Vacansopapurosophobia

Which means fear of the blank paper.*

I don't have a fear of the blank page. I love a good blank page, a whole blank journal even. It's so full of potential. Imagine all the fantastic, beautiful, hilarious things that could end up on there!

No, I have a fear of a half-filled page of bad writing. Call it vacansocrapurosophobia. The flip side of that blank page full of potential is a scribbled-on piece of garbage that I'm embarrassed to recycle without shredding it first. That's what haunts me.

I have a new book idea. It might be my favorite book idea ever. It's so pretty right now, so hilarious and yet touching, so unique and yet universal. And so completely unwritten, and therefore so fraught with the looming specter of total, heart-breaking failure to carry it off in a way that is at all close to my beloved vision for it.

This is the writer's dilemma: I have to be madly in love with an idea in order to even consider starting, given the amount of time and sweat (well, mental sweat) and energy I know it's going to take. But if I'm too in love with it, I'm terrified of blowing it.

This summer, though, I got a wonderful piece of advice: Redefine failure. As in, whenever you find yourself not trying something for fear you'll fail, redefine what "failure" will mean in that situation. For me, for any writer but in particular for those of you who have "always wanted to, but...", maybe failure shouldn't mean "unpublished" or "not as perfect as I hoped." Maybe failure should mean "never tried." And there's one obvious way to make sure that doesn't happen.

Excuse me, I have a book to go start.

* Also the title of an 826michigan student publication of just the kind you'd be supporting if you'd already signed on to force me to dress up like a robot and dance on the Jumbotron.

Working is in progress again

Remember when I was writing so hard that I had to stop blogging and write a poem about how hard I was writing?

This week, I don't even have time for a poem. It's good news: my agent loved all my new ideas and wants to see them all ASAHOIPOS.* And my agent is wise and I always do what she says. Also, she is a black belt and can beat me up. So no blogging for me for a few days.

That said, we have a visitor at our house this week. And, oh, the adventures we have had. Already, there has been dress-up and candy and a robot vs. objet d'art brawl.

Have you met Critter? You will...









* As Soon As Humanly Or Inhumanly Possible Or Sooner

Living with your inner critic

You know that voice inside you? The one that says, "This is no good. You're never going to get it right. You may as well give up." Mine is strong and mean and persistent. It beats me up, and it also uses logic ("Does the world really NEED another book? You know who needs you? Your kids!"). And it doesn't just bug me while I write. As I've been training for this marathon, it's started in while I'm running. "You're never going to make it. You may as well stop. You're probably about to injure yourself. C'mon, slow down."

I hate it. I used to try to ignore it, or to get rid of it. But lately I've stopped.

I went for a run in LA with the amazing Sara Lewis Holmes, and we got to talking about the voice, both in running and in writing. Here's what we realized: it never goes away. You can win 15 National Book Awards and a Pulitzer, you can run 95 ultramarathons, you can be the most accomplished anything in the world. But the voice will still be there. Every time it gets hard, it will be there, feeding on your insecurity and trying to convince you to quit.

And then Sara said the wisest thing. She said maybe you have to learn to live with it, to say, "Oh, hello. I recognize you," and then to go on.

Earlier this week, I went running with Tink. She rides her bike alongside me and it's usually great. But this run, she was cranky. She started whining at the farthest away point and she screamed and kvetched at me for two miles. She was making me CRAZY. But the more I talked calmly back and kept running, the more ridiculous she got ("I am going to DIIIIIIIE!"). I could laugh at her. And of course, we made it. Now, when I am running and the voice starts in, I just pretend it's Tink kvetching. And I go on.

I am about to start a new book, and I know soon thereafter the voice will start. But I'm not going to ignore it. I'm going to say, "Oh, hello. I recognize you." Because I am less nice than Sara, I will probably add "You stupid voice."

And then I will go back to writing.

Obsession

You know you are obsessed with your book when...

... while pondering your book during morning "make the lunches and run around collecting stuff" time, you forget to eat breakfast.

... while pondering your book during a write-in with a friend at the library, the solution to your plot problem hits you and, before you know what you are doing, you holler "I got it!" and leap from your chair.

