The Most Important Person Here Isn't Me.

It's Monday morning, so how about I go ahead and embarrass myself by confessing something to you? Sound good? Okay then. Here it is:

I'm mortified to admit it, but when I started writing full-time, I felt like I deserved an audience.

<CRINGE!!!>

But really, I did. I thought I was ready for people to come listen to me, to read my words.

After all, I'd done my part. I worked hard at school to learn about stringing words together. I had developed a few interesting ideas. I figured that showing up and reading my stuff was the least the world could do.

When I started my first blog (a lonnnnnng time ago), I figured that, basically, people would be beating down my virtual door, devouring my lovely little blog posts, and begging for more. 

Probably some editor would fling a contract at me. "Write us a novel," they would cry. "We want to read it."

... Okay. Can I stop there? Because seriously, my cheeks. SO RED.

Well, no, there's one more little part to that story, and it's this: yes, a few friendly faces showed up. Yes, I had some readers. A few. 

But that was it. 

I was disappointed. More than that--I couldn't understand it. My desire to write shriveled up. I eventually closed that blog down. And I had a very hard time believing I should write the novels I was working on. 

The writing life just felt very hard and cold and unrewarding.

What I didn't realize: By expecting massive applause, I had set myself up to feel disappointed. Neglected. Undervalued.

When we let our ego call the shots, we've lost.

It's easy to see why we let pride win out, though, right? After all: If you're writing ANYTHING, you're working hard. There's sweat mixing in with all that ink. This isn't easy stuff. 

Also, it takes a bit of chutzpah to believe that you have something worth saying. To get over the crippling desire to stay silent and unnoticed.

To get past the fact that there are a bajillion other people writing blogs and spinning sentences and throwing novels at the world. 

That's a big obstacle. And sometimes pride is the thing that steps up and says it has an answer.

After all, it's nice to believe the ego, right? It's so compelling. It lets us strut around and decide that we are big and everyone else is small. That we deserve prizes and accolades and thousands of readers and I don't know, a salary, perhaps. 

But it's an ugly thing, to feel like people owe us attention. To be convinced that the world owes us an audience. 

And oh, guess what: All that ego and all that pride... it makes us profoundly NOT FUN to listen to. 

(If you've ever been trapped by a blatherer at a party, you understand this.)

So how do we fight it? How do we counteract that sense of entitlement? How do we douse our pride with gasoline, and burn our little egos out?

I think one of the best things I've learned--the thing that shut my pride right up--was a profound respect for the reader. 

Ahem: That's you.

You have so many other things that you could be doing right now, and believe me, I'm aware of it.

There are more voices you could be reading, more writing blogs. Or heck--you could be checking YouTube for a laugh. There are errands to run and there's probably coffee to make (I hope you're having coffee--it's a Monday for heaven's sake). 

There are a thousand things that are competing for your time and your attention.

And--presuming that you're still with me--you've picked this blog post.

You're trusting me with this little corner of your time, this patch of your attention. And that's a trust that I have very strong feelings about.

Is this getting weird for you? Sorry to be so direct. But the truth is: I think about you a lot. 

You don't owe me a thing, but I owe you plenty. I owe you the best that I can do.

The best words, the best ideas, the best writing tips. I've promised to tell you every helpful thing I know about the writing life. And I'll even try to be a little funny if I can manage it.

Why? Because I respect you.

Because I think that your time matters. 

Because I now believe that writers are actually meant to serve the readers, and not the other way around. 

And because--not to get all SAPPY on you--I'm grateful. Darned grateful to put words out into the world and have someone read them. 

It's a privilege. It's an honor. It's about trust. 

And that's my best weapon against the ego-gorilla that shows up sometimes, banging on its chest and demanding to be heard.

I shut that gorilla up by reminding it of what I've learned: that in spite of all its shouting, the ego is a fairly brittle thing. It's restrictive. It dulls my mind and keeps me from growing. It sets me up for disappointment. And it turns all my ideas into bland, flavorless offerings. 

