Several times a day I’m faced with The Question.

The Question: So, how’s your writing going?

It’s a simple question. A logical one. Innocuous. But somehow this question makes me tense up and spew a slew of nonsense.

Well! It’s going well. That is, when I find the time to write. Or, I should say, MAKE the time to write. Because, really, it is all about MAKING time and I’m not sure I’m very good at making the time. With the three kids, it’s hard you know. Because there is always SOMETHING. Someone is sick or someone has a birthday party or a class trip or just needs me. You know, SOMETHING. But I can’t let these excuses trip me up because I really LOVE writing and it’s what makes me HAPPY and this is what I want to DO, you know? But it’s going well. I love it. My writing, you know.

Nonsense, I tell you. And I apologize if you’ve been in my path of late and have made the mistake of inquiring about my writing and I have hit you with some rendition of this garble.

It’s not nonsense because it’s not true. The thing is that it is impossibly true. My writing is going well, brilliantly well, when I actually do it; I’m absolutely in love with story I’m shaping (ever-so-slowly). And it is also true that I’m not spending enough time on my writing and that I’m not making enough time for my writing. And it is absolutely true that these three little girls have me on their lovely little leashes, that I relish being so tethered, and that there is indeed always something.

But this is all nonsense in another sense of the word. It is nonsense because if I really want to write (oh and I do) and I really want to publish another book (oh and I do) and I really want to be a writer, I must, well, write. And so. For the umpteenth time, I vow to do so. I will write! I will produce words! Watch me go!

I recently stumbled upon two really great pieces about the writing life. One is serious and one is silly but they both convey the very same message, I think, that message being:

Writing is hard.

Dani Shapiro ponders why it is often so difficult for her to write. She says,

Rarely, it happens that something legitimate gets in my way.  Say, a leak in the house.  A blizzard.  A call that a friend’s parent has passed away.  You know, life.  But more often than not, the only thing getting in my way is me.  Sound familiar?  It seems so simple, so obvious that all we need to do is get out of our own way.  Set up some ground rules (no internet, no email, no phone) and just follow them.  But we all know that it isn’t that easy.  And the reason it isn’t easy is because writing is hard.  It ain’t for sissies.  It’s painful, exhausting, and it exposes nerves we didn’t even know we had, not to mention turmoil.  It unleashes the beast of memory.  Left to our own devices, we will do anything to avoid it.  Even though we know that we’ll feel better if we just sit down and get to work.

It ain’t for sissies? Amen. Avoidance? Sounds familiar. Getting in my own way? Me? Never. Ha. And over at Grin and Tonic, Dan Bergstein shares with his seven tips on How to Write. The second is my absolute favorite:

Your lack of seltzer is no doubt what’s holding you back from greatness. If only you had seltzer, then the words would pour out of you…like seltzer out of a seltzer bottle and maybe just as bubbly… If you’re out of seltzer and/or limes, consider taking a trip to the store and procuring some. You should buy a few bottles in case your writing hits a hot streak. It’s strange that the store is never out of seltzer. Does seltzer go bad? It’s probably a recession-proof industry. Talk to your financial manager about this. If a runner is one who runs and a camper is one who camps, is a seltzer one who seltzes? Look this up when you get back home; it may be just the thing your first paragraph needs.

One who seltzes? Are you laughing as hard as I am or does this breed of humor really only work for fiercely-determined-writer-types at 5:46am? Anyway, the point is that there is no magic formula, no perfect setting or circumstances within which to write, no silver bullet, magic formula… {insert cliche of your choice.}

So, no. There is no secret to great and plentiful writing. It’s not seltzer. It’s not pickles. It’s not pudding. (Read the rest of Bergstein’s masterpiece for context here.)

Wait, I lied. There is a secret!

The Secret to great writing is writing. It cannot be great if it does not exist.

Okay, time to sign off and sip some Aztec sweet chili tea (cleanse is over next week and then back to coffee!) and face my day. But today if anyone asks me that question, oh and they invariably will, I will puff up my chest and go a different route.

How’s my writing going? It’s going! I’m writing! And just writing is, I have concluded, the secret to great writing!

