My horoscope says that today is a good day to write. “Your conversations and exchanges have a fluidity to them.” I sat here for a good long while wondering what to write.
I don’t believe in writer’s block per se, but I do think that most people are trying too hard, especially professional writers on a deadline. I should know.
I’m not on a deadline this week but I am having a piece published in an outlet that I’ve been wanting to publish with for a few years. I’m a little anxious because it’s a well-known culture hub in the circles where I run, and also because I had to be gay in public to write for them. That was the harder part.
When I hear the voice of my inner critic, she sounds like a long-lost friend from my formative years. I hear her judging me for writing memoir as an excuse to make everything about me. I watch her eyes roll as she sighs, “here we go with the gay thing again.” I sit silent and dumbfounded when she asks, “Why do you think you’re so great?”
I’m very lucky that my inner critic does not sound like my mother, who crows with pride whenever she gets to tell someone that she always knew I would be a writer.
When I was writing my dissertation, my mom sent me books she found at the dollar store and said, “If this person can write a book, so can you!” I kept them in my office next to the letter that offered me a book contract when I got my PhD.
You can buy that book here.
I think what I’m trying to say is that it’s important to know whose voice to listen to and why. My grandmother always told me not to write anything that I wouldn’t want published in the Chicago Tribune, and she was not the type of woman who forgave easily. So, I heed. Almost every editor I’ve worked with has mentioned something about vulnerability in my pieces—that it’s rare and admirable. I’m always glad to hear it. There’s a fine line between writing that’s honest and writing that’s trauma porn, and I like to think that I know the difference. I’m very aware of what to share and what to hold back, what parts of the story are mine to tell and which get to be told from another unreliable narrator.
The voice I’m listening to these days (other than mom, whose advice I value deeply and who sometimes reads my writing in secret—hi, mom!) is the pinching one that reminds me that you cannot have written without writing. It’s the one that says that all the people whom I admire got that way because they did the thing. Repeatedly.
I’m off to pitch another story. Maybe the one I’ve been kicking the tires around about divorce and motherhood. Or maybe I’ll go back through my pitch archives and dust off an idea whose time has now come. Either way, it’s a good day to write.
Snapshot of the Week
In Other News…
Booked a speaking gig talking about applying dramatic structure to conflict resolution
I’m working on a new blog idea
My kid went to overnight camp this week. He swears that he will not miss me at all
Testing out new work-away-from-home options
Getting super into cross stitch so that I can embroider my own garments someday (h/t to my pal Maggie Greene)