Category: Writing

366 Consecutive Days of Now and Zen – Check!

Time for a little celebration. Salud!
Time for a little celebration. Salud!

“Sometimes I get nervous when I see an open door. Close your eyes. Clear your heart. Cut the cord.”                                                                       ~The Killers

Well, I did it! If I were Victor Cruz, I’d be doing my end zone salsa dance right about now. Three hundred sixty-six consecutive days of blogging completed and thus my personal experiment has come to an end. When I started this quest last December, my goal was to write every day for a year. I have done that. Each and every day I wrote, although a handful of posts didn’t actually get published on their own actual day because I was up editing into the wee hours of the morning. But, each and every post was written on the day intended. Through the process I’ve grown quite a bit. I find that it’s now easier for me to write. The words flow more quickly. My editing skills, long since lost in my brain after years of hearing only about Thomas the Tank Engine, dinosaurs, Star Wars, sharks, Ninjago, and now My Little Pony, have been resurrected. I feel, for the first time since I left my writing and editing career to stay home with my infant son in June 2001, like an actual writer and not just someone who claims to be a writer but has no proof. It’s been stressful, frustrating, enlightening, challenging, inspiring, exhausting, and rewarding. There were many days when I nearly called it quits, but I soldiered on, sometimes begrudgingly shoved by my loving husband who would never let me give up and who constantly reminds me how capable I am. I’m not actually closing my doors and folding up shop. I’m simply cutting back so I free up time for other types of writing. I’m taking a few, solid days of sabbatical each week so I can explore the path before me. I’m not disappearing, just cutting back.

It’s difficult sometimes to see the familiar past as it fades to black in your rear view mirror. Although I’m not a sentimental woman, it will be different not moaning every day that “I have to go write my blog.” Now a couple days a week I’ll instead be whining that “I have to go work on my book,” whatever that book may be.  Right now, I feel like an endurance athlete who has been training religiously for a long-distance event. Today was the last day of training. Now I start my around-the-world trek. I’m nervous, but it’s in that really cool, the-universe-is-full-of-opportunities sort of way. Truth is that I like looking forward rather than looking back. I prefer the width and breadth of the future to the confines of the past. In the future, there is no box into which I must fit or mold into which I must fall. I’m free. That freedom is both liberating and terrifying, but it’s time. I need to stop talking about doing what now, after 366 days, I am certain I can. Taking a deep breath, closing my eyes, clearing my heart, and cutting the cord.

Posted on by Me 9

Photos, Plimsolls, and Paybacks

Image 1
My most flattering photo. Ever.

Sometimes people (especially my mother) tell me that I share too many personal things about my husband in this blog. They think he must be some kind of saint for tolerating what I write here. I don’t agree because everyone who knows a writer should be well aware that they should be careful of what they say lest they wind up as blog or book fodder. It comes with the territory. The reason I don’t feel bad writing about my husband is because he’s a photographer. He’s always walking around with his camera, snapping unwanted photos, and calling it “art.” Just tonight, after I’d crawled into bed after washing my face, hair still up and sans makeup, he thought it might be fun to snap a photo of me despite my specifically asking him to do no such thing. For this action, he received the look of death, a look which he of course captured with his fancy camera. He then had the nerve to show it to me and wax rhapsodic about how great the camera is in low light. Evil.

There's a glass slipper in there somewhere, I'm sure.
There’s a glass slipper in there somewhere. You just know there has to be.

In retribution for this unfair photo, I give you a photo and a story of my own. This is a photo of a small portion of my husband’s shoe collection, the portion that is currently in residence on the floor on his side of the bed. He also has shoes stored in our closet and in the laundry room. I understand there are splinter sects of his shoes hiding throughout our house like rebels in caves in Afghanistan. Yes. My husband owns a lot of shoes. He owns more pairs of shoes than most other men I know. He probably owns more shoes than many women I know as well. In fact, for a man who has such a difficult time selecting a pair of shoes to purchase (he once spent about 1.5 hours picking out a pair of Birkenstock sandals, which he promptly rethought and then returned the next day for a different pair), it’s borderline miraculous that he could ever have found the time to purchase so many pairs. I make no claims as to the quality of his shoe collection, but the quantity is impressive.