Faced with this effusive and odd reply, I might get some bewildered, concerned looks. And then people might stop asking altogether. That would be fine too. Then I would have even a bit more time to pop open that bottle of seltzer, fray some nerves, and get down to business.

_____________________________

Do you ever get in your own way when trying to write or accomplish something else? Why do you think writing is so hard? When faced with The Question about your writing or professional progress, how do you reply? Are you a fan of seltzer? Aztec sweet chili tea?

My favorite posts on this blog are my vulnerable ones. The ones where I sit at this screen and admit being lost, examine my struggles, and say: I don’t know. To me, these posts are the most raw, the most human, the most universal.

My favorite conversations in life are my vulnerable ones. The ones where we sit together and admit being lost, examine our struggles, and say: We don’t know. To me, these conversations are the most raw, the most human, the most universal.

My favorite stories, read and written, are the vulnerable ones. The ones where characters convene and admit being lost, examine their struggles, and say: We don’t know. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s real. Maybe that’s grand.

Vulnerability. It’s clearly something I revere and yet it’s hard. There are times when I feel extra porous, keenly vulnerable, and my instinct is that this is bad, something to alter, to flee from.

Now is one of those times. I’m not sure why.

I think I am feeling vulnerable because my littlest is almost one and I feel like it’s time to up the ante professionally and I’m not sure how I feel about this. I think I am feeling vulnerable because after thirty-three years on this good earth, I’m not sure exactly who I am or what I want. I think I am feeling vulnerable because after almost three years here at this blog, I’m not sure what exactly it is, what I want it to be. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I have recently witnessed fallibility, true and scary and beautiful fallibility, in a friend. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I’m pondering, and living, a profound change in my days and my ways. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I have three small creatures to raise and I want to do a good job and I’m not always sure what that means. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I want very much to be a good wife and daughter and sister and friend and citizen and there are no instruction manuals to reference. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I am waking up to the reality that life is change, constant and compelling, sometimes crippling. I think I am feeling vulnerable because my body and mind are impossibly weak, just on the other side of a wicked flu.

I think these are some of the reasons. Not all, but some.

And as I write them, and read them, these reasons, I smile. I smile because this right here is real. I smile because this right here is honest. I imagine I am not the only one out there, out here, who feels both lucky and lost, riddled with uncertainties, insecurities, also inspirations.

So. I’m not sure what I am saying here other than I am feeling inexplicably, richly vulnerable today. And that’s okay. Maybe better than okay.

Maybe, somehow, it’s good.

Do you ever feel inexplicably vulnerable? Do you agree that in many ways vulnerability is reality? Do you agree that vulnerability (within bounds) is a good thing?

Zsa Zsa Gabor

What kind of attention are we (or is Zsa Zsa) talking about here? Sexual? Spiritual? Emotional? Existential? Does this mean asking about his day, his dreams, his doubts? Does this mean cooking dinner?

What really does this mean? Can a flame almost out truly be revived? Is there something a wee bit sexist about this quote? Are we wives fires too? What kind of attention and tending do we need to stay put, and stay satisfied, in the context of a marriage?

{I just read Husband the above quote and he thinks it might about men falling asleep when you don’t want them to. I don’t know why but this interpretation makes me smile. Particularly because I’m always the one who falls asleep without fail eleven minutes into a rented movie. Speaking of which, we are planning to watch Moneyball (and make a fire in our fireplace!) tonight. Was it good? And, in particular, how were the first eleven minutes?}

Thoughts on the quote? What does it mean? Is it sexist, or just kind of funny? Are you good keeping the fire in your life going? Any other movie recs for our mellow Friday night in? Anyone else nod off during movies?

You lose it if you talk about it.

Ernest Hemingway

It’s been an interesting few days. On Monday, while talking to someone I know and respect, I told her about an idea I have for a personal/professional challenge/project. When I told her the idea, her eyes lit up and she asked to hear more. And so we talked briefly about this idea. As I talked, and as she listened, I began to feel a buzz of energy and excitement. I didn’t say it aloud to her, but the sentence was crisp and repeating in my head.

