The challenge with posting weekly essays that reflect on one’s life is that by the time they're published, they might no longer be true. Feelings shift. Circumstances change. I think the trick is––for me anyway––to shoot for something a reader can take away, something to think about. Sure I’m sharing about me and my life, but the reason I’m writing and posting is ultimately not about me and my life. Everyone comes to Substack for different reasons, both readers and writers. Today, while coaching someone on writing, I used my essays as examples about how to focus an individual piece. As I looked at the four months of my essays––twenty of them––I got really clear about why I’m writing essays here. And I think it’s changed from when I first started.
I post every week. Every week I have to come up with something. I do it because it matters to me. I’ve dug through some of my poetry and shared that sometimes, but mostly I’m posting totally new things. I’ve splattered you all with some sad, angsty essays about love and loss. I’ve spent many hours working on humorous essays (but are they humorous, Linda?), which I find the hardest to write. I’ve tried to write about being queer, which I still find pretty challenging, even though I’ve been filling up my Lesbian Punch Card ™️. And I’ve sometimes written about writing. I love writing about writing, but I don’t do it a lot here. So many people are writing about writing, I don’t know that I have that much to add.
But every week I show up and post something. Something!
People have slowly been subscribing (thank you people!) and I absolutely appreciate it, but I’m going to be honest, it isn’t my reason for posting. (Although it’s lovely! Please tell your friends to subscribe, too!) You see, a while ago I made a deal with myself. Even if no one subscribes, I’m still going to show up. Not only did I commit to writing a weekly essay, but I made a commitment to myself that I’d write something every week that I thought worthy of hitting publish on. Do I want every essay to be amazing? Yes, of course. But I don’t get to decide what’s amazing and what’s not. That’s for a reader to decide. That’s your job. My job is just to write something that I consider good enough.
I’ve become a better writer by being in the habit of writing. (Pssst! It will probably make you a better writer, too!) It’s like exercise. Each day or week you do a little better, maybe more reps or further distance or improving your form. Or maybe you try CrossFit after always doing Yoga. Being in the habit keeps you fit and healthy. That’s what I’m told, anyway. CrossFit––well, exercise in general––is not my habit.
Being in the habit of writing is the same thing. For so many years I fought it. I said things like, “I’m just not the kind of person who can write every day,” or “I need big blocks of time in order to write.” I still don’t believe you have to write every day to be a good writer. What’s required is doing what works for each of us. And like everything else in life, that’s different for everyone. Over time it can change, too. Right now, my writing is asking for habit and ritual, and demanding that I show up.
As anyone who’s read my blathering here and on other social media might have noticed, I’ve been struggling with the novel I’m writing. For a long time now. Last week I publicly stated that even though my work in progress hadn’t been in progress for quite some time, I was confident I’d write this story. I think I said something like I knew I’d write it because that’s what writer’s do. Sheesh, I can be such a self-righteous prig sometimes!
This past weekend I was on a writer’s retreat with my writing partner (different person from the people I write books with). My writing partner and I support each other in being writers, in all the ways.
Encouragement. Understanding. Listening. Friendship.
Sometimes we trade pages. Sometimes we talk through plots or characters or toss each other ideas. Sometimes we reassure each other that living full lives is part of being a writer, whether it’s going down on paper or not. This past weekend I’d committed to getting words on the page. I’d made a promise I’d focus on my work in progress. I’d said I wasn’t going to get distracted doing something else. Writing retreat weekends with my writing partner don’t happen that often, only a few times a year, so I wanted to make it count!
We always start our retreats pulling Tarot cards and the cards I pulled screamed at me to trust my intuition. I’ve been trying to think my way into writing this story and it hasn’t worked. My muse hates when I think too much. And she’s so bossy! Also, it isn’t a surprise that I do this, as I often lean on my brain instead of trusting my heart or gut. So I metaphorically threw up my hands and said, “Bring it!” to my muse.
Guess what?
I got words on the page. And whoa Nelly, they aren’t the words I thought I’d write! As a matter of fact, they surprised the fuck out of me. Because they’re pretty sexy. Like, so sexy that when I normally would have shared what I had written with my writing partner, I was too embarrassed to read them aloud. And I’ve shared pretty much everything about my life with them. (Yes, everything.) I’m a little bit hung up, a little bit shy, and a little bit insecure about my queerness though, so I couldn’t do it.
I know I will finish this manuscript and if I’m lucky it will get published. I’m pretty sure the writing is good enough to press publish on. Readers will get to decide if it’s amazing. And the sexy bits? We’ll see. You’ll tell me.
What are the takeaways from all this rambling? Nothing’s going to change if you don’t show up. Trust your heart and gut. This is true for writing. This is true for life. And I’ll see you next week!
Now where’s my ticker tape parade and confetti canon celebration?!