I'm much better off without it. And so is my writing.

So, a happy Monday to you, my well-respected reader.

Here's to serving others with all that we write.

(And if there's a blog topic that you're wanting to hear more about, or if you have some ideas about how I can run this space differently, or if there's some other way that I can be serving you all better, scroll down and leave a comment. Seriously. I'd love to hear from you!)

How to Make a Good Writing Day Even Better (or, How to Save a Bad One)

After writing my last post, I've done a lot of thinking about observation. And how darned hard it is.

I mean, really: it's hard. 

There is so much CHATTER in our heads--are you getting that?

So much noise, and not a lot of room for those small moments of watching a scene, staring out a window, and letting a deeper sense of meaning and understanding bubble up.

Or, I don't know. Maybe y'all don't struggle with that. But I'm guessing I'm not alone.

Enter: My best-ever remedy for living in the moment.

Have you read Billy Collins' poetry?

If so, you know where we're going with this. If not, you are in for such a treat. 

And if you've decided you hate poetry and are therefore exempt: well, I hear you. Really.

If poetry means fussy, pretentious verses full of obscure references, and you need a zillion footnotes and a master's degree to piece together some semblance of meaning--

Then I'm totally with you. I hate that kind of poetry. 

This isn't that.

Step inside a poem by Billy Collins and you see the world differently. 

After reading half a dozen, you'll start to develop this wonderful sensitivity. You'll pay better attention to what's around you.

Read half a volume, and you'll begin seeing poems everywhere you go. Really. Seriously. 

These poems help me live in the present. They unlock an ability to encounter the meaning in the moment.

They help me see what I didn't expect to see. Does that make sense?

If you're having a good writing streak, spend time in these poems to spur yourself on, to replenish your imagination, and to keep nourishing your mind.

And if you're having a crappy writing day (or week, or month), then take one of these books with a cup of tea and a long afternoon. Really. It's the best remedy I can recommend for you.

When I'm struggling with words and imagery and feeling tongue-tied, these poems are how I patch myself up. 

They win my heart back over to writing. They draw ideas out of me when I think I'm empty.

They just might do the same for you.

They're simple. Exquisite. And very powerful.

Give 'em a try. 

Thanks to the Internet, here are a few poems for you to taste:
- the best-ever: a three-year-old boy recites "Litany" 
- "Nostalgia"
- "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House"
- "Marginalia"

Enhancing the Amazing Ability to Take Notice

Can I tell you something? Sometimes when I sit down to write a descriptive passage, I feel like I'm going through my days blind and deaf. 

How else to explain the total blankness I feel, when I need to sketch out the elementary parts of a setting?

I start to worry about myself. About my vision. About my sense of hearing. Because all my descriptions come up flat.

Does this happen to you? 

Writing shows me, over and over again, how dull I get to the real world. How little I've actually paid attention to what's going on around me. How unspectacular my observations are.

This isn't a good state for a writer to be in. 

At least half of our job description must be: Pay attention. 

Right? 

I want to get better at this, friends. For the sake of my writing (who needs another lame description?), but also for the sake of my living: I don't want to be in a fog all the time. 

I'm pretty sure that paying attention is one of those "Use it or lose it" skills. My writing is begging me to get better at this!

So here's how I want to change, how I want to grow my ability to observe:

- No distractions. We all know that we're living distracted most of the time, yes?

While I technically understand that, I can too easily forget how much it's costing me, as a writer and an observer.

Writing flat descriptions? Having zero material to draw from when it comes to setting scenes? Not okay! 

So here's to putting down the iPhone and unplugging the headphones. Here's to actually looking hard at what is going on around me.

- Go slow. Racing around is basically the antithesis of noticing.

When I move quickly, when I operate on glances and quick snatches, I only catch the most surface details (if I catch anything at all).