I am going to do this.

I’m not yet ready to talk about this project. It is too early. My ideas are too raw. I also think that there is something profoundly true about Hemingway’s words above, that we do indeed lose something if we talk about it. I think we writers face this dilemma all the time. How much of our works-in-progress should we discuss? What happens to those ideas and characters and plot lines we set free too early? Isn’t there indeed something safe and cozy and compelling about keeping things close, and quiet?

One person whom I hope to talk to about this idea and soon? My lovely and amazing friend and blogeague and entrepreneurial powerhouse Danielle LaPorte. Almost three years ago, at the very beginning of my blogging career, I wrote this about Danielle. And she has continued to be a huge inspiration for me. I have had the privilege of working with her and hanging with her a couple of times and she is not only a brilliant businesswoman and a fellow philosophical pole dancer, but a warm and wise friend. I’m lucky to know her.

Get this: Danielle’s book THE FIRE STARTER SESSIONS: A Soulful + Practical Guide to Creating Success on Your Own Terms is not out in  hardcover until April but it is as I write this #15 on Amazon. You do not need to be an author to appreciate that this is phenomenal. It is also prime evidence of her magic, her mojo, her undeniable fire-starting skills.

And so. There is a little fire sizzling for this little fire (Aidan means little fire) and I hope very much that it will be blazing some day. Maybe my friend Danielle can help me in that endeavor? Maybe all of you can (once I spill the beans)?

As soon as I hit publish on this post, I’m clicking over to Amazon to pre-order five copies of Danielle’s beautiful book. One is for me and will be devoured promptly upon delivery. The others? For friends, for family. For one of you. I will give it away on this blog. Because I think we all have ideas and dreams. I think we all have nascent fires to get going.

But don’t wait for me on this. Head over and pre-order your own copy.

Are you curious about my secret project or am I being unnecessarily dramatic and cryptic here? Do you believe that when you say it you lose it? Are you hesitant to share your professional and personal ideas with others? Are there any individuals who have served as personal or professional inspirations for you in your life?

There’s nothing wrong with being shallow as long as you’re insightful about it.

Dennis Miller

You know what? I think I agree with this. We can’t possibly be deep all the time. Nor would we want to be. I think we should embrace the shallow waters of our world, splash around in them a little. And maybe, just maybe, there are some insights in those waters. I plan to do this here. To write some more silly, superficial, shallow posts. But I do promise that I will try my very best to imbue these lighter leanings with some thought, some depth.

Deal or no deal?

What does it mean to be shallow? Do you think it is even possible to be insightful about being shallow? Anyone else indulging in this season of The Bachelor? Thoughts on the first episode (the grandmother appearance, the horse entrance, the, um, “eccentric” NYC blogger)?

This will be short. And maybe a bit scattered. Because I am not home. I am in South Carolina with family. And I have been up since 4:45am. It seems Little Girl is dealing with an ear infection, or is majorly teething, or is going through a growth spurt, or something. So I am beginning this brand new year in typical fashion: utterly wiped.

But I am also feeling very positive about 2012. Yesterday, the first day of the year, was really quite magical. It was Big Girl’s fifth birthday. The weather was glorious and my girls were happy and, well, it was indeed a wonderful way to kick off the year. I took oodles of pictures with my new camera (my Christmas gift from Husband) and look forward to sharing many of them here. And, as promised, I will pony up a birthday letter for my eldest gal. I have so much to say to her, and to myself frankly, five years into this parenting thing.

So today. Today I just wanted to pop by and say hello. I wanted to tell you that I have been thinking a lot about what I want from this year. I have also been thinking about what I want this blog to look like, and feel like, going forward. And I thought I would share some of these thoughts with you.

This year, I want to be productive and purposeful in my productivity. I want to write books. Yes, plural. I know I can do this and I am going to stop making excuses about time and exhaustion and the plethora of babies that have come to rule my existence. I am going to write and edit and polish and submit and write some more because this is something I love and I will not put this part of me on hold because my current life is chaotic and complicated.

