenges, certain favoured objects of ours remain. Katie still owns her favourite mug, and a few new ones, too, which she can reach for when in need of a bit of comfort (Eleanor, however, has found a new mug to replace her previous favourite, broken in an unfortunate accident). Somewhere in America, the red leather chair sits, waiting for a space in a future Harling home — one of few objects remaining from the house that first sparked the idea of this blog, a house packed full of objects. Eleanor’s typewriter has since been used to make a zine, which has been photocopied and sold at her first poetry open mic night. The typewriter sits tucked under a coffee table, waiting for her next bout of creativity.

Out of the 400 objects we have written about, for this final post we challenged ourselves to think of two posts which stood out to each of us: one of our own, and one by the other. For Katie, a post of Eleanor’s which has always stuck in her head is the object of Dylan Thomas’s Underwear, for its mixture of comedy and seriousness; poetic expression blended with the reality of lives lived. A post of her own that she often thinks fondly of is a poem about A Tree Viewed Upside Down — a moment of calm captured in a poem; a moment turned into an object. For Eleanor, it was Katie’s post about her childhood bedroom that has stayed with her, a perfect preservation of the past, accompanied by a nostalgic 360 degree view of the room. From her own posts, Eleanor will always remember The Disembodied Ponytail and the uncanny feeling of seeing her own hair cut off and tucked inside an envelope.

Just as we had many reasons to start Object in 2016, so too do we have a number of reasons for finishing now. One of them is that it simply feels like the right time. We’ve reached a satisfying round number, and we have written about a lot of objects. Today also marks six years to the date that we published our first Object post, #0: The Blog. We have come full circle, to #400: The Blog, 400 posts later, about so many different types of objects.

This blog has served us to the full. Object has been a correspondence between friends; a creative outlet; a routine; a documentation of our lives; a place to experiment and learn; and now it is something to fondly put aside. It is time, now, to finish Object, at least in this form as we know it.

Maybe, one day, we’ll return to some of our Object posts, and take them further — but, for now, this is our last Object post. Thank you for joining us on our object-filled adventure. We are full of everything this object journey has given us and we are also ready to let it sit, like a dusty library, in our corner of the internet for ourselves and for others to discover and browse. A time capsule, if you will.

Farewell.

This post was written jointly by Eleanor Scorah and Katie Harling-Lee (née Harling-Challis), the co-creators and writers of Object.

Start the Object journey from the beginning here with our first ever blog post, or keep up with Katie and Eleanor’s next writing adventures on Twitter: follow Katie here and Eleanor here.

#400: The Blog was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have renegotiated my relationship with objects many times over the last six years. I have moved home twice. I have purged my wardrobe after relationships have ended. I have emptied my cupboards of perishable foods before escaping the loneliness of lockdown. I have bought the most expensive object I have ever owned — a car — and frankly have never written about it because it is wild to me that it is mine.

So, would it make a fitting final object? Should I write about the car that is the single object that has most transformed my life since this blog first began?

Well, I have been doing that already.

Outside of this blog, I write poetry. And if you asked me what my poems are about, more often than not the answer is driving. My poems talk of learning to drive, about journeys through tunnels, and about being behind a wheel and looking straight into the sun. I suppose at least I have a theme. I am not a war poet or a love poet or a chronicler of our times, but Eleanor Scorah, Poet of the Ford Fiesta.

In part, I think it’s the proximity. I write about my car because I use it nearly every day of my life. And when I use it, my brain and body are exercised in different ways. When driving alone, there is room for reflection, for ideas, for inspiration. My brain makes space for the ingredients of writing.

It is a fortunate thing to own a car. I used to rely on buses, and though the liminal space of public transport gave me time to actually write, rather than simply to think about writing, it did not always get me where I needed to go, and it certainly did not get me there fast. Having access to a car, I have gained time. I hope that I might use that time to write.

But a car is also a loss. Every time I fill up, every time I use petrol, I am hurting the environment more than I would on public transport. It is hard to reconcile that fact with the personal freedom a car has afforded me. Because a car is an object with many associations — of independence, of responsibility, of travel, of growing up. My car symbolises the changes of the last few years. I have become more confident, more independent, and I have persevered enough to learn a skill that does not come naturally to me. I also have to make daily choices, weighing up personal conveniences against climate disaster.