... while pondering your book during a run, you become so absorbed that you forget to watch your step and fly to the pavement in the middle of the street, battering your shoulder and scraping your knees and palms. Yet all you can think as you continue the run (with blood dripping down your leg) is "She could totally wipe-out like that in Chapter 8."

... even in the face of all this, you still find yourself happily pondering your book during dinner...and bedtime...and during the second half of the Brazil-Chile World Cup game...

Writing Lessons from Elementary School, part 2

This is the second post inspired by my amazement at the great writing in Don't Stay Up So Late, a collection of stories by Erickson Elementary (Yspilanti, MI) students who worked with volunteers from 826michigan. See yesterday's post here. And then go to 826michigan and get yourself a copy, if you can.

10 Things Elementary School Writers Know They Should Do
and Their Stories Are Much Better For It
(i.e. Things I Wish More Grown-Up Authors Remembered)

1. Something has to happen in your story. A list of things you like is not a story. A list of what someone did that day ("And then we went to Joe's. And then we played Wii. And then we ate dinner.") is not a story.* Neither is a 40 page treatise on your thoughts on the nature of fiction, even if you put it in quotes and write "he said" at the end.

2. Your story has to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. "End Book 1" is not an ending.

3. Use lots of juicy details.

4. Spelling and grammar DO count...

5. ... but not on your first draft messy copy.

6. Books with pictures are best.

7. In a good story, a character learns something or changes somehow. But you don't have to write "The moral is..." and beat us in the head with it.

8. Stories are meant to be read. By other people. Preferably out loud. So somebody besides you has to be able to sound out and understand your story, and enjoy it. It's not a good story if you have to sit next to the person and explain everything (or if I have to buy a "Reader's Guide" to understand what you were trying to say).*

9. Writing stories is hard. It takes a lot of work. You have to practice and you have to find somewhere you can concentrate. And you have to see it through to the end.

10. A book is not a real book if you only SAY you are going to write, but never start, or if you tell everyone about it but never finish, or if you finish it and are afraid to show the teacher. If you see it through to the end, and you revise it and edit it, and if you give it a title and make pictures for it, and if someone who is not you reads it and enjoys it, it is a "real" book, even if nobody ever buys it on Amazon.

* Unless you are James Joyce and the book is Ulysses

Writing Lessons from Elementary School, Part 1

This post and tomorrow's were inspired by Don't Stay Up So Late, a fabulous collection of bedtime stories written by students at Erickson Elementary in Ypsilanti, as part of 826michigan's work at their school this year. I helped out at Erickson last year and wrote the intro to the book. Come get a copy at 826michigan.

10 Things Elementary School Writers Don't Know They Shouldn't Do
and Their Stories Are Much Better For It
(i.e. Things I Wish More Grown-Up Writers Tried)

1. Name your main character after yourself. Make her fabulous or make her evil. Either way, do not worry for a minute about whether or not readers will think it's really you.

2. Write your fantasy.
Once upon a time there was a girl named Jacqui. She was very nice, but at school everyone was mean to her. She told on them and they all got in big, big trouble and had to miss the field trip and they never bothered her again.*

3. Establish character in the first lines. Don't overwrite this part. Move into the story.
Jason was a bad guy. He liked to beat up kittens and eat bunnies. One day...

4. Make stuff up. Like crazy stuff. Nobody ever put down a book and thought, "Yes! That was totally realistic!"
And then he turned into a butterfly and flew away.

5. Find yourself hilarious. Put stuff in there just because it's funny. In fact, write the whole story as if you were trying to make the kid next to you laugh or say "Whoa!"

6. Do not fear the absurd.

7. Write about everyday playdate drama. Making the stakes high doesn't mean every book has to be about life or death situations. Sometimes we all like to read a book about someone who reminds us of us, with the problems and worries that we hide inside us, and who makes it out of a normal childhood. Ask Judy Blume.

8. Have a moral. Better yet, have a moral we don't expect. At the end of your story of the produce thief who gets caught, write: "Moral: Don't eat all the bananas."