This year, I want to be more flexible and forgiving. I want to embrace the juggling act that is my existence with a sense of reasonableness… As long as I am writing words and spending quality time with my girls and my man and my friends… As long as I am reading good books and good blogs… As long as I am feeling life and laughter and love… As long as I am learning… I will know that I am indeed doing okay. Better than okay.

This year, I want this blog to reflect the three things that matter most to me, topically speaking. Life. Love. Learning.

Life. Philosophically speaking. Biologically speaking. This is what rivets me. How we choose to live. How we find health and happiness in our own lives. How we react to the ripple of our days.

Love. Parental love. Marital love. Love for friends, for work, for words. Love for stories, for places, for memories, for questions… Isn’t love something we are all after?

Learning. Learning in school. Learning beyond school. Are we truly growing if we are not continuing to learn? And who are our teachers? Our colleagues, our kids, our struggles, our juggles. An academic and existential romantic, I hope this is a year of profound learning, personally and professionally.

Okay, signing off to soak up my last day at a fine family place. I smell bacon. And the girls are all awake now, PJ-clad, hair exquisitely mussed, beckoning. And my coffee? It’s gone. Again. And I am off for a refill. And another good morning.

Do you have any thoughts on 2012? Nothing is too random, too big or too small. (One of my sisters told me she wants to start taking vitamins this year and also that she wants to “figure out her life.”) How do you hope your blog (or life) evolves this year? Do you think it is possible to be both highly productive and genuinely self-forgiving at the same time?

Am I alone? I am trying to fight it, but I’m not sure why. What is it that I’m trying to fight? The urge to step back, shrink inward, to regain a core of privacy, to put the computer away (when I am not writing my book). The compelling instinct to give social media the cold shoulder.

Blasphemy, I know.

Or is it? I don’t know. I’ve been at this for almost three years. This blogging, Facebooking, Tweeting, spending a good chunk of my daily time online thing. But before that what did I do? Is it weird that I don’t fully remember? It’s like trying to remember life before Email or the Cell Phone.

Strange. Impossible. What?

Here’s the thing. I don’t know whether I am experiencing a typical phase of social media burnout/introspection or whether this is something more significant. It could be that my body and mind just want a bit of R&R after going so strong for so long. OR. It could be something more meaningful than that.

I am writing about this because I get the sense that I am far from alone in feeling these things. I know many fellow authors and mothers and bloggers have expressed a similar sentiment about social media.

The interesting thing? Recently, I have been quite good about tending to my “real world” relationships. I have been good about seeing friends, and supporting them, and letting them support me. I have hosted and attended a slew of brilliant play dates and just threw a genuinely fun and festive holiday party for friends and family. I have been having a gorgeous time with my girls, indulging in quiet moments, legendary silliness (involving junk mail treasures and magic sugar packets), and in evening Christmas carol dance parties. I have been having wonderful conversations with my man.

I wonder sometimes if it is not truly possible to immerse ourselves well, and richly, in online and offline worlds at the very same time? But maybe this is a cop-out, an excuse. Maybe I am just changing, or tired, or something.

After publishing my post yesterday wherein I mentioned my recent growing unease with blogging, a friend and ILI loyal wrote me an email. She pointed something out that may or may not be true. She said that my blogging has gotten a lot more personal lately. She noted that since Little Girl was born, I have written almost exclusively about myself, or my girls, or my family. She mentioned that I used to ponder a broader spectrum of topics, and questions, many of which were not truly about me. She said she liked reading these older posts.

For some reason, this email made me wince. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because I have been very intentional about getting more personal here, about excavating important existential soil. Since welcoming my third child, my life has gotten more complicated and I have relished the opportunity to sift through the complications here, to consider what it means to be me these days. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this is perhaps just why I blog. To generate thoughtful comments from those whom I respect. And this email was nothing, if thoughtful.

Maybe my reluctance in this world has to do with this, the fact that I have felt unnecessarily compelled of late to reveal bits and pieces of self and soul here. Maybe I should go back to pondering the serious and silly questions about life, but not necessarily my life? It is worth thinking about. Because I love this place. This world. And as much as I hem and haw and threaten, there will be no cold shoulders given. At least not yet.