Cars drive in and out of my poems unbidden, somehow symbolic of this period of my life.

I wonder what object shall consume me next?

The poem ‘Red car, red car’ is printed in issue #7 of Strix Magazine.

Eleanor is a writer using her skills in overthinking to write regular blog posts about everyday objects. To read more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Katie.

#399: The Car Poem was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When I started writing this post, I hesitated. Do I really want my last Object post to be yet another notebook?

Yes. Yes I do.

Why? Because, like my last notebook-themed object, the object of this post is a challenge to myself in tangible form. It is also a marker of what Object has given me: the knowledge that I can write about all sorts of things — when I actually set a deadline, a time for writing, and make myself do it.

Eleanor and I started Object for a number of reasons, but one of the main ones was this: to get ourselves writing regularly, because practice makes better, and we knew that if we held each other accountable, it would be a lot harder to quit. And, oh my, look how far we have come — Object #398. That’s a lot of words, a lot of writing. As we near the end of Object, I find myself wondering: how will I make sure I don’t lose my regular writing practice?

Of course, to answer such a question, I have a notebook. It is no secret that we are notebook lovers here, both having written multiple posts about the delight in a new notebook for a new project. Yet today’s object is not new new; I’ve had it for a couple of years now, and it’s filling up. Luckily, as it’s a Filofax Notebook, I can just replace the pages (which feels a little more eco friendly than buying a whole new notebook). But, more excitingly, it’s filling up with pages and pages of the same story. Maybe, one day, it will be a cohesive narrative. Maybe it will sit in a drawer afterwards, but even if it does, it might just be the first of many — my writing life continues, even if Object may finish soon.

Eleanor and I have a history of doing creative projects together, in various forms, and this is not our last — in our own private time, we do regular creative writing sessions. Eleanor is a poet, and I aspire to write my novella (don’t we all?) — so, we have regular Zoom chats with a bit of creative writing time included. It is our new ‘Object’, and I am excited to see where this next project leads — it is not as public as this one, and it is a slow-burn process when crafting long pieces of written words, rather than 500–800 word blog posts. But I also know from experience that our projects often lead to something good, and perhaps not entirely foreseen.

So, what other object can I end with other than a notebook? I bought my Filofax Notebook specifically for a big writing project, because the fun thing about a Filofax is that its pages are movable and removable. This makes the writing process work more akin to how my brain works: I can write a page or two, and then I can move them around, editing by moving sections in their physical form. This new creative notebook of mine, then, is an object that combines the joy of handwriting with a bit more technological flexibility (and more organisation than a collection of scraps of paper). It is not quite cut and paste, but it does the job wonderfully. (This is no sponsored post, by the way — I just really love good notebooks.)

I won’t say what I am writing in this notebook (where is the surprise, the mystery in that?), but I will say that the project is already in full swing. This notebook is being used, regularly, and I hope that, after Object #400, I will find both the time and the motivation to write my next page, and the next, and the next — building another creative writing project full of thousands of words, and maybe a few objects, too.

Thank you, Ellie, for this blog — on which we have just two posts to go. Thank you, too, for the inspiration not only to buy this notebook — but to fill it.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#398: The Creative Writing Notebook was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have written many times about how much I love making things, and I have continually advocated for how rewarding, warming and occupying it is to see an object come to life in your own hands. But I have started thinking more deeply about crafts.

We’ll start first, however, with this raku pot. It is a beautifully imperfect object that I had the delight of making at the Make & Mend Festival. I say making, but all I really did was apply the glaze and let the experts do the rest. Now the pot sits on my desk, a solid item holding my pens. It is not just the culmination of a day out, of the act of letting go of my need for perfection, of sliding glaze across a pot and abandoning my expectations of how it might come out: this pot is also a keeper, because this pot has a use.

And it is here that my thoughts become thorny. Craft-making is wonderful, but if one thing has hit home whilst writing a blog about objects, it is their unnecessary proliferation and what that means in the context of the climate crisis.

Crafts do not instinctively feel environmentally or socially “evil”. Making something yourself, instead of mass-producing an item in a far away factory, definitely feels like a really good thing; there is no doubting that it can be. And if you are reusing pre-existing objects — if your craft is about fixing something — then you are minimising your environmental impact.