If I wait out my first observations, if I settle in a bit, then I can catch the second wave of details, and then maybe the third. I notice the deeper things, the interesting things.

- Fight the blur effect. It's too easy for my brain to laze on autopilot and to report back: tree, tree, tree, (yawn) tree.

But if I ask myself to see specifically, to pull meaning out of the blur, I can do it. I can finally see: maple, pine, pear, oak. 

And since each word has its own personality, each detail its own connotation, those specifics matter.

- Wait for the telling detail. Observing gets so much more interesting--for me at least--when I come across something unusual.

The little detail that juxtaposes the rest of the picture. The one thing out of place. The note that jars, that stands out, that goes a different direction, that puts a new spin on the rest of the picture.

That contrast always draws me in: it gives my imagination something to wrestle with, intriguing blanks to fill.

And that's where observation fuels storytelling.

So that's how I'll be reframing my downtime in waiting rooms, in grocery store checkout lines, in my kitchen as I'm watching dishes.

I'm going to turn it into storytelling gold, honing my skills as an observer of the world.

How about you?

Making It Easy to Write

Yeah, I know. The words easy and writing don't usually belong in the same sentence.

And maybe writing will never be truly easy, but I think that we can all agree that--on the best days--it can be easier rather than harder.

When my writing is going okay, I lean deeper and deeper into this practice of staying connected to the work. 

Because isn't disconnection half of what's hard about it?

If my characters are strangers, if I can't remember the knack of their voices, if I've lost the atmosphere of their world, and the thread and threat of the conflict has evaporated...

That's when writing feels impossible. That's when I start giving up.

But when the world of the novel stays alive in my mind, when all my mental machines for writing stay on and humming, when the engine is warm:

Those are the enchanted times when I get three new ideas during dinner, when I step out of the shower with a paragraph written in my head, when I hear a chance phrase from someone else and solve a major plot concern instantly.

We want to keep that engine warm! It's a massive game changer in this whole enterprise.

We have to never stop writing. 

No, I don't mean we're tied to our desk, and I don't mean we never have a day off. I mean that we never let the engine get truly cold. 

In Chapter after Chapter, Heather Sellers describes the practice of "positioning," a term she got from her writing friend Eric. 

She says that he decides exactly what he'll be working on the next day. He makes a list, staying businesslike and professional about it. He sets out the files he'll need, getting everything ready for the next morning.

"Purposeful book authors ... lay out their things, mentally and physically preparing for the next writing day. ... Everything is set up for the next day, like dominoes, and in the morning [Eric] just has to get his butt to the chair, flick his finger, and the process immediately has its own momentum."

Heather describes her own positioning process while writing a collection of short stories: every evening she would review her notes, touch the printed pages of her draft, and glance over her outline.

Nothing intense. Just a nightly visit to her writing studio.. But this kept the book alive in her mind, day after day after day, in spite of massive changes in her personal life.

James Scott Bell, in Plot & Structure, describes his habit of writing 350 words in the morning, practically first thing.

He says it's a good jump forward on his quota of words. But I think it also keeps that story alive, by immediately connecting writer to words at the start of the day.

I've found half a dozen ways to stay connected to my story, and to keep that writing engine warm:

• When I'm in the thick of drafting, I always start the day's work by rereading what I wrote yesterday. (I'm not allowed to cringe too much.)
   

• If I'm drafting by hand (and I usually am), I also type the previous day's work. Usually, I tweak it a bit as I go, and this light editing gets my brain all kinds of warmed up.
   

• When I get up from my desk during the day (you know I have those dance parties!): I jot a few notes. Whatever I already know about what comes next: any details, any fragments. It's like a quick Polaroid of what I was writing toward. 
   

• If I have to leave for a longer time--doctor's appointment, coffee date--I'll take a much more complete snapshot. I layer in more details, roughing in a view of the rest of the scene. Even if a whirlwind of distractions follows, that next bit of writing is safe. And it doesn't take much for me to get back into the groove.
   

