It’s been a long-time dream of mine to have a team of people supporting my publishing career. Maybe it’s common to every writer who spends years down the rabbit hole churning out words that may never be read. The idea of having someone else believe in you enough to say “let’s share this with the world” has got to be the best feeling ever.
I’m about to find out.
Don’t you hate it when you have to follow your own advice? When writers tell me that they’re stuck, I always point them toward the present moment and ask:
What’s happening right now that you can use?
What is the conversation you’re already having that can be transferred to the page?
So when I was stuck this week about what to blog about, I grudgingly asked myself the same questions. And I didn’t like the answers.
I consider myself the hopeful sort. When I was a teenager, I wrote the words of Emily Dickinson in my notebook:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
Like the old song says, there’s a thin line between love and hate. I was thinking about this in January, and in February, and again in March when living in Chicago can feel like being trapped in a cold, gray, concrete box. Every year I try to convince my kids that the grass is greener somewhere, anywhere, else. (This year I was briefly enamored with Texas–huh?) And every year they tell me to stop being a hater.
“You’ll get through this, Mom,” they promise. And I do. Summer comes and I’m in love.
I admit I’ve never read Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven, but I’ve been thinking of it anyway because of five people who taught me an important lesson this week.
I was in a complete funk, stressed out and shut down in the face of a problem that seemed to have no solution. I had a decision to make—one that would require not only a financial investment but also would force me to step into a bigger, bolder version of myself.
I’d been procrastinating for weeks. I knew I needed an author headshot taken for my book cover, but I hate having my picture taken. Not only that, what if I want to change my hair color? Or get a dramatic new haircut? It never seemed the right time.
Then I got an email from the publisher asking about it and saying something about schedules and blah, blah, blah. OK. Time to act.
There were 10 of us around the large wooden table. We came together on Valentine’s Day to talk about writing and to have a little fun capturing the memories of our first loves. After a 15-minute exercise, every paper was marked with details that were touching, surprising, funny, and heartbreaking.
We heard about the beautiful red hair of a pre-teen boy; about a first kiss, at 12 years old, in a field, that made the writer’s body feel things she had never imagined it was capable of; about the storybook Germanic features of a first crush that the writer, now in his sixties, can see as clearly as if it were yesterday.
I was in Michigan this week at our annual girls’ weekend—two wonderfully lazy days spent by the fireplace in a cozy inn, catching up with seven old and new friends. We ate and shopped and laughed and it wasn’t until I got home that I remembered one friend mentioning how stressful her job was.
I have no idea what her job is. I never asked. And because I never asked, I missed a chance to connect with her in a more meaningful way.
Last night, when I went to kiss my 12-year-old daughter goodnight, she burst into tears.
“Why can’t I see them more often?” she wailed. She was talking about her friends, the triplets, who had been at our house for a sleepover.
My daughter met the three sisters several years ago at a family summer camp, and the four of them have remained friends despite the 70 miles between them. They had a wonderful visit, crammed with movies, make-overs, homemade cake pops, and late-night giggles—the stuff of memories. But none of that stopped her from sobbing in grief.
I was walking my dog today when she spotted two other dogs behind us on the other side of the street. She kept stopping to look back at them, making strange little growling sounds. Since it was only twenty degrees and I didn’t want to be out in the first place, I quickly became annoyed. I tried to point her in the right direction and convince her that what was a block behind her wasn’t going to hurt her.
When I got home, I sat at my computer and felt the same annoyance. I struggled to get my writing going in the right direction and to remind myself that looking back at past events can’t hurt me.
👉 Enjoy dedicated writing space just steps from Lake Michigan
👉 Benefit from one-on-one developmental editing sessions