I have friends who are married to men who might be casually referred to as a guy’s guy. These men spend their weekends watching sports. They know how to fix things around their home. They wouldn’t be caught dead sipping white wine. They don’t buy copies of Real Simple. They don’t know the difference between a Mary Jane and a peep toe. These friends often bemoan living with their more caveman-like husbands. They tell me they wish their husbands were more like Steve. By that, I assume they mean more interested in shoes. I tell them to be careful what they wish for. A husband like Steve may be able to tell you which pump looks best with your pencil skirt, but this knowledge comes with a price. A man who is knowledgeable about shoes will require a lot more closet space, and you’ll still have to live with a mound of man shoes next to your bed.

Posted on by Me 4

Busting At The Seams

Image 3
Ready for The Avengers

Four entries left in this 366 day experiment of mine. I had all day to come up with something to write, and yet nothing came to me. Instead of thinking, researching, clawing at the world to find a subject for this blog tonight, I went out to dinner, played foosball, got Pinkberry for dessert, and then settled in to watch our go-to family movie, The Avengers, with my boys. (On a side note: every time I watch this film, I wonder why when Dr. Banner’s shirt rips and falls away as he becomes the gargantuan green monster that is the Incredible Hulk his pants seem to grow with him instead of tearing apart like his shirt. I suppose, though, that if Banner’s pants ripped apart and there was full-frontal, green southern exposure, the film would lose its PG-13 rating. Probably not very family friendly at that point. But, I digress.)

I have three days left to determine the future course of this blog. I plan to continue it but on a reduced publishing schedule. I would love to devote more time to writing for publication, and the truth is that this blog can take two full hours of writing time each day away from those efforts. It’s time for me to move on in my life and tackle Phase 2 of my trek back into authorship. This blogging journey began as a selfish adventure. I wanted to see if I could do it, if I could get back to writing the way I used to back in the days when writing was an imperative, a calling. After my sons were born, I went through years when writing was something I wanted to do but couldn’t imagine how to accomplish.

After nearly a year of plugging away at my passion, I now realize two things: 1) this is what I’m meant to do and 2) I’ve only made it this far because of you. I’ve been overwhelmed by the support I’ve had from friends, family, and strangers as I worked each day within this crazy realm of blogging. So, I’m opening this up to those who have supported me. I know I need to make a change, but I don’t want to lose what I’ve established. What to do….what to do. What do you think? I’m considering going to two full entries and two shorter entries per week. Will this type of schedule dissuade you from caring? Will it all work out in the end and will I not find myself alone?

Not unlike the Hulk, I’m undergoing my own personal transformation here, busting out of the mold I’ve established. I hope that my journey has made me bigger than I used to be. I hope that I’ve grown. I know I’ve become much more exposed than I ever was before. Now I’m simply wondering if I can make this next transition successfully, gracefully, and with my pants in tact.

Posted on by Me 10

Ten Things Yoga Teaches Me About Life

Life, like yoga, is all about the here and now.

Another night and the clock is rapidly approaching 10:30. Nearly a year ago when I started this blog, I promised myself one entry per day, sometime between midnight and 11:59 p.m. The minutes on the clock are dwindling down to my self-imposed deadline, and I sit here with an empty brain. An empty brain is good when you’re trying to fall asleep, which is what I should be doing. An empty brain is a bad thing, however, when you’re 1.5 hours from your writing deadline and no inspiration has arrived all day. Some days, it’s simply a struggle to get through. On those days, when I should be writing, I want nothing more than sleep. Today is one of those days.

To ensure that I get some sleep tonight, I’m going to go back to my mindset 1.5 hours when I was in yoga class. At the end of this coming January, I will have completed my fourth year as a practicing yogi. Hard to believe that four years ago I was so afraid to attempt yoga that I made my sister come with me to my first class. True story. Now, I can’t imagine going through the rest of my days without it. It’s not just exercise. It’s a metaphor for my life. I’m flexible and can bend over backwards, but I’m still not open. I’m strong and can stand on my head if I set my mind to it, but some days I am incredibly off balance. Yoga helps me find the peace I lack.

As I was cleaning up after class tonight, my mind was racing through the valuable life lessons yoga has taught me. So, I think I will share those tidbits here because…well, I need something to write about.

Ten Things Yoga Continues To Teach Me About Life (and trust me…I need the frequent reminders)

  1. The most important thing is to show up.
  2. When something doesn’t feel quite right, don’t force it. You’ll only end up hurt.
  3. Everyone is wrapped up in their own world. No one is paying attention to you, so let go and be free of ego.
  4. When things get tough, just breathe.
  5. We all have our struggles and our gifts. Mind your own.
  6. Try something new. It might not be your thing or it could be your new favorite thing. You’ll never know until you try.
  7. If something doesn’t serve you, let it go. No sense in lugging around worthless baggage.
  8. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Instead of criticizing yourself for what you can’t do, be grateful for all that you can.
  9. Discomfort is okay. Acknowledge it and let it go. It’s in discomfort that you find opportunity for growth.
  10. Wherever you are, be there.