9. Don't wrap up every loose end. At the end of your story of the class field trip to a zombie house, write:
Lucy and John escaped. They went to tell their teacher. Then they realized their teacher was now a zombie! She ate them and nobody ever heard from Lucy and John again.
Do not worry about what happened to the rest of the class; we can guess. Or, it doesn't matter.

10. Rehabilitate your bad guys, instead of annihilating them. Sometimes we need to know there's a chance we can change.
But when Franklin saw how sad Lizzie looked about her puppy being stolen, he felt bad. He decided to give her puppy back. Lizzie was so happy she said she'd be his friend, if he promised never to steal again.

* All quotes are made up by me, and are similar but not as awesome as ones from the book.1

Take a different path

In which I discuss running, writing, and goose attacks.

So I am training for this marathon, which is partially to blame for my lack of regular blogging. Friday, I set out for an 11 mile run. I charted myself a course along trails, down near the mighty Huron River. I had my little belt full of water bottles and my half a size too big shoes and yes, I was seriously dorkalicious.

At mile 5, the trail narrowed to about 6 feet wide as it ran between the river and a little pond. As I came around a bend, I heard the flapping and honking of Canada geese. I had scared a gaggle of about 20 of them (with my feather-light footsteps and delicate breathwork). They were heading from the pond to the river, so I jogged in place to let them by. Then they stopped. The babies sat down, right in the middle of the trail. I could not pass.

"Excuse me!" I called pleasantly and started jogging around them. The mama geese hissed and snapped at me. When I got closer, they tried to whap me with their wings.

"Okay, okay!" I called and ran back down the trail. I stood and watched them for a minute, sure they would move on. The babies put their heads down and the adults stood guard, watching me.

"Move!" I yelled. I hid behind the bushes and screamed, "Vroom! Vroom! Big truck coming!" I tossed small rocks and sticks at the trail just in front of the geese.

Nothing. No movement. And every time I got close, the mamas started hissing.

I stood there, like an idiot, waiting for someone smarter or braver to come along. Nobody came. I hunted for a side route around them. I tried to cut through the campus of a factory and got stuck behind a barbed wire fence. I circled back in front of the factory and ended up crossing a loading dock in front of 17 unloading truck drivers (again, remember the little belt with the water bottles and did I mention the pigtails?).

And here is where it relates to writing: I could have taken a different road. A road that could go anywhere in Ann Arbor was 300 yards away, but it would have lead me on a different route. So instead of turning around and taking it, I considered scaling a 20 foot high fence. I was so stuck on the idea of getting back to MY path, and so unable to stop thinking about the geese, that I wore myself out stubbornly trying to get back to the original plan. The original outline. Are you seeing the metaphor?

I admire perseverance and doggedness and effort. But sometimes the reason a scene or a chapter or a whole book is hard is simply because it's never going to work. We have to turn around and let the failure take us on a whole new path.

I finished my 11 miles and it was a lovely run, minus the geese. Sure, I was bummed to leave my pretty path through the woods and run on the pavement in the exhaust. But the real tragedy would have been if I'd never let it go and kept running.

Your Personal Trainer

So, I'm training for this marathon. Thor bought me this chip that you tie to your shoe. It sends messages to your iPod and computer voice comes on and tells you how far you've gone and how fast you are going: "You have been running for THREE minutes. You have gone POINT FOUR miles." It also came with this running coaching mix, complete with the voice of many-marathon-winner Alberto Salazar telling you when to speed up and when to take a break and how fabulous you are for running at all.

I love this voice. Alberto (whom I saw win the New York Marathon in the 80s, so he knows his stuff) starts with a motivational speech about getting out the door. Then he says, "Ready? Go!" and great warm up music comes on. I'm running along, and suddenly, there's Alberto telling me, "You're doing great. Now I want you to speed up. Picture your opponent running ahead of you. Ready? Sprint!" Appropriately upbeat music comes on and I sprint, encouraged by Alberto, "You are so fast!"