Thoughts? Anyone else feeling anti-social when it comes to social media? What do you think this is all about? Do you agree that my blogging has gotten excessively personal? In general, do you prefer personal or impersonal blog posts, or some combination thereof?

Yes. I did. And I’m woman enough to admit it. (Are you?)

Here’s the setup: I was home. Husband was out at his company holiday party to which I, ahem, was not invited. (Stay tuned for future post on this one.) My face was swollen and beautifully black and blue from an intense bout of gum surgery. The girls were sleeping. I was bored. Not yet ready to call it a night. And so. I went – where else? To Facebook. I saw an update from an old college friend. The update was about how her little girl was in the hospital over the Thanksgiving holiday. Of course I was interested. I clicked on through. And suddenly I was glimpsing this family’s world. Their struggles. Their strengths. Their sweet little kids. And then, suddenly, I was looking at pictures from their twins’ recent birthday party. And there was a picture of another guy I knew in college. A nice guy. A guy I always liked. And it took me a while to think of it this way, but soon enough I did: These were my ex’s friends. Sure, they were my friends too, but they came by way of him and his team and his connections. So of course I was suddenly thinking about him. Wondering where he is.

And so. I looked him up on Facebook. And I was bizarrely relieved to see that he wasn’t there (or that I couldn’t find him). But then I took this one step further: I Googled him. And suddenly I was face to face with his Linked In profile. It was him. It was his resume. It seems that he has been up to wonderful things professionally, and he appears to be quite successful. I’m happy to know this. Even though I have not seen this guy or spoken to him in a very long time, he was an important character in my story and I genuinely hope he is well and happy.

That’s it. Hardly a salacious little story. But I felt a bit weird after this. When Husband came home from his party, I promptly confessed that I Googled The Ex. I told him what I learned. He smiled. A sweet smile. A smiled that said: So what? You’re silly.

Have you ever Googled your exes? Come on, be honest. Funny stories? Share ‘em. Do you find Facebook and its brethren Internet technologies to be at once amazing and alarming?

**As I mentioned yesterday, I am trying to make a genuine effort to plug back in here, to achieve that old school Aidan interactiveness or some approximation thereof. So leave a comment and I will come find you or respond. And, again, I am looking for ideas for additions to my upcoming edited blogroll.**

It wasn’t our best morning. The girls were tricky. There were tears. They didn’t want to eat breakfast. Big Girl said her bacon wouldn’t swallow. Little Girl must be getting a third tooth because she was a weepy mess. Middle Girl threw a tantrum about her Dora umbrella, bringing her big sister to tears. More. And you and I raced by each other, tending to the chaos we have created. I picked clothes, you made lunch, we packed bags. At the end of it all, we made it out the door. Another day begun.

I didn’t have a chance to pull you aside. To look into your eyes, big and blue and bequeathed to our marvelous and maddening girls, and say it, We met ten years ago. Because, yes, this is the day. December sixth.

I remember bits and pieces of that day. I was in my second year of law school. Exams were approaching. The weather was doing its trademark dance between balmy and blustery. My girls and I decided that we would have one last night out, one night of wine and abandon, before buckling down and learning the law. I remember what I wore. All black. Black pants and a black sweater. I also wore a black belt with big white stars. It was a good night. A night full of friendship and laughter and life. We traveled in our little pack from bar to bar along Columbus. Under twinkling lights. Along cracked sidewalks. And it got late. And we almost called it a night. But we didn’t. We decided to go for one last glass.

Prohibition. We walked in and it was dark, quite empty. There were two guys standing by a pillar. One guy was very cute. That guy was you.

And we ordered more wine. Wine we didn’t need. And suddenly you were there, by my side, talking to me. It’s a funny story how you made your way to me, a story I’ve told many times, a story I cherish more than most. But what matters is that you were suddenly there, inches from me. We talked about school and soccer and the big city. We talked about September 11th because I had been here on that day, and you had just moved here after that day. We talked and talked and talked. It turned out that the night was in fact just beginning.

So was a life. Our life.