• At the end of the work day, just like Heather Sellers and her friend Eric, I make a plan. I'll look at my notes, my outlines. Maybe tidy up the clutter. Set out all the working pieces in places of honor. 
   

• ... And when I'm really, really working hot, when the days feel like I'm living more in the book than in the "real world," more in ink and paper than in oxygen and carbon, I do one more thing: I sleep next to the manuscript. It's right there next to me in bed. Yes. I do realize that this is TOTALLY weird. But there's something about the notebook sitting there, with all those words. It feels like the book is truly alive, like my brain is still connected. The last thing I want to do is break that spell. So instead, I try to put a huge sign on my subconscious, saying: I'm Still Here. (It's a little less weird if you think of a newborn baby sleeping in the same room as its parents. See? That's normal, right? And you never know when the manuscript might wake up in the middle of the night and need you to rock it back to sleep...)

If you've ever had a block. If you've ever had a rough day. If you've ever totally lost the thread of what you're working on because life showed up. If you've ever been in a groove and then so unexpectedly fell right out of it. 

If that's ever happened to you (and that's all of us, right?), then you owe it to yourself to lean in. To make the most of the good times. 

Learn how to stay connected to your work. Refuse to take the good days for granted. Don't start skipping out. Don't trust the sunshine to stay forever.

Keep the engine warm; keep moving forward.

Make it easy (or at least easier) to write.

Do you have strategies for staying connected to your book? I'd love to pick up some new tricks... Do share!

I'm Declaring Today a Reading Holiday

Stephen King wrote, "If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There's no way around these two things that I'm aware of, no shortcut."

Let's all just stand and applaud that clarity, okay? 

I love that. I totally agree with that.

But can I tell you something? I'm so bad at making time to read. 

In spite of LOVING to read, my reading life has been pretty much crap for the last three months. I mean, I read here and there, a smidge at a time... but nothing like what I want. I'm pecking at it, not gulping.

And now and then, I really need to gulp. I need to drown a bit in words. 

I met a woman once who, now and then, would clear her schedule for a day. Run the errands early, get the dog taken care of, have everything settled, just as if she were going to be out of town for the day. And then she'd just read. 

Hero status granted.

I admire that. I love that. And I'll insist on anyone's right to read, to read all day.

AND YET. I have this weird resistance, a difficulty giving myself permission. 

ACK! Why is that?! Is it because reading was an escape for so much of my life--a way to relax and unwind. So, does it feel like I'm dodging work? Pffft.

Whatever the reason, that kind of resistance to reading doesn't belong in this writer heart! It's not at all what Lucy Flint stands for, as I hope you know by now.

So. Today, I'm declaring a reading holiday. June 12.

Me & a novel. I'll clear the schedule. I'll devote myself to reading.

You're welcome to join me. In fact, please do! Invite friends! Let's all do this serious wonderful work of reading together. Let's all give each other permission. 

(And tell me what you're reading in the comments!)

Superhero Your Writing

It can seem very heroic, can't it, to have an all-embracing sense of your flaws. To beat our critique partners to the punch by saying, I know it's terrible because of x, and y, and z. 

And because drafts have flaws, and because we aren't perfect (yay!), we have a point.

There will always be weaknesses in what we do.

But there will also be strengths.

I don't care how execrable your latest draft was: If you itch to write stuff down, then you have a strength.

Whether it's your point of view, your perspective, your sense of pacing, your grip on setting, your flair for unusual conflict, your lovable characters...

Face it, writer-friend: Somewhere, somewhere, your writing has some strengths.

Here's what I want you to do: Make 'em stronger. 

Work on your best points. Find where you glow, and become incandescent. Light it up.

"But no, no," comes the protest. "We have to focus on our weaknesses, right? Find all the bad places and make them better. Right?"

Well, okay. There's a time to focus on weaknesses and make them better. To build up those places.