Namasté.

Posted on by Me 8

The Blogger’s Conundrum

Sometimes it’s hard for a writer to hang loose. Dinosaurs help.

One thing I struggle with constantly as a blogger is how to write things that are personally meaningful and heartfelt and yet innocuous. I often write about my family because my family is my job and my life. If I were a physician, I would write about medicine or if I were a priest I would write about faith. But, I’m a stay-at-home mom, so I write about what that is like for me. I try to be respectful. I try to choose my topics and words carefully. Sometimes, I still end up upsetting people. Sometimes, even things I feel I have written in a pointedly joking way come back to bite me because someone I know and love takes my words in a way I did not intend. It’s never easy when someone you care about lets you know your words offended, hurt, or annoyed them.

While writing about my personal life, I aspire to achieve a balance between humor and sensitivity, but sometimes I fail. And, when others fail to grasp my meaning in a written piece, I have substantively failed as a writer. I hate that. Before starting this blog, I debated about using a pseudonym. I weighed keeping my writing a secret and not publishing at all. Knowing that I write from my life experiences, I carefully considered what writing publicly would mean for my relationships. I very nearly decided not to attempt it at all. Then, one day, I resolved to be brave. I would take a risk. I would put myself out there wholly and completely, and that is what I attempted to do. Instead, though, I’ve censored myself repeatedly to ensure harmonious relationships. I feel I have barely even dipped my toe in the pool of self-disclosure. In this grand blogging experiment, what I’ve learned is that no matter how hard you try not to upset anyone, sometimes it just happens. I’ve also learned that you can’t predict what might bother someone, nor can you claim responsibility for their feelings. All you can do is write and hope for the best.

I’m down to the last 22 consecutive days left in this 366-day blogging adventure. I would walk away now (and, believe me, I’ve been toying with that idea for weeks), but I’m not a quitter. So, I’m staying until December 3rd as planned, at which time this blog will undergo some changes. I will likely reduce the amount of posts per week and I will also likely limit my subject matter. Both those things will cut down on the amount of times I’ll be able to annoy those near and dear to me.

I keep wondering how other writers balance this delicate situation. Is there a solution I’m missing? If I write honestly, am I doomed to a life of endangered relationships and lengthy personal explanations? Do I write what I want and ignore the fallout of others’ emotions? Writing is a gift to me only when I write without self-censure. I found a great quote tonight by famed poet Allen Ginsberg: “To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.” While that’s easier said than done with blogging, I suppose it is still possible. Maybe I just need to write what I need to say and then put on some noise-cancelling headphones and move forward and don’t look back?

Posted on by Me 2

Finding The Zen In Writing

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…

When I decided to start yet another blog, I struggled to find a name for it. My first blog, Suburban Sirens, was created when I decided that my 8-year hiatus from writing needed to end. The name was appropriate both as the Siren song that was calling suburban-mom me back to writing, as well as the sirens I fully expected to hear as a white van with barred windows pulled up in front of my suburban house to take me to a place with padded walls where I could continue to bang my head in peace. Eventually, though, I rationalized myself out of writing by concluding I was too busy. My posts became more and more sporadic, and the Sirens stopped beckoning.

My next blog was called Moms Into Adventure. It was devised as a vehicle to report on the many adventures in parenting and life that I planned to take on in an effort to transform my midlife crisis into a midlife free-for-all. From a Polar Plunge to adventure races to a burlesque class I felt I needed to take, I went out and tried new things and I wrote about them. It was fun for a while, and then I just got dog tired of coming up with adventures. It was exhausting being a human doing rather than a human being.

As the end of the year approached last year and I realized I was running out of money for adventures I would love to write about, I decided it was time to go in another direction. Perhaps the third time would be the charm? My previous two blogs had fizzled largely because I’d been unwilling to commit to a publishing schedule. So, I offered myself a challenge to write for 366 consecutive days. I’d been reading Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now and A New Earth. I found myself looking to become more grounded and reflective. I wanted to stop focusing on my next adventure and learn to enjoy the present moment, a task which has never been easy for me. I figured I needed to live in the now and try to find my zen. I also acknowledged that I needed to live a little now and then. The two ideas merged and thus was born Live Now and Zen, the perfect balance of my previous two blogs.