Babe, I think about that day often. That day in December ten years ago. I think about it because it seemed so accidental, such a product of chance. What if I had gone home to bed? What if I had woken up the next day and continued on as things were? What if?

I remember more than you know, I imagine. I remember the late night delivery of flowers and Mountain Dew. I remember that necklace you gave me on Christmas, mere weeks after we met. I remember eating omelets at Shining Star and telling you how much I loved your eyes. Those eyes our girls now have. Our three girls.

A decade later. We are here. In this good, and beautiful, and hard time of our life together. Our kids are young and we are tired, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this full, this happy. And I want you to know that. That despite the insanity of it all, this is downright exquisite. This life we have created. This complicated and compelling and koo-koo life. And to think it all started with booze and banter and the locking of blue eyes in a bar.

Just so you know, the morning continued on its course. In the taxi, Big Girl pointed to my coffee and asked why there was a three on it. And I told her it was because I have three girls. She smiled. Of course, it was because I need three shots of espresso to deal with my life. So, if you only had two girls then it would have a two on your cup? she asked, suspicious. And I went with it, indulging in this silly parental lie told for purposes of survival. And I wondered if we would arrive at the logical conclusion that childless people drink decaf, but then. Somehow, I managed to pour the entire thing onto my lap. Caffeine doesn’t quite have the same effect when absorbed through jeans.

So now. I am here at another Starbucks. With my refill. Surviving. Smiling. Thinking of you, and this. This life. This love. This day.

Ten years, babe. Can you believe it?

If we had a sitter tonight, I’d drag you back to Prohibition. But we don’t. And so. I will kick the toys aside, and curl up next to you on our cat-tattered couch and we will watch something on television. That sounds pretty good, too.

I love you. I’m so thankful I had my eyes, and heart open, that you were there. And that we are here.

How did you meet the person you love? Do you believe in fate or happy accidents? Do you think parenting small kids sometimes (or often, or always) interferes with proper articulation of affection? What were you up to a decade ago?

**I know I have been absolutely terrible about interacting here, but please comment and I will come visit you, or respond if you don’t have a blog of your own. I am also planning to edit my blog roll in the weeks to come, so am looking for new blogs and to be reminded of oldies I love. I’m getting back in the groove here, kids. Or trying to!**

Write down the thoughts of the moment.  Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable.

Francis Bacon

Thoughts of the moment: I am feeling lost. But it’s a wonderful kind of lost. A dizzying, euphoric, instructive kind of lost. An I-don’t-know-what’s-coming-but it-will-be-grand kind of lost. I am feeling scattered. Stretched. Between places. Good places. This place. This blog. This world of almost three years. I’m feeling uncertain here. Distant. Shy. Not sure why. I think I’ve changed. I think there are things I feel, and deeply, that I am hesitant to share because they are mine, ours. I think once upon a time I would have shared them. Why? To connect? To exploit self? To garner commentary? I don’t know.

My writing is coming in beautiful fits and starts. A story is taking shape. A story that keeps me up at night and invades my dreams. My characters are real and lovely; they share in an exquisite, utterly human, and heart-wrenching fallibility. I love them already and can’t wait to see who they become. But this will take time, I’m realizing. Their evolution. It will take time because I’m tethered to three real characters, little girls who distract me, and delight me, and make me. These are my protagonists of the moment. This is the truth, a truth that is simple and hard. Simple and hard and plain as day.

I have been thinking a lot about identity, about love, about change.

I have been thinking a lot about thoughts, how they come, and how they shape us, and where they go if we don’t say them, or write them.

I have been thinking a lot about home, what it means, whether it is a place, a space, or a state of being.

I have been thinking about family, whether we have one, or more, or maybe many.

I have been thinking about life. How it can be good and complex and confusing all at the very same time.

I have been thinking about moments. How they arrive, and settle, and disappear. How they are recorded, how they are remembered. How they are properly lived. How they are properly loved.

I have been thinking. And that’s a good thing. Because what are we without our thoughts, without our moments?

What are your thoughts of the moment? Do you agree that it is sometimes important to just get them out, or down, to acknowledge the unpolished ether of their mere existence?