Is this realistically the full extent of the crafts I take part in though? Or do I have a large collection of craft items that were mass-produced and wrapped in plastic for the sole purpose of selling them to me, a consumer? Answer: yes. And is the thing I make often an object that, realistically, I will keep? Answer: no. How long, for example, do I want a model of a dinosaur on my bookshelf?

Even asking these questions, I feel cruel. Crafting brings people joy. My crafting pursuits increased hugely during the pandemic, keeping myself and many others alike entertained throughout several lockdowns. If the true environmental bad guys are actually a small number of very powerful people, why should I stop doing something that brings joy to my life? My unease feels… well, just a bit pernickety.

It is, however, about living in a way that fits with your understanding of the world. When I look at all the unusable objects I have created, I am filled with unease at their environmental impact, and some of the joy in making them is removed. These objects sit uncomfortably alongside the part of me that knows what is happening to our planet. Even if the real terms effect of crafting, or whatever activity you might yourself begin to examine, is minimal, if it doesn’t align with your views, perhaps that is enough to cause you to change. This is an argument I have heard video essayist Leena Norms make, when speaking about whether individual actions are worth it. It is an approach that resonates with me.

Even whilst living my values, I do not need to axe crafts completely from my life. That would be daft. Partly, because I have loads of unused craft items lying about, and partly because crafts make me happy. It is instead about being self-aware of your actions and learning as much as possible about their impact.

I am not, yet, an expert in the most environmentally friendly crafts. I can hazard a guess, though, and I can take this approach forward. First, if you are using items that already exist, that are already in your cupboard, then much of the impact has already been made. Second, if you are making useful items that you might otherwise buy — again, not a bad approach. I think here about my sturdy, useful pot or Katie’s knitting. Third, think about the process — making a pot requires energy for the intense heat of the kiln, but when drawing you are just using your hands. These are the pillars I will begin to use when I next decide to make something.

This is all part of a learning journey — a gradual re-learning of my relationship with objects. It will never be complete, but each little re-evaluation feels like a necessary step towards a more intentional life.

Eleanor is a writer using her skills in overthinking to write regular blog posts about everyday objects. To read more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Katie.

#397: The Raku Pot was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

During the last months of my PhD studies I realised that I was in the process of creating my own momentous object: a printed, bound, PhD thesis. 100,000 words of my own ordering, articulating ideas from my past four years of study. At a similar time, Eleanor Scorah and I also decided that the life of Object as we know it was coming to an end: our 400th post, on August 19th 2022, will be our last, marking six years since our first post.

On realising the end was in sight for two long-term, creative projects, I decided to combine the two. This is my penultimate object before our last, joint, 400th Object post. What follows is a blog post in diary form, written during the last months of my PhD studies (pre-viva).

April 2022
As I begin to write this post, I have completed a full draft of my PhD thesis. All 104,578 words of it (footnotes included). But I am hoping that, by the time this post is finished and published, I will hold in my hands the final draft. Maybe it will even be the photo you see above these words.

Starting this post could be considered ‘tempting fate’, for I have two deadlines: yes, I need to submit my PhD soon. But I also have to finish this blog at 400 objects, on the anniversary of when it all started. So, my PhD deadline? August 19th, the day we first posted on Object. Since then, I have written thousands of words — for this blog, and for my PhD.

May 2022
Today I received, in the post, a full printed version of my PhD, and I have discovered it requires a whole A4 ringbinder to contain it. But I’m not sure when or how to begin reading it and editing it. What colour pen should I use? Where should I sit? How do I make this moment feel momentous? I imagine taking myself to a particular café I have been planning to visit, sipping my black coffee, turning the first page…

But is this all just procrastination? Rather than aiming for that perfect moment, should I not just open it right now and get started? I can grab whatever pen I can find, whatever quiet seat will hold me, and turn the page. The finish line is in sight, and I want to find out how close it really is.

June 2022
Since last writing, I have edited a paper version of my PhD, updated the electronic document, and then fully proofread and annotated a PDF version on my iPad. I have read so many versions of the entire 300+ pages, each version seeming like the last until I spot another typo, decide on a different word choice, or tweak the formatting here or there. Yet the end is close, my submission is coming up, and soon, this pile of paper will be out of my hands for a little while.