I want this for writing. I want a writing coaching mix. I want to put on my headphones and hear, say, Salman Rushdie: "You are going to have a great writing day. You are a brilliant and prolific writer. Ready? Open your laptop. Go!" and then hear good writing music. I type and type and on comes, "You're doing great. Only thirty minutes left. Keep writing!" When I'm done, I want him to say, "Wow. Doesn't that feel good? Take a break. Go get some coffee and I'll meet you back here in ten minutes. Don't be late!" and then play "Praise You" by Fatboy Slim, like Alberto does at the end of the sprints.

I want a chip like I have for my shoe, but for the computer, so I can press a button and hear the computer voice: "You have been writing for THIRTY-FIVE minutes. You have written ONE THOUSAND words. You have updated your status ZERO times. Good job!"

Who will write invent me this book thingamajig?

In which I preach patience and mix metaphors

(crawls up out of hole, squinting into spring sun)

On our last episode of Jacqui's Room, Jacqui disappeared into her office with a book idea. It's been a month, and the real life peanut gallery is curious: "Is the book is done yet?"

I would love to tell you the book is done. But then again, I wouldn't. Any book that I could write that quickly, even a picture book, is probably not very good.

Recently, someone told me about her book series. "We'll be releasing one a month..." she said. And all I could think was "One a month?! That's literary fast food."

The question is: do you want your food fast, or do you want it carefully crafted and delicious? If you want to write it right, you have to be patient with yourself. Sometimes you have to let it simmer, you have to beat on high for the full two minutes and then taste it. You have to go slowly.

The worst part is this: sometimes, you have to wait and see how it comes out. You can't tell from the outline or the recipe if it's going to make a good dessert. You have to write as much as you can, stop blogging for a whole month, become totally obsessed, and just get it onto the darn page. And then, once it's out, sometimes you read it and, well, crap. It doesn't work. It's fallen soufflé.

Sometimes we get so attached to what we've written, because it's really good or because we've already spent so much time on it, or because someone, somewhere once said they thought it had potential. Plus, we've heard all these stories about writers who did eleven drafts or got rejected 126 times and THEN the book was great. So we spend hours and weeks and maybe even years banging our heads against the wall, trying to add sugar or prop up the collapsed side, ruining the poor thing even further with our tinkerings, when what we need to do is scrap the soufflé, no matter how hilarious and brilliant it is (and trust me, it is hilarious) and write another book. If writing a book is a love affair, sometimes you have to break up. There are other fish in the sea.

Now, the good news is that sometimes, once the words of that ex-boyfriend book are done screaming in your head and bothering everyone around you,* when you can hear more clearly, another, quieter voice pipes up and calls you. If you don't let the first book go, you can never follow the next one. And who knows how great that next one is going to be?

* and trust me, they were bothering EVERYONE around me: I got a call from my agent and she said, "I was up thinking about your book last night."

LeBron and Me (a lie)

I write fiction. Which means I lie.

Last Tuesday I implied on Facebook that I had a date with LeBron James. This was untrue. I did go see the Pistons play the Cavaliers that night, but it is entirely possible, I suppose, that LeBron failed to notice me, despite the fact that our seats were, no joke, in the SAME ROOM where he was playing basketball.

A "friend" dared to imply that the idea of LeBron James taking me out on a date was preposterous.

It is preposterous. It's also a terrible lie, for a couple of reasons (warning: writing metaphor ahead):

1. I had no details. The key to a good lie is in the details. If you make the scene so vivid that people can't help but picture it in their heads, they'll believe it. The more specific the details, the better. Make them see, smell, taste, hear, and touch it.

2. I didn't commit. Don't imply: insist. If you are tentative in your lie, it'll never work. You have to throw your whole heart into it and never doubt for a minute that it will be believed.

3. It wasn't big enough. Or, it was too big. You have to find the balance between mundane and delusional. If your lie goes just slightly farther than is believable, it's more likely to work. If your story is something everyone has done or experienced, nobody's going to care if it's true or not. Make it extra-ordinary, a millimeter beyond realistic.

4. It was illogical. I mean, I am so far out of LeBron's league* it's simply not plausible that I would date him. Plus, I'm married. Your story has to stick together without gaping holes or contradictions.

