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.

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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?

{Big Girl’s rendering of a stegosaurus monogrammed with “MD” for Mommy and Daddy. Image has nothing at all to do with the post that follows.}

Walt Disney said these words: It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.

I read these words, this sentence, and smile. Because I love oxymorons. I think life is laced with paradoxical bits and I enjoy this about life. I also smile because I agree with these words. Each morning, I wake up and my head swims with all the things I’d like to accomplish that day: Spend ample quality time with the trio! Write several chapters of my novel! Work out! Hammer out witty and wise blog posts! Have good conversations with Husband, friends, family, myself! Shower!

It’s ridiculous really. There is no way I will be able to do these things, all these things. And yet I realize that there is a certain and ineffable fun to be had in trying. Because maybe the trying, the juggling, the struggling, the hoping, the dreaming… maybe all of this is really the doing? And sometimes (if I am in a good mood, an optimistic place) I am willing to admit it: it is also kind of fun.

(Does this post make any sense at all? Maybe so. Maybe not. No matter. Not all of my posts can be deeply witty or wise:))

Some other oxymorons I dig:

Happiness is the absence of the striving for happiness. (Chuang-Tzu)

I was never less alone than when by myself. (Edward Gibbon)

Real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s own ignorance. (Lao-Tzu)

You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough. (William Blake)

It is because Humanity has never known where it was going that it has been able to find its way. (Oscar Wilde)

Be obscure clearly. (E.B. White)

*

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?

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?