July 2022
It is finished (for now). I have submitted my PhD, on time, and before my Object-imposed deadline. What is it like, that feeling of submission? Amazing, surreal, odd. It is hard to believe it is done, handed over to examiners. Soon, again, I’ll be re-reading it in preparation for my viva, but for now, I have some months of ‘freedom’. After nearly four years of working on my PhD, I am at a loss with what to do with myself, how to structure my time, my days, my life.

All in all, I am pleased with it. I read bits and go, “did I really write that?!”, while other sections I can read and place the moment that I wrote those words, or had that idea. After years of working mostly on the computer, it was a meaningful moment to hold in my hands the printed, soft-bound copy of my words, my work. To feel its chunkiness, the substantiality of years of thoughts, ideas, reading, and pondering.

This is the biggest project I have ever completed (so far), and it did not go where I expected it to — but, then, you never quite know where a four-year creative project will end up.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#396: The PhD Thesis was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There is no single reason to walk. We walk purposefully — about the house or to the shops. We walk to pass the time — taking a detour so as not to be too early. We walk to process our thoughts — pacing around the room on an important phone call.

And on a leisurely walk one weekend, I decided I wanted to walk to learn. Instead of moving too quickly, or looking without seeing, I wanted to pay more attention to my surroundings, to see what I could learn about nature.

My usual method of appreciating what I see is to pull out my phone and take a photo. Though I have dabbled in the practice of mindful photography, taking out a phone, a piece of technology, still seems to disconnect me from my surroundings. It doesn’t really feel like true appreciation.

So instead I decided to learn about the nature around me, allowing facts to slow me down and make me look at different aspects of leaves, roots, branches.

Cue my little book: I-Spy Trees.

It is a tiny thing — almost more of a pamphlet with a little stapled edge. It’s a vibrant green and though its images are black and white, beautiful blocks of colour bring joy to the pages.

I remember newer editions of the popular I-Spy book series from the long car journeys of my childhood. I chose this edition about trees because it isn’t just about seeing a truck or a yellow car, it has genuinely informative text about each tree. Basic, perhaps, but accurate. And with this information I “spotted” my first tree: an ash.

I was strangely nervous formally identifying the tree as an ash. What if I was wrong? I didn’t have a background in dendrology, but I had read the description, and looked at the diagrams, and it all seemed to fit…

I suppose that is part of the fun of walking and learning. You gather the clues (the leaf shapes, other foliage nearby, colour) and you make a decision based on the evidence. And then you have to trust your decision. It’s more exciting that way.

So now I keep this book and a pencil in my bag for every little walk I go on, ticking off the trees I find as I go, and trying to remember the ones I have already spotted.

And the one thing I’ve learnt, as I scramble for my little book every time I leave the house? There are trees everywhere!

Eleanor is a writer using her skills in overthinking to write regular blog posts about everyday objects. To read more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Katie.

#395: The Book of Trees was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My mother used to wonder at my choice to darn my socks when a teenager (she didn’t have the patience, I think, though she is an amazing sewer of other, more fun and wonderful things), and when I was in primary school I used to knit — though never achieving more than a wonky scarf. For me, when I was young, it was the action that mattered, that kept me going. The final product was never that much to be proud of — there were soon more difficult-to-fix holes in my cheap socks, and I never did complete a knitting project that was straight.

Today, however, perhaps nearly fifteen years later, I am interested in the product and the process. I, too, share with my mother a limited patience for darning, but I do try. What I find therapeutic, however, is knitting. I find that as I knit each stitch, my mind empties — the thoughts, worries, and tasks of the day come to the front of my mind, and then find a place in the stitches, the air around me, or another part of my brain. Things settle — a new stitch is made, a new thought is sorted.

I returned to my knitting just eight months ago. My mother had posted up my old yarn and knitting needles. I had never, when I was younger, succeeded in learning to cast on a new knitting project— but my husband showed me how to begin, and I have since learnt two new ways to start a project.

It was a Sunday, I think — just any normal Sunday, perhaps in October, when I began again. The first thing I knitted was supposed to be a simple square, but I lost and gained stitches for reasons I could not fathom. By the third little square, however, I was managing to retain the same number of stitches I had started with, and not gain any extra, either. Soon, I was knitting a headband — then another, and then another. They turned out to be simple, cosy, and useful, and they also made excellent Christmas presents.