5. And lastly, never fess up. Once you have people believing you, once you've drawn them into your invention, you can't betray their trust. You can't say, "Remember when I said...? Well, really, er, I meant this instead." Don't backtrack or change stories midstream. You won't only lose them on this lie, you'll lose them forever.

So, tell me. What kind of lie gets you every time?

* Even if I do lower my stock with bad "in his league" puns.

Okay. Make it worse.

Someone who read yesterday's post about a kid named Toast turning up in my "Let's Make a Story" bit asked for the rest of the exercise. It's pretty simple, really, but we haven't done a No, Seriously. Just Try It moment around here for a while, so...

1. First, think of a character. What's his or her name?

2. Now, tell me: what does this person love to do more than anything else in the entire world?

3. Good. Well, bad news! This morning, when this person woke up, something astonishing had happened. Something terrible. Something that made it so this person can never, ever do that thing he loves again. What happened?

4. Well, what's he gonna do about it?

5. That fails miserably. Why?

6. Okay, now, make it worse.

7. Ooh, that's bad. Now, make it worse again.

8. Ugh, poor guy. What's he gonna do now?!

9. Yeah, that didn't work either. Now things are even worse. How?

10. Right about now, things are as horrible as they can possibly get. Oh, wait. Turns out they can get even worse. What happens?

Etc. etc. etc. At Jefferson, the kids decided Toast loves making toast (of course). He loves it so much that he dreams of opening a restaurant called Toast, where all they serve is stuff on toast. But he wakes up one morning and an evil genius* has stolen all the toast. What's worse, the cops think Toast stole it. So he runs to his grandma's, because who can you trust if not Grandma. But she's talking to the cops! Toast tries to escape the whole town and go in search of toast elsewhere, but toast everywhere is gone. And now the peanut butter and jelly is missing too. And the local peanut butter and jelly mob is sure Toast stole it, so they're after him too. To make it worse, Toast falls down and knocks out all his teeth, so now he can't even eat toast! Etc. etc. etc.

So, who's your character? And what does he love? No, seriously. Just try it.

* The kid who thought of this part gave the evil genius his own name, which I loved.

Shh!

There's a new story in the corner. But it's afraid to come out and show itself.

It keeps making little peeping noises, sticking out a leg or a scene, or one line, and then darting back into the subconscious parts of my brain where I can't write it. Honestly, I think it's seen what I've done to other stories who were braver and now it's terrified. Who can blame it?

This coaxing out of a story is delicate work. I can't start too soon or I spill that intoxicating initial rush of energy and voice before I even know what I'm writing. But I can't ignore it too long, or it will wander off in search of acorns elsewhere.

I used to catch chameleons, when I was little. You have to pretend you don't know they're there. You have to go about your business, whistling and saying, "What? I don't see any chameleon," even as, all the while, you are sidling closer and closer to one. And then when you are ready, not at all skittish about touching a lizard and really ready to commit, you pounce. The key is to pounce from two sides: one hand behind and one hand in front, in order to trap him as he tries to run. So you can't have anything else on your hands.

I've been whistling at this story for a week. Today, I think I'm ready to pounce.

Writing truths by Tink

It is always amazing to me how kids can understand and articulate things about books that some adult writers NEVER GET. Tink has started a new series, called "Writers And How They Write." Here's the first installment:


Yup. Conflict and character motivation summed up in 34 words by a second grader.

Tink would like me to point out that she knows how to spell all those words, but "it's not really that important to get everything perfect in a first draft." Which is, of course, lesson number 2.

Every single year

I have raved about Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac here before, so it's no surprise he's the source on this too. If you're here after the 8th and you use the link above, you'll need to click "prev" until you find the one on Allende.

It's January 8, which means Isabel Allende is starting a new book. 29 years ago, she started The House of the Spirits (which is a wonderful book, and which a bunch of people are reading together in January over at Moonrat's if you're interested) (or, if you're lazy, you can see the movie, which is also beautiful and haunting). That turned out pretty well, so she decided to try it every year.

According to my research,* Allende goes down to her office in the morning, locks herself in, lights candles, meditates, and then writes for 10 straight hours. No outline. No ideas. No index cards. Then she writes 10 hours a day, six days a week until she finishes the book. Nobody reads it until it's done, not even her. When it's finished, she reads and then revises accordingly.