But I want to introduce you to this crazy, revolutionary practice of appreciations, taken from Making Ideas Happen:

When Scott Belsky went to a storytelling workshop, led by Jay O'Callahan, he and the other participants took turns telling their stories. And after each story, the rest of the group would talk about what the teller had done well, what they appreciated.

They talked about the strengths. 

And then, the storyteller would take all that feedback, rework the story, and share it again. 

If you're like me, your first reaction to this is: But what about all the weaknesses? 

Here's how Belsky describes the effect:

"I noticed that a natural recalibration happens when you commend someone's strengths: their weaknesses are lessened as their strengths are emphasized. ... The points of weakness withered away naturally as the most beautiful parts became stronger."

So... the weaknesses get taken care of, when we bring out what was good? 

When we lean on our strongest and best points, the crappy bits fade?

BONUS: The storyteller is not writhing on the ground in tatters. I call that a win.

So here's what I propose: Next time someone reads your writing to give feedback, ask them to tell you the three things that they most appreciated.

And try revising based on that.

Belsky writes: "A creative craft is made extraordinary through developing your strengths rather than obsessing over your weaknesses."

Made extraordinary.

See, that's what got me thinking about superheroes.

Superheroes tend to have one specific extreme ability. And then there are a few strengths that support that, that help make that useable. (And they have a suit, maybe a cape. You can get those too if you like.)

Find your three top strengths (or more!). Nourish them. Exercise them. Make them stronger still.

And then you're basically a writing superhero. And that piece of writing you've been revising? Extraordinary.

Not because you've been focusing on a detailed list of all your failings, and trying to bring them up to par. Nope. You already have some gold there.

Get your readers' help finding it, polish it up, and make it the centerpiece.

Unleash your strengths. 

Give Yourself a Year of Writing Dangerously

Once when I was traveling and had to be away from my desk for a month, I happened across A Year of Writing Dangerously in Barnes & Noble.

I fell in love with the title IMMEDIATELY. I pulled it off the shelf, thinking that even if the inside of the book is a bust, I want the phrase WRITING DANGEROUSLY tattooed across my arms.

Yes???

Writing dangerously. I just love that, just completely love it. Yes! Push right to the edge, write from the brink, be brazen, dare.

Be bold in telling the truth, say how things really are, fend off apathy. 

Because when we're doing this, when we're really into the game, when we're playing for keeps: writing is a lot like scooping chunks of your heart out with a spoon, smearing it on paper, and hoping people like it, hoping it's useful, hoping it helps, hoping you told the whole truth.

It is dangerous to write. We're brink-dwellers, on the edge of so many things. Giving it all away. Saying every secret. Spending all we have.

So yeah. I fell in love with the title. 

And then the inside of the book was exactly what I hoped it would be.

She talks about the writing life: the spectrum we live in, from insecurity to daringness. She describes how famous writers write. (Which I love, b/c I'm so nosy about writing routines!) She shares anecdotes about famous writers, less famous writers, students, herself. 

If you're like me, you'll read this and you'll recognize your own funny self: over and over again. And you and I will both be sighing and saying I'M NOT CRAZY, I'M JUST A WRITER, WHEW.

It's good to know. 

She has tips on creativity, on how to keep a light hand with your work, or, on the flip side, how to lean in closer and be more serious. 

I LOVE that she closes each section with a quote. I love writing quotes, of course, and have collected so very many of them--and yet so so so many of these were new to me. 

It's just HELPFUL, guys. There's a whole community of writers represented in these pages. So many fellow scribblers in her text, in her anecdotes, in the quotes, that even if you're working alone, even if you're the only writer you know, you feel surrounded by others.

All of us picking our way forward with ink, with words. 

You're swimming in this stream with all these other writers! We're all foraging for ideas, dreaming up stories, creating little worlds that then run away with us.

All of us. Together. All year long.

The reading for each day is small enough that it's the perfect little idea snack before you dive into your writing day. Or it's the perfect closer at the end.