My latest knitting challenge involves circular needles — in my first go, I made the classic mistake, and twisted my knitting (if you know, you know). But I unravelled it, begun again, and so far — so good. Now I only pray I don’t run out of yarn before the project is finished.

But this is not the only crafting I have been doing. I have also discovered the wonders of “visible mending” — a more interesting version of sock darning which makes your repair work deliberately visible, often in a colourful fashion. Though I have yet to feel like a natural with it, I made a start and sewed the sleeve of my favourite cashmere cardigan back together. To do this, though, I needed a bigger needle than any I had, as I was wanting to use blue knitting yarn — an object was needed. So I turned to my husband (who loves DIY) and put in my request. Maybe an hour or so later, I had this needle in my hand, made from an old wooden chopstick.

When I first held it, I thought of bones. Of the bone needles I have seen in museums. Though new to me, it feels old, well-worn with work already — from its previous life as a chopstick. There is also something pleasing in its size — thick like a knitting needle, but short like a sewing needle. It did the job perfectly.

Now, when I catch that hint of blue yarn on my sleeve, I smile — at my mending, and its visibility. And at the thought of reusing old tools, and discovering new ones.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#394: Crafting Needles was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Like many people, I have a relentless desire to improve. To make myself and my life better. I’m certainly not alone in this outlook, as the market for self-help books will attest, nor is it necessarily a bad thing. I’ve learnt a lot from being willing to examine myself and from reading about the things that I am curious about. In some ways, my life is better because of my constant need to improve.

I could, however, be critical of this desire and suggest it comes from external factors, like growing up at a school that placed high value on achieving better and better results. It could be said that spending too long striving for something or trying to “fix” yourself stops you from appreciating what you have now.

Sometimes, my head becomes full of all the ideas I have consumed. I try to remember to exercise and to drink less caffeine and to live out my values; all things that, on a good day, I might instinctively do, but that drop out of my head at the very moment that I need them. So I started writing some of these thoughts in a notebook, making lists like: “Things I have learnt about myself recently,” “Things that I am proud of,” “Things that make a bad day better,” and so forth.

And on one of those pages, I have begun extracting the ideas from the self-help books or podcasts I have consumed that have genuinely helped me to figure some things out.

So, here are four ideas that have stuck with me:

Job crushes (From A Job to Love by The School of Life)

A job crush is like a “person crush” in the sense that it is something you think you will enjoy, that you obsess over, but haven’t actually got to know properly. The job seems exciting, romantic perhaps, but when you get into the practicalities, what it would actually be like to have that job, it is not for you. A frequently crushed-on job might be a career such as working in publishing or being an actor.

Being a people pleaser is not as selfless as you might think (From The Joy of Being Selfish by Michelle Elman)

You might assume that by saying yes to an invite, or taking on extra work despite your annual leave, you are being selfless, but this can be framed another way. In these situations, you are assuming that you, and only you, are the most important. You are assuming that you must be at that party or in that meeting, or things will not be the same. Often, however insulting this might sound, people will get along just fine without you being there. Presuming your own importance is often an obstacle for not looking after yourself.

Finding your atelic activities (From Four Thousand Weeks by Oliver Burkeman)

An atelic activity is something you do for fun. It is done for the pleasure of the experience, and you can keep doing it without having to reach any sort of goal. An example might be reading (without doing it for your degree or your job), or playing a sport because you like it (not because you want to make a career of it). Many suggest that cultivating these sorts of activities is one of the keys to happiness.

FOMO does not just mean missing out (From How to Overcome FOMO by Life Kit Podcast)

FOMO is the “Fear of Missing Out”. It is often felt when seeing how friends or family are spending their evenings as you scroll through Instagram. It doesn’t feel fair that you are at home re-watching Doctor Who when they are at the beach or running a marathon. A better way of looking at these examples is to think about your choices. Why are you at home rather than out? Often you are actually gaining something from your choice: perhaps you are at home because you needed rest or because you need to get up early in the morning for a different activity. The “missing out” part of the phrase unhelpfully implies that you are not also gaining something from your choices.

Unsurprisingly, all our lives are vastly different. And not all of these little snipppets of advice will benefit everyone. And these ideas, even if they do resonate with you, are a) not necessarily going to be transformative and b) not going to make up for some of the very real world issues that would make a life difficult.