There's so much I want to say about this. Like "Oh, yeah, that's my daily schedule too." Like that I am amazed at her discipline. Like that when I'm older and nobody cares if I disappear for ten hours, I want to try it like that.

Mostly, it's a good reminder for the new year that in the end, it's the old butt in chair that does it: wanna write a book? Go write it. It won't be The House of Spirits, but writing is not like, say, running a four minute mile, which I could never do no matter how hard I trained. And even Isabel Allende has to go back and revise.

* Keillor's article, Google and Wikipedia

Why baking cookies is like writing my book

I made cookies yesterday with Destructo. The directions said, "Grease two baking sheets." So when the recipe was all measured and mixed and ready, I tried to divide the dough into a reasonable number of cookies to fit onto two cookie sheets. Then I looked at the recipe. "Makes six dozen cookies," it said.

Hmm, I thought. Six dozen cookies are unlikely to fit on the two cookie sheets they told me to grease. Probably, I should make these much smaller. But then they won't fit on two cookie sheets. Well, I could get more cookie sheets. I could do several batches. I could freeze the leftover dough for another day. I could do a lot of reasonable things, all of which require energy and also the acceptance of moving in what feels like a backwards direction.

Or, I could leave the cookies as they are and bake them. Which is what I did. And, of course, the cookies all ran into one another and the edges got much more done and the cookies are hexagonal where I had to use a spatula to separate them. They are fine. They taste fine. But they're probably not as great as they could have been if I weren't so lazy.

So then I went to critique group. I brought my new book, the one I'm so in love with. They liked it. A lot. But they raised a concern, a big one. The same concern Tink had when she read it. To address it, I'll need to go back do a lot of rewriting and trashing of what I've already written. Which requires a lot of energy and also the acceptance of moving in what feels like a backwards direction.

Probably, it'll be fine the way it is. But unlike cookies, I'm not willing to settle for "fine." So I must overcome this "get things accomplished" instinct, this desire to fast draft, to cross things off my to do list, to feel "productive." The truth is that writing isn't a linear activity. It's a swirling and stopping, fits and starts, jags of genius/weeks of drivel rollercoaster that does not always even move forwards. Type type type...delete delete delete.

So today, I am back to the beginning.

Ah, well. At least I have cookies.

The Best Writing Tool I Have...

... is these.



I don't even listen to music. I just wear them.

Because the fact is this: when I was a teacher, I was in my classroom unable to be reached all day. Nobody ever said, "I know you're working, but..." or "Do you have to teach the WHOLE day?"

Nobody ever asks a surgeon to make a quick run to the airport an hour away.

But people ignore the fact that I'm writing -- that I'm a writer -- all. the. time.

And here is a secret: I am not always strong enough to say, "No, I can't. I am writing." Because of course a surgeon's patients will die if he runs off to the airport. Nobody's going to die if my paragraph goes unfinished.

But that doesn't mean it's fair to ask me. And it doesn't mean I should say yes. Nobody in the world will respect my writing time, if I can't.

So, I have the earphones. And the basement office where the phone can't reach.

And some advice for this December: love your family and friends. Spend time with them and do nice things for them. Be excited to celebrate whatever you celebrate.

But, when it's time, DO NOT FEEL BAD about announcing, "I have to go write." Do not let anyone talk you out of it. Leave the drama and the guilt and the wrapping paper where they are and escape into your story.

And bring your earphones.

Bits of yumminess

1. I had two great critique groups this week and now I am even more excited about my new love affair. Writing, writing, writing... I love it when it's like this.

2. The Winter Blog Blast Tour ends today (boo hoo). You can find the whole week's worth of awesome at Chasing Ray's Master Schedule. Truly, there is some fantasticness and inspiration to be found. Today, you can go see:

Lisa Schroeder at Writing & Ruminating
Alan DeNiro at Shaken & Stirred
Joan Holub at Bildungsroman
Pam Bachorz at MotherReader
Sheba Karim at Finding Wonderland
Robin LaFevers at HipWriterMama

3. I don't know what you heard, but nobody around here is taking the rest of the day off to do anything having to do anything with this. Nope. No sirree Bob.

