Tammy Letherer 
Have you seen the video on Facebook about how people react when company comes? A comedian does a bit about how having company used to be such a treat. Mom would make a coffee cake, bring out the good china, and the family would eagerly gather in the living room awaiting the doorbell.
He contrasts this to today when the ring of a doorbell makes us flip off the lights, dive for the floor, or hide behind the curtains, peering out suspiciously to see who dares to drop by unexpectedly. The idea of interaction makes us cringe.
What does this have to do with writing?
I’ve discovered that, in order to be a successful writer, I have to imagine that I am both a visitor and a host.
As the visitor, I must make a commitment to drop in on my writing on a regular basis, not just when I’m “invited” by my muse. I think of my project as a house-bound neighbor or convalescing relative who relies on seeing me. I imagine that I am literally this person’s only link to the outside world—because when it comes to my writing, I am, in fact, the one and only thing keeping it alive.
Call it grandiose, but by taking on a God complex and casting myself as all-powerful creator, I feel more obligated to show up. And more guilty when I don’t.
In my memoir about betrayal and divorce, I had to look at the ways I first betrayed myself; the glaring truth was that I too often turned my back on my writing. When my husband left me, I also abandoned the characters I had so lovingly created in a novel more than ten years in the making. My characters had always been real to me. They spoke to me, sharing their deepest secrets and darkest fears. They allowed me to create them. By stepping onto the page they gave me the gift of expressing myself. Then, when they were ready to be seen and heard, I stuffed them away in a drawer because I was too unhappy to entertain them.
To succeed as a writer, I have to be a good host, no matter what mood I’m in. I must constantly listen for opportunity or inspiration to knock. When I see a story standing on my doorstep, I may feel a strong urge to run for a back room and hide. But my job is to keep the welcome mat out and open the door to whatever comes for me, whether it’s exciting, mundane, dreadful, or joyful.
What follows may be a lot of awkward silences. I may have to endure some uncomfortable face time when I come face to face with blocks, fears, doubts, or ugly truths.
I’ve learned to just sit with it. I’ve learned that presence is the best demonstration of love.
Being the mother of teenagers is a good lesson in this. Getting my 15-year-old to share details with me about anything is often met with indecipherable grunts. My writing projects often act like teenagers. Other times writing feels like talking to a neighbor who rambles on and monopolizes my time without ever getting to the point. Either way, I have to be polite and receptive.
Because what the creative muse most wants is the pleasure of my company. I have to put in the time even if I spend that time staring at the walls. Eventually, something will happen. A fragment, an image, a run-on sentence, a complete paragraph—something will show up.
But only when I show up first.