I will, however, keep adding to these pages, collecting gems of information that might help me take a few more steps forward.

Eleanor is a writer using her skills in overthinking to write regular blog posts about everyday objects. To read more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Katie.

#393: The Self-Development Journal was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ideas, words, or phrases sometimes come to me in the oddest of moments. I’ll be in the shower, or getting myself ready for bed, when my mind starts wandering to creative things and, then, next thing I know, I’m rushing to find my phone, or a pencil and a piece of paper — or a pill packet.

The hard part is getting the ideas written down fast enough, the exact phrases as they come, before the moment fades and the ideas are lost. And the next hardest part is knowing when to stop. After all the words that came rushing, there will be a few moments of pause — the first one or two might produce further useful thoughts, but soon the rush will slow, and I will discover I am simply writing to write. That is when to stop.

Fortunately with this pill packet, my words stopped not long before the space ran out. I was lying in bed, just before going to sleep — which meant I was trying not to look at my phone, and so, instead, I searched my bedside drawer till I found this: a pill packet I quickly tore apart to access.

What was I writing on that pill packet? A blog post! And afterwards, it became clear another blog post had written itself in the process: this one.

The flimsiness of the pill packet, it’s trash-like nature, reminds me of other scraps of paper which were disregarded, nearly lost — Emily Dickinson’s draftings and scribbles on the backs and scraps of envelopes. She made use of paper she had to hand, and perhaps revelled in the added security of scraps: paper people will often overlook, and is therefore safe from prying eyes.

But the pieces were found, recognised, and recorded eventually. A book was produced — a beautiful book, titled The Gorgeous Nothings: Emily Dickinson’s Envelope Poems, edited by Jen Bervin and Marta Werner. It includes facsimiles of the envelope pieces, seen from the back and the front, allowing you to see just how small those pieces were —and how lucky we are that the tiny things were noticed.

I am not, of course, equating my blog post with Dickinson’s poetry (I wish!). But I am equating the writing process, finding parallel patterns and shared techniques. Writing processes and experiences vary to our own temperaments, but that moment of inspiration…that is something unique yet shared.

I hope that everyone not only experiences that creative feeling at some point in their lives, but succeeds in finding just the right scrap of paper, or pill packet, on which to jot down those thoughts, those phrases — one’s own words.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#392: A Packet Scrap was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A stately home. Somewhere built to last through time, to house a family and be passed down with the family’s name and the family’s money. An unchanging bastion of tradition.

Stately homes still stand across the country, seemingly as solid as they ever were. Or at least to look at. Many have changed hands, have had several uses, have become burdensome to the families that own them. Their insides are now used as wedding venues or full of interpretive boards that tell of a once grand history. Even in these cases, though, often the stones, the bricks, the raw materials forming its structure remain the same.

Not at Seaton Delaval Hall.

Climb up the sweeping stone staircase, open the front door, and enter a shell. The room’s height is suddenly made higher by the missing floors. Light floods in through unintended windows that once were the beginnings of corridors. Up the newly renovated staircase, the handrail runs out. Suddenly the wrought iron twists and turns and splits. It becomes almost organic, like jagged flower stems.

In 1822, Seaton Delaval Hall was ravaged by fire. Wealth and power proved no match for nature’s weapon. Though people rushed to help and saved the kitchen and stable wings, the main home was never the same again.

Now open to the public, the centre of this home has a beautiful eeriness to it. Almost like the fake buildings on a film set, you enter the front door; travel the short corridors looking for rooms, for the heart of the home; and find nothing. Even the staircases can only take you so far.

It’s striking to see the bare stonework inside a home that was designed for opulent furnishings. To realise that even such a symbol of elitism was made of bricks and mortar, materials that can come crumbling down. It’s easier to imagine, viewing each brick and the empty sockets for beams, the men who must have built this hall. The shell reveals itself as a feat of engineering, as the result of hard labour, rather than a showy performance piece.

It feels almost intentional. Like an art installation. Or a giant educational model, ready to teach you about architecture. It’s not obvious Seaton Delaval Hall was ever a real home.

That is until you see the melted handrail, and suddenly the heat of the fire, the strength of the devastation, the story of this tragic house, is told in one mangled object.

Eleanor is a writer using her skills in overthinking to write regular blog posts about everyday objects. To read more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Katie.

#391: The Melted Handrail was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.