As I’m on day 318 of 366, I’m starting to reflect on where I’ve come from and where I’m going with my writing. I’ve learned a great deal about myself as a writer and as a person through my posts here. I think writing daily for nearly a year has forced me to accept my voice for what it is. I’ve had to determine what kind of writer I am. That writer, I’ve learned, is honest. I’ve learned that sometimes what I think is my best work impacts no one and something I feel was a waste of my time touches many. You never know what people might relate to. I’ve learned that some days I write schlock, and that’s okay. It happens. The mere act of writing is more important than the creation of a beautiful work of art. From continued practice comes growth, and while sitting around waiting for the idea the only thing you grow is moldy and stale. Sometimes it’s more important simply to show up. And, I’ve learned that it’s okay not to have millions of readers. Writing something that impacts one other person is more than enough.

I started to write this blog as a means to find the zen in my life, but I’m not sure that I’m any closer to achieving that than I was 300+ days ago. I still get aggravated, lose my temper with my children, and swear at idiot drivers. Now, though, I have a daily outlet for all that emotion. And while I’m no more zen in my life, I have become more zen about writing. This is not the zen I was looking for, but it’s what I needed. Writing is my thing. When I don’t write, I lose something of myself. So, I’m learning to write and I’m practicing. On day 367, I might take a day off for good behavior and to celebrate my achievement, but then it’s right back to it because writing is what I do…whether or not I do it well.

Posted on by Me 8

Playing Favorites

My favorite sons

Have you heard about Buzz Bishop, the Canadian radio host who recently published a blog entry in which he specifically notes that his older son is his favorite? I was flipping through some current headlines online when I saw a reference to his blog and had to check it out. Since his blog post, he has been both lambasted and praised for his honesty about his parental favoritism. Playing favorites has long been a topic among parents and children. If you’re of a certain age, you perhaps remember an episode from The Brady Bunch when middle daughter Jan is upset that everything is always about “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.” My sisters and I have long joked about which one of us is Mom’s favorite, despite my mom’s assertion that she has always loved us the same equally.

I had to read more from Bishop to get an idea of where he was coming from when he wrote his blog. His assertion is that he loves his children equally but likes one more than the other. I’m sure there’s not a parent out there who can deny that in a bad moment, one child may seem easier or more pleasant than another, but I hope that feeling stems from a situational place and not a heartfelt one. I love both my boys and like them both for different reasons. They each present different challenges and they each provide different joys. Depending on the moment, I may feel closer to one than the other, but my heart knows no favorites. Beyond that though, even if my heart felt more strongly attached to one child than the other, I would never write about it knowing that someday my child might read my words and be deeply hurt.

My gut reaction to Bishop’s admission is that it was unnecessary. I’m a wholehearted supporter of  honesty in writing, but I also believe that there are some things worth keeping to yourself. This type of journalistic behavior, where we say whatever we’re thinking without giving a thought to the consequences of our message, is egotistical and self-serving. I’m sure it felt great for Bishop to get that information off his chest, but because he used such a visible platform for his disclosure there will someday be a ramification for his action. I have to wonder if then, when his son confronts him from a place of sadness and anger, he will think it was such a good idea. The written word, like the cockroach, lives on despite our occasional wish to quash it post admission. Sharing with your children your experiences is important. Sharing with them that they’re not your favorite? Well…that’s something better left unsaid. Sometimes I think it’s better if we keep some thoughts to ourselves.

Posted on by Me 2

I Have More Purpose Than Cousin Itt

My rough estimation of my own Cousin Itt.

I am lost. I thought that once the boys started back to school, things in my life would fall into a pace or rhythm in which I would be able to find adequate space for my writing. So far, though, that has not happened. Two weeks into my “freedom,” and I’m no further along on my book than I was months ago when I decided I should commit to writing it. It’s been weighing on me, this lack of progress, gnawing at my confidence and sucking out my desire to continue. Each day I’ve found it more difficult to believe I’m truly capable of what I’ve said I would do. Because of this, I’ve been feeling a bit like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family, a superfluous, faceless joke of a family relation with no real skill or purpose. It’s a dark place under all that hair.

A little over a week ago, I wrote a bit about fate and coincidence. I’ve long thought that life presents us with what we need. The problem is that most people are too closed off to the signs and hints, the gentle hand of fate that continually offers us what we need to help us along our journey. You have to be paying attention if you want guidance. As I’ve been sitting here wallowing in my self-perceived worthlessness and ineptitude, I haven’t been in tune with much else in my life. How do you see the positives when you’re up to your eyeballs in negatives?

