On Saturday night, I made a pact with my friend Alana that we would post on our blogs at least once a week. I don’t remember whether I suggested this plan or just agreed to it, but my motives were self-serving. I love Alana’s stories, and I want her to write more for me. As for my own writing—well, it’s become clear that I need a push to do anything in life beyond lying around, eating bon-bons and buying shoes on eBay.

It didn’t take us long to start debating how little we could get away with. Four lines would count, but a tweet would not. A photo would be acceptable if it had a meaty caption. We moved the deadline from “by Monday” to “Tuesday…any time.” We asked Dr. Boroditsky to harass us if we failed to produce, and she agreed.

We didn’t name an end date to the experiment, and frankly, it’s shaping up to be a bit like my mother’s so-called Slimming Club. For years her friends have met every few weeks to report on their dieting progress, over a glass of wine or three. If they haven’t reached their target, they pay a fine. And when the group raises enough money—once or twice a year—they all go away to a hotel for a weekend and promote themselves to gin-and-tonics. My dad and I were once baffled by this incentive scheme, but it fits right in to this era of twisted bonuses.