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Hi everyone!

This is a page for questions, musings, sort-of answers, partial-insights and more questions. I welcome your questions. If you’ve got one on your mind, drop me a line below.

It took me a long time to write anything here. Even as I begin (living-room floor, laptop on my lap, autumn coming through the window) I wonder if I have anything useful to tell you.

Here’s the thing: There are no rules for living a creative life, and no instructions on how to write what’s in your heart. (And yes, that’s what this is all about – what’s in your heart) It’s just a great big gorgeous forest with no trails and no sign-posts, and we all need to find our own ways to get in, and to stay there. Sometimes we bushwhack. Sometimes we follow the footsteps that others have left. Sometimes we sit on a picnic blanket at the edge, listening carefully to what’s going on inside. The important thing is this: We need to be led by our own compass.

So, mainly, I have nothing to tell you. As Gloria Steinem famously said, “To write is to write is to write is to write is to write.” If you stop reading right now and open up an empty journal, or a new screen on your computer, I’ve done my work.

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… Still here? Well, I’m still writing, so apparently I do have some small things could share. I do see certain questions coming up over and over for my students as they wander through their particular forests. Often these questions make them feel like they have taken a wrong turn, or they’re in the wrong forest, or that they don’t have permission to be in the forest at all.

Until their questions are heard and answered, they can take up a tremendous amount of space – space that could be used for making stories and poems and letters.

My hope is that by offering some thoughts of my own, I’ll help you step out of these questions and get back to your forest, with joy, permission, lightheartedness and vigor.

1. Why would anyone want to read my work, anyway? (And what if no one does?)

I hear this question all the time. Sometimes it comes from my students, and sometimes it comes from my head. In fact, I don’t know of any writers who are completely free of central doubt. I kinda hope I never do.

Here’s the deal: It’s not up to you. You simply can’t know whether your work will appeal to your Aunt Darlene or your friend Josh or a random stranger. You must let them decide. As Elizabeth Gilbert says in her essay, On Writing, “Don’t pre-reject yourself.” There are whole rooms full of people whose full time job it is to ride the waves of the publishing industry, know what’s hip, what’s selling and what’s finished. Leave it to them. You just to write.

I’ll also say that the process of writing-writing and the process of sharing-writing should happen in entirely different rooms in your brain. When you write, it’s an act of creation and chaos. The process is tender, often painful. Newly-birthed work needs to be cradled and accepted unconditionally. You are probably the only one who can do that. Think — what would your personal creative-project-birthing-room room look like? I imagine soft light and bean bag chairs. What color are the walls? What’s going on outside the window? Make sure you have that room ready.

There’s another room where you’ll take your work when you’re thinking of sharing it. This room is brighter, more analytic. In this room, you can look at what you made, tilt your head from side to side and ask questions like, “What part of this is maybe too long?” “Am I being as honest and vulnerable as I possibly can?” “How will I feel if this is in the hands of someone else?” This can also be a bit of a party room. As you’re ready, invite other people to read your work. Don’t be too attached — they may say no. If so, take it as a good sign that they have horribly busy lives and you are better off without them anyway. If they do come, be specific with them about what kind of feedback you want. Be bossy. Say thinks like this:

This is brand new, I just need you to gaze at it lovingly for a while.

I’ve spent a long time with this, but I know it can be shorter. What do you think I can cut?

I’m not convinced that this makes sense outside of my head. Can you read it and let me know what you think it’s about?

If any of these people start stinking up the room, swerve them towars the exit door. The most important thing here is your writing. Love it with all your might.

2. Should I worry about grammar?

This one is tricky, because there are two ways of looking at it. In first drafts, grammer doesn’t matter at all. Not one bit. If looking up words in the dictionary is slowing down your writing, then you should quickly throw your dictionary out the window. You’re in the creation room right now, and it’s your job to create. Let messiness reign. And rain.

When it comes time to share your work, especially if that sharing is on paper, not out loud, then grammar, I think, does matter a little bit. It’s important only in that it makes your writing clear. There is no need to be obsessive. And yes, more and more, publishers are loosening up when it comes to the official rules. But do make sense. Grammar is a tool to let your readers sink more easily into your thoughts and your ideas.

If you want to brush up, I love Grammar Girl. She has a newsletter, a website and a podcast, which I’ve spent many-the-commute listening to, through my big puffy earphones.