Mmm. It's like doughnuts for your brain.

Why Do Fools Fall in Love?

You know that friend you have, who's in love with someone new every eight months? Who keeps saying, "Oh, that's over. But this new guy/girl..." Three months later all she can do is complain about how badly it's going. Six months later she's heartbroken. Seven months later she has sworn off love forever.

"Never again," she vows, shaking a fist. And then, at eight months, "This NEW one..."

So, I started this new book. And this NEW one...is going to be the best book ever.

Try this. Now.

Today is the National Day on Writing. You can go here to see testimonials from writers on why they write or here to join the fun and submit your own writing.

Or, you can do this:

Do not read ahead in these directions.

1. Get a pen or pencil or crayon and some paper or cardboard or parchment. Don't pick them up yet. Just leave them in reach.

2. Check the time. Give yourself 15 minutes. What's 15 minutes?! You'll do your daily 15 minute "Man, I worship Jacqui" dance twice tomorrow.

3. Now, think of that story you've always thought about writing. I don't care if you're not a writer. We all have a story to tell. Plus, you're not going to write the great American novel in 15 minutes, so who cares? If you are a writer, I know there's one in there that scares you because it's not your genre or it's too personal or too hard to pull off. Don't worry about all of that. Just think of the story.

4. Imagine this: the story is already written. You already did all the work. I have it here, in front of me. Doesn't that feel good. I look at it. I read the first line. Hmm. What is the first line? Write it down. Don't think about it. I don't care if it stinks. We are going to shred this and hide it under the coffee grounds in the trash when you're done. C'mon, it's ONE sentence. Write it.

5. Oh, that's intriguing. I must know more. What are the next two sentences? Write them down. What's that? You don't know what to say. Yes, you do. The first line's already written. Just tell me what comes next. Don't worry about craft; remember the coffee grounds.

6. Keep writing. Don't lift your pen from the paper until those 15 minutes are up. I don't care if you think your spelling or your handwriting stinks or if you haven't written anything but checks since high school. I don't care if you write the worst story ever written in the history of stories. Just keep writing. Don't read #7 until 15 minutes are done.

7. When 15 minutes are over, stop. Shred the paper and hide it under the coffee grounds. Or maybe don't. Maybe save it and tomorrow, write for 15 more minutes. Maybe hide a secret notebook that you carry on your person so nobody can find it. Write while you wait in the car line at your kid's school, when you get to the dryer and it still has five more minutes, and while you're waiting for your prescription -- all of a sudden you have 15 minutes a day. Don't think about publishing it or what the audience is or if it meets certain standards. Just write it like you used to write your diary. Write "Do Not Read This Even If I Die! I Mean It!" on the cover. That's what mine says, anyway.

No, seriously. Just try it. And happy National Day on Writing.

Writing on empty

I love to run, most of the time. Lately, I am training for a half-marathon. In three weeks, I will try to run to Canada and back. Very exciting. The long runs for this, though, have been less fun. Yesterday, for example, I ran 12 miles that seemed uphill the whole way, with rainy wind in my face, and while fasting for Yom Kippur.

While I was running, I was thinking about writing. I do this a lot, especially since reading Haruki Murakami's memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I love Murakami's fiction and I love his parallels between running and writing (which you can read about here).

So yesterday, I was thinking, "How come it's so easy to make myself go running, even when I know it's going to be hard? How come I don't think about a day of running that isn't a race as lost time, but I think of a day of writing that I don't eventually use as a failure? How come I can't treat writing more like running?"

And this morning, it hit me, along with a pulled muscle and a bad case of chills. The reason is this: I ran 12 miles yesterday. It's over. Done. Nobody cares how well I did it. I don't have to look at a video tape and go back and run the bad parts over again. I don't have to re-run chapter three the third mile fifteen more times until I get it right. And I don't have to spend this whole morning staring at three or four words steps of the run, totally unable to figure out how to make them work.

Of course, on the other hand, nobody yesterday told me her daughter actually sleeps with a copy of one of my runs.