That is exactly what I was saying to myself this afternoon right before I decided to check the email account I created for this blog last December. I don’t check this email regularly because experience has shown that not very many people frequent it. Still, today, as I was going through my other four email accounts to play catch up (I have an email problem), I thought I might as well go ahead and check my blog account. There, in my inbox, was a message from my graduate school thesis adviser. I haven’t had any contact with Dr. Savage in years. He found me through Linkedin (another account which I don’t use) and followed the link to my blog. On any other day, it would have been nothing more than a pleasant surprise to see a message from Dr. Savage in my inbox. Today, though, in the midst of my self-loathing, it was a sign. His message was full of complimentary statements about my writing, and these statements came at a time when I most needed an infusion of positive energy. I’d like to say it’s some sort of weird coincidence, but I don’t believe it is. The universe wants me to shut up, have faith in myself, and be patient. The universe sent Dr. Savage to remind me to solider on because I’m doing what I should be even if it’s not going the way I had hoped it would.

Ten years ago, I was close to tossing my thesis in the trash. I was frustrated, tired, and (quite frankly) bored with listening to myself talk. I wanted to let it go and move on. But, Dr. Savage told me I was almost there, so I kept working. He was right. I graduated in December 2002 with a master’s degree in writing. And now just when I’m shaking my head and wondering what I was thinking when I embarked on this writing journey, Dr. Savage shows up again. That is no coincidence. You know…Cousin Itt might not have had a purpose, but I do. I merely needed a little reminder.

Posted on by Me 3

You Can’t Have It All…Enjoli Lied

Hard to believe, but this is not how I spend my days as a stay-at-home mom with nothing but free time. 😉

The other day a friend and fellow “stay-at-home mom” had a moment of frustration and ranted a bit on her Facebook status. Her post listed all the things she does on a daily basis and then noted that someone close to her remarked that she doesn’t really do anything. I read her post and felt complete empathy. Many of my blogs have been tyrades about how frustrating and thankless the job of Mom can be.

Then, today, I came across a Facebook post from a working mom friend of mine. She’s currently in-between jobs for a short period of time, so she was at the park listening to the birds, sipping a latte while her house was being cleaned, and thinking that she would like to be a “house frau,” presumably so she could enjoy more moments like that one. Now, I know my friend meant no disrespect to stay-at-home moms. As long as I’ve known her (over sixteen years), she has worked outside the home full-time while raising two children. I know how long and difficult her days are, and I know how devoted she is and always has been to her children. I can understand how she would be enjoying a brief reprieve between career positions today and thinking that it would be nice not to have to work at all.

Still, I had to reply to her post to remind her that, as a certified “house frau,” I can attest that I can’t afford someone to clean my house because that’s what I agreed to do when I gave up my income to stay home with my boys. I told her that I have to clean my own house, which (let’s face it) sucks and cuts into my time to sit, worry-free, in the park in the morning sipping my latte. There have been many times when I’ve looked at Barb’s career, her housecleaning service, her professional wardrobe, and her European vacations, and felt something akin to a twinge (or perhaps a seizure-full) of jealousy. I know, though, that her life, while seemingly more glamorous than mine, is a lot of frigging work too.

I’m in something of a transitional period in my life right now. While still technically an unemployed, stay-at-home mom, I’ve made the decision to work on my writing. Between this blog and my book, I’ve been spending between 4-6 hours a day writing, researching, and trying to grow my platform. While this has been a boon for my sense of self and my creative mind, I’ve found myself becoming overwhelmed, cranky, and increasingly depressed. Why? Because I’ve discovered that I can’t do it all. I can’t keep a clean house, cook for my family, run the errands, be homework coach and chauffeur, wash and iron clothes, and develop my writing into something that might perhaps segue into a paying career.

Remember that commercial for Enjoli perfume? That stupid commercial vexes me. Ever since I was 12, I was sold the idea that a woman should be able to do it all without struggle. I should absolutely be able to have a career, cook for my family, keep a clean house, care for my children, and have the energy to seduce my husband nightly, right? I’d like to bitch slap the men who came up with that ad. Oh, come on. It had to be men who envisioned the Enjoli woman. That ad is a fantasy. There isn’t a woman in her right mind who would tell you that at the end of a long day, during which she had spent at least eight hours in an office, then cooked dinner, cared for her children and put them to bed, what she really thought about was making her husband feel like a man. More than likely, what she actually thought about was a glass of wine, a locked door, a long and solitary soak in a tub, followed by a collapse into a bed where her husband would let her get some sleep.