Or you can do what I did when I first discovered it: I picked it up that day, obviously, in the bookstore, and I brought it on my trip with me.

And whenever I could, I'd sneak off and just gulp it down, reading a chunk at a time, soaking it up, immersing in words.

It's wise and bright and funny, clever, insightful, and darned intelligent. It's just right, it's the very thing, it's the perfect fit.

One of the reviews calls this book a writing party, and I love that description, because yes. Yes it is. 

Phyllis Theroux says, "When you open [this book], you are in a house full of writers, each of whom wants to march you over to a corner to tell you something important about the writing life....Prepare yourself for a wonderful party!" 

If you or someone you know could do with a bit of courage, a bit of brightness in book form (and who doesn't need that?): then get this book.

And if you pop some champagne and toss some confetti as you read, as you celebrate writing dangerously... Well, I'm not going to stop you.

The Best Job in the World

When I'm good and happy with my writing project, when I've had a solid two weeks of decent output, regular insights, normalish emotions, then I'm ready to put a cherry on top of everything and declare writing the best job in the world.

I mean, it is, right? (Especially if we've been practicing delight.)

We're so lucky. Our job means that we can fill to the brim with the beauty of words and the transcendence of narrative. We learn from all the great writers: we get to read and taste and mimic.

And at the end of the day, all our days, we are making more books. More shared ideas. More fascinating characters. We're supplying textbooks for living. For ourselves and our fellow humans.

In his wonderful book On Writing, Stephen King says that writing is "telepathy, of course." 

Because when something is described by the writer on the page, and then received by the reader:  Welp, telepathy is exactly that that is. King writes:

"This is what we're looking at, and we all see it. I didn't tell you. You didn't ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We're not even in the same year together, let alone the same room . . . except we are together. We're close. We're having a meeting of the minds."

Um... I LOVE THAT. A meeting of the minds.

Writing is telepathy. And more than that: Stephen King wrote those words in Maine, in 1997. I'm typing them here, at a suburb of St. Louis in 2015, at my huge black desk (strewn with five separate beverages; four open books with more on the floor; a positive cascade of notes on scraps of paper; dozens of writing instruments; a lamp; a partially buried paperweight).

And then you're reading it, wherever you are...

So it's telepathy. And kinda teleportation. And time travel too.

Words can go anywhere: they have no borders, not really, not anymore. We writers have long arms, hands that can reach anywhere, that can reach forward in time--who knows how far? 

And what's in those hands?

Books. Words. Stories. Ideas. Dialogue. Characters. Images. 

People will read what we've written, and they'll look up in surprise and say, That's me. This person is writing about me. I'm seeing myself in this story.

They'll read our pages and say: Someone understands. Someone else has been there. Someone gets it.

We're giving courage to other people. Courage to face their own days, courage to go forward. Through our words, we get to hold hands with people who are suffering. People in need. 

We're giving them what we have--the best we have. 

We have the best job in the world. And it isn't writing, not really, not exactly. 

The best thing is to love other people. 

To reach out, to hold hands, to stay connected, to be humans, to talk about living.

To give courage, insight, guidance. To say, Yes! Do that! Go! Or to say, No, don't go that way, please, you'll regret it.

As writers, we are both the Listeners and the Speakers. And through all our words, we're communicating love, essentially.

Is that weird to say?

Here, if the word love creeps you out, read this quote, from William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech:

"It is [the writer's] privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."

Right? Right??? THAT.

The best job in the world. Giving other people what they need. Spending our time and energy to meet those needs.

Our medium happens to be words--stories, characters, images, conflict. We happen to be dealing with tales and novels and fiction.

"Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Tell Gregory a story. Make some light." -- Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux

The real job, the best job, is reaching other people. Lifting their hearts. Bringing light.

Today We All Get Permission to Play

We've all had the experience of reading a novel that made us envious, right? 

Jealous of another writer's skill, their way with words, their peerless grasp of imagery. Admiring all that they've done. Shaking our heads in amazement.

When I was working on my first novel, that happened to me. I picked up Andrew Peterson's On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. And I was struck by longing.

Yes, the characters, the plot, the incredible storyworld he had built: all of that was wonderful and worth applause. But the thing that really got me, the thing that unearthed a huge amount of envy in me was this:

Andrew Peterson wrote as if he were having fun.

The stakes were still high. The painful moments were real. The evil antagonists were pretty dang evil. 

And yet. A glee bubbled beneath every paragraph. A delight in the words themselves, in wordplay, in the funny moments, in the perfect exchanges of dialogue, in the dangerous-yet-hilarious fantastical animals. 

How did he do it?

And why was I sweating and weeping and frustrated and hating the process of writing, while he seemed to be having fun.

It was a puzzle.

And yeah--we all know that you can write strong, compelling prose even when you're having a hard day, a rough time, a grumpy mood. So I'm not saying he did, in fact, write the whole thing in a state of bliss.

I'm sure it was hard. I have no doubt that he struggled while he wrote. Certainly he's human and works through off days like everyone else.

AND YET. 

I'm still convinced he was having a lot more fun than I was. 

And it gets me thinking: What if enjoying writing is as much a skill, a cultivate-able mindset, as much as anything else? 

What if we could all be having fun when we write? 

I love the movie Finding Neverland, and I especially love Johnny Depp's portrayal of J.M. Barrie. I don't know how scrupulously accurate it is or not, but either way:

I want to learn from his playfulness. How open he was to being imaginative. How he was willing to be silly. 

But I need a lot of help figuring out how to do that.

Obviously, children are the experts on knowing how to play, how to imagine, how to embrace silliness. It's one of the many things we need to learn from them.

Have you ever played with bubbles with a kid?

There's no reason to bubbles. There is no why with bubbles. They just ARE. 

They're not going to last, they do absolutely no good, everyone's hands get sticky, and inevitably the bottle tips over, and more than one bubble-making wand gets accidentally (or purposely!) licked. 

But bubbles delight.

And kids do things simply because they are delightful.

When did we lose the value of that?

We get so caught up with what we SHOULD do. We write the characters, the setting, the conflict, the genre that we SHOULD be writing.

Have we lost touch with what honestly, truly, deep-down, bubblemakingly DELIGHTS us?

I think we need to get in touch with our sense of play. 

And today is the perfect time for it. To learn to be playful.  And to play well.

To enjoy freewheeling rush of creation. To write things just because.

To create a character that delights us. To write dialogue that we find funny. To please ourselves first--and maybe ourselves only--with a choice of setting. To write paragraphs that will exist for no other reason than because we like them.

To write nonsense poems. To mimic E. E. Cummings or Ogden Nash or Edward Lear or Edward Gorey or whoever delights you with words.

We need a childlike attention to play. It's serious for them, at the very same moment that it's fun. Have you noticed that? There's a sincerity to their delight, a weight to the glee, a determination to the play. 

They're focused on getting delight right. It matters to them, deeply. 

Maybe because they know that delight is part of living well. 

And isn't that why we're writing, anyway?

The Enormous Virtue of Showing Up

It is amazing how well writing will go for you, so long as you just show up. 

How many character insights, how many brilliant plot twists, how many excellent words: They appear on beautiful ordinary days. It doesn't always take a huge effort, or an intervention, or an outside critique.

Sometimes it's just the page and a writer who chose to show up. Nothing flashy.

What does that mean, showing up?

Well, it doesn't mean being a zombie. Propped up and semi-conscious (with or without the questionable diet): Nope, doesn't work. 

I mean being present. With every part of yourself.

You've gotta show up physically.

I know, I know, your body is in a chair, so it's easy to think you can check this one off right away.

But to physically show up, you also need all senses active and ready. Aware of your body.