The other night I had a Come-To-Jesus meeting with my husband and our sons. I told them that as much as I would love to be able to continue writing, I cannot do it if I do not get some assistance from them. Because our financial situation has not changed, I can’t afford a housecleaning service. I need them to pitch in if I want to be able to devote myself to writing. This was not an easy conversation for me because, the entire time I was asking for help, I was feeling I had failed my inner-Enjoli woman. What I was really doing, however, was not admitting defeat but instead recognizing that I had been trying to do the impossible and be the unattainable.

No one can do it all or have it all. We all sacrifice. The grass isn’t greener anywhere else. It’s not easier one way or the other. We make choices and then we live with them. On a good day, I get to yoga, manage to knock a couple things off my to-do list, and find time for a shower. On a good day, my working friends knock something off their to-do-lists, maybe get a kudo from their boss, and perhaps get to enjoy an uninterrupted lunch for an hour. But, most of the time, we all just settle for the best we can get, which is most certainly nowhere near having it all.

Posted on by Me 1

I Think, Therefore I Write

My process includes a laptop and my two bibles.

My new blog friend and comrade-in-arms, Amy, wrote an article yesterday inquiring about other writer’s “process” of writing. I read her post and wanted to leave her a comment about my process, but what I discovered in trying to flesh out my exact writing process is that I had no idea what is was. Funny how you can do something every day for 263 consecutive days and have no idea how you did it. Socrates would be disappointed in me if he were around to see how truly unexamined my life is, at least in this arena. So, I tried examining my process. What I found today was that I didn’t want to write. It’s impossible to determine your process if you can’t start it. Instead, I played on WordPress, changing the appearance of my two blogs rather than being willing to contribute any written work to them. Then I played some Words With Friends and Mind Feud before deciding that what I really needed to do was write another bit in my book, which I have finally started. It wasn’t until I started writing there that I realized what my process is. In lieu of a comment on your page, Amy, I find I must write an entire blog post about my process for you. This is probably more than you were looking for, but you’re a writer. You know how it is.

My writing process starts with thinking. Lots of thinking. Sometimes days, weeks, months of thinking. Ideas germinate in my head before I am willing to claim ownership to them by talking about them or writing them down. I am a thinker, first and foremost. As an introvert, writing is merely the means by which I am most comfortable relaying my thoughts. I rarely write anything on paper. Instead, I will peck notes into my iPhone for future reference. When I’m looking for something to write about, I will revisit my Notes. Sometimes I add quotes I’d like to use in a story. Sometimes I add topics to write about. Sometimes all I get in the Notes section is a vague kernel of an idea. Then, I think about it. I leave it. I come back to it. Then, one day, what I am supposed to do with that tidbit becomes clear and I begin writing. Today, I wanted to work on my book. The idea for it has been years in the making. It has morphed like a shape-shifter, revealing itself to me in myriad forms until it appeared the way I thought I could best extract it from my brain. When it’s all said and done, I’m lazy. I don’t want to write a word until I’m sure it’s what I truly want to say. I won’t waste my time until the story I want to tell exists clearly in my head.

Then, like a woman possessed, I will keyboard my thoughts onto the screen so I don’t lose them. (It’s so easy to lose thoughts once you hit middle age.) My friend, Chris, told me to “write from the heart and edit from the head.” That was the best writing advice I have ever received. So, that is what I do. Sad fact is, though, I’m not a great writer. I identify with James Michener who said, “I’m not a very good writer, but I am an excellent rewriter.” My first drafts are rough. All my ideas are there, passionately written, but they are a mess. So, I rewrite. Luckily, I am an editor by trade. Editing is what I enjoy and is what comes easily to me. I move sentences. I reword them and rework them and piece them back together. My thesaurus and dictionary are my closest friends. Literally. They sit one foot from my MacBook as I edit, and I would never write a word without them.

I consider my work finished when I feel good about it. Of course, it doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes I am finished because it’s midnight and I have to be up in six hours and this is all I have to offer. I have learned during these past eight months of blogging that it’s more important that I write than to love what I have written. I can’t become a better, more accomplished writer by thinking about writing. Writing is a process and, no matter what your process is, thinking about being a writer doesn’t make you one. I put words on a screen so I can legitimately claim to be what I know I am at heart. If I can mix philosophers here and toss in some slightly edited Descartes, the truth is that I think, therefore I write. That is the only way I know how.

Posted on by Me 6