Because when you're writing, you'll need to rely on sensory detail, on description that is rich and vibrant and feels like a real person experienced it. 

... And that's true whether you're writing a multigenerational saga or an oven manual. We're never allowed to write as if we're robots.

Physical energy is crucial too: It's too easy to be half-asleep, slumped in the chair.

But writing is an exhausting thing--for me, at least. It takes real, physical energy to get words on a page. So eating smart, exercising regularly, sleeping well: That all feeds into a quality writing day.

You have to have all your tools physically ready too--your reference books, all your notes jotted down on scraps of paper, pens that work, batteries in your keyboard, four cups of piping hot coffee. 

You've gotta show up mentally.

You can't write when your mind is full of other things.

It's easy to lose the battle here. To get swept into a rant, instead of into writing. To fall down a rabbit hole on the Internet, blinking fuzzily at your computer as you realize three hours have passed. To consider your evening plans all morning long.

Trust me, I get it. And I do it too. SO MANY TIMES.

But it's pretty hard on all my characters. Their precious real estate in my mind is suddenly crowded with ideas that have nothing to do with them. They're pushed into the background, as all that prime thinking goes to other (less important!) things.

Unfocused writing might as well not be writing at all.

It takes a conscious effort to boot out everything but the work itself. It's not something that resolves on its own. 

To get back on track, I have to say--out loud, sometimes--I'm done thinking about that. I'm done trying to come up with the perfect retort that I should have used two nights ago!! This time is for WRITING. And so I'm going to WRITE.

(It sometimes helps to run around your office with your hands in the air as you shout this. Or maybe that's just me. But seriously: it clears the mind.)

Ask yourself, what's getting in the way?

Are you upset about something? Or--and this can be a tricky one--listening to the wrong music? Singing along happily and thinking about driving with all the windows down, and not so much about this fragile scene, these quiet characters.

We have to show up. We have to arrive at the desk with full writer brains.

With memories tingling in our fingertips. With our imaginations brewing carafes of imagery.

Mind sharp. Vocabulary present. All those words raring to go.

You've gotta show up with a whole heart.

This might be the sneakiest no-show of all. Because yes, we can get the sleep we need (or at least the coffee we need), and we can clear our minds of interference.

But it's still possible to hit the draft absently. To be less than our whole selves.

There's no room for emotional insensitivity in a writing life. And emotional darkness is just as dangerous. Bitterness can dampen the real insights we might otherwise offer.

Henri Matisse said, "Hatred, rancor, and the spirit of vengeance are useless baggage to the artist. His road is difficult enough for him to cleanse his soul of everything which could make it more so." 

Isn't that true??

How's your heart doing these days?

I've found that when I let envy fester in my life, when I let a kind of callousness creep in, when I'm actively bitter about something--my writing goes down the tubes.

Yeah, I might muster up some funny sarcasm. Yeah, it might seem like some of the words are sharper. But the core of it, the real goodness of it, is off. 

Even when it's just me writing in my room, just me and all my characters: I have to stay open-hearted, stay sensitive to people.

Aware of human fragility and human strength. Conscious of complexities. Striving for forgiveness--or at least understanding--for the real live people I know.

Showing up with a whole heart means coming at this enterprise with an intent to do good. To build a bridge from this heart to a reader's heart. To build that bridge with words.

Doesn't really work if we're also harboring the emotional equivalent of a bridge bomber. You know what I mean?

We owe it to ourselves, our work, and our readers to keep our hearts clear of all that useless baggage.

This is our commute, my friends. Even if your office is just a few steps away from your bed (or even if you're working in bed!): this is the road we take every day to get to work.

We show up. In our skins and our bones, in our sharpened minds, in our huge hearts.

It's a pretty serious commute, when you think of it like that. It's not a small thing to show up.

Even on the ordinary and average days: That's enormous. 

But I think our calling is worth it, don't you? 

So when writing asks us to show up with our biggest self, let's be up for it this June.