Words That Changed My Writing Life

For better and for worse.

When I was in my twenties and working as an assistant at a literary agency, a prominent writer once offered me a piece of advice.

“Do not, under any circumstances, become a writer,” she said. “It’s horrible. Horrible! Like having homework for the rest of your life.”

It was evening, well past dark, and I’d stayed at the office to catch up on some filing. (I’m aware this makes it sound like it was 1963. But that’s what I was doing.) When the phone rang, I shouldn’t have answered, but the concept of boundaries was waiting a few years into my future. Plus, I thought, it might be an emergency. It wasn’t.

“Imagine it!” she lamented into my ear. “Homework! That never ends.”

I stood in my boss’s empty office, receiver in hand, staring out over the expanse of 6th Avenue. In my memory, I’m slumped forward with my forehead pressed to the window (something I doubt actually happened, as pressing my face to any surface invariably results in acne and I take great care to avoid it). Memory always preserves the mood, and that was mine.

I think about this unsolicited offering at least once a week, typically when staring down a deadline. That author wasn’t wrong, at least where the homework part is concerned. But I have never, for a single day, found writing to be horrible. Hard, sometimes. Frustrating, sure. On the worst days, it’s like trying to squeeze orange juice from a stapler. But on the best, it’s like meditation and recess and therapy and Disneyland minus the long lines. It’s a treasure hunt that keeps revealing answers you didn’t know were already inside you. There’s nothing horrible about that.

Last summer, an acquaintance asked about my novel, which at the time, was nothing more than an idea and some semblance of an outline. As a rule, I don’t like discussing work in its nascent stages, because it never goes well.

When describing a project, if it’s met with a “hmm” or a “huh” that’s less than enthusiastic, it can make you doubt the entire thing. Or your audience will reply with the book or movie or whatever else it reminds them of, and whether the comparison is favorable or not, you can’t help but feel like your original brainchild has been dismissed as a derivative knockoff. Or, worst of all, you might get a statement like, “I don’t read romance” or “scary books aren’t my thing” or “that’s…interesting.”

Someone once told me a creative project is like an unhatched egg or a baby bird, and your job is to gently nurture it, shielding it from all harm, until it’s ready to fly. Then it’s safe to share with the world, but not a moment sooner.

“I’m still trying to figure it out,” I told them, searching my brain for a suitable change of subject.

She nodded. “Books are so long. They have so many words in them.” Truth. “So, once you start working on something, your love of writing gets you through to the end?”

How I wish it were this simple. Maybe it is for some people. It’s certainly not for me. “It’s not exactly love,” I shrugged. “It’s more of a compulsion.”

I can’t actually tell you why I write, nor why I became a writer. It was always there, like breathing, a natural process essential to my life. I never set out to do it, on purpose, because I didn’t believe it was a job. Instead, I did a whole bunch of other things — plus writing — until one day the writing was what I had left.

I still struggle with accepting writing as a career path. Last summer, while discussing my work with a friend, I put the word “writer” in air quotes. She gave me a withering look. “I think by now it’s okay to call yourself a writer.”

I had to concede that she was right.

Old habits die hard, old beliefs even harder.

Note that no writing is taking place on this desk.

One of my favorite ways to avoid writing is to read or listen to interviews given by successful writers. It feels like a loophole of semi-productive procrastination. It’s on topic, and if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll pick up a trade secret along the way.

I recently listened to an interview with Anna Quindlen, who shared that in her opinion, there are two types of writers: warm writers and cool writers.

“Cool writers are often very talented and hyper intellectual,” she explained. “And warm writers…are different.”

She went on to say that she is a warm writer, meaning she actively feels a connection to the reader, including when she is writing. “Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t keep on doing it.”

This idea changed my life. I wish I’d heard it earlier — like, decades earlier — before I spent years trying to twist my sentences (and my self) into that of a cool writer. Before all the personal projects I criticized and ultimately abandoned because they didn’t feel sparse or edgy or literary enough.

Cool writers win literary prizes. Their books land on buzzy lists. They are revered, the covers of their books anointed with blurbs hailing them as a “major literary talent.” (To be fair, warm writers get these things, too. Quindlen won a Pulitzer.)

Didion was a cool writer. Maybe the coolest. So is Zadie Smith. Patti Smith. Lauren Groff. Ocean Vuong. I could go on and on. And I love them all.

But when I think of the words that have meant the most, the ones that have enveloped me and refused to let go, they belong to the likes of Nora Ephron or Judy Blume. Clever, honest, thoroughly warm.

Of course, there is no one way to be, especially with something as subjective as writing. Everyone has their place. Every voice has its value.

For a while, I thought my inability to be cool could only mean I was uncool. But now I see that was patently untrue. There is a whole range of warmth out there. Or even lukewarmth (not a word, but should be), with a cool turn of phrase snuck in for good measure.

The larger truth is I am not a cool person. I don’t mean cool in the sense that I’d be picked last for dodgeball (although it would be fair, as my impulse when I see a ball is to flinch and cover my face). I’m a proudly nerdy creature of habit who delights in ordering “the usual,” who is sometimes awkward at parties, and who writes for an audience whose presence, though often unseen, is always felt.

What that prominent writer didn’t know, all those years ago, is that I actually enjoyed doing homework. (Not all homework, mind you — not math, and certainly not physics.) As it turns out, I still do.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Modest Mouse UV Tarot Deck, with art by Violet Aveline

Our culture loves a good self-help moment. Podcasts, profiles, TED talks, cover stories…everywhere you look, someone is offering up their brand of how to live differently.

But if you read enough books or listen to enough interviews — whether with artists, businesspeople, doctors, spiritual leaders, actors, policymakers, scientists — you start to notice similar themes. The same jewels of wisdom turn up over and over again, phrased and polished differently.

One maxim I’ve heard a lot lately is some version of, “If you want to experience growth, in any area of your life, you have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.” The Page of Swords leans heavily into that feeling.

Traditional depictions of this card show a young person enthusiastically brandishing a sword on a hilltop, as the wind (symbol of movement, progress, and change) swirls around them. If the Page of Swords feels discomfort, or even a shred of anticipatory anxiety, it is eclipsed by their excitement. They are ready — for battle, for adventure, for growth.

I love the interpretation in this particular deck, showing the moments just before jumping off a diving board. It’s that fleeting feeling you get before a trip, a presentation, the first day of class. You’ve done the prep work and now it’s go time. (Or maybe you haven’t. But as John Burroughs put it, leap and the net will appear.)

Swords symbolize the realm of the mind — thought, intellect, belief. We may overthink decisions, or else rationalize our actions one way or another. But this card serves to remind us that thinking alone will not change our circumstances. Action is necessary to propel us forward.

That being said, whenever I hear someone spout their version of “get comfortable with being uncomfortable,” I can’t help but want to roll my eyes. It’s human nature to seek comfort. Blankets are amazing. So are known activities and things we have a proven track record of being good at. What sane person would seek discomfort on purpose?

But the Page of Swords tells us that pushing boundaries is actually a game about comfort. The more you do it, the more experience you have. And the more you’ve experienced, the more you become comfortable with.

The discomfort, it turns out, is only temporary. And the payoff is worth it.

The proverbial diving board is scariest the first time you jump off. Eventually, it becomes fun. (For what it’s worth, I can’t swim, so this is definitely a metaphor, but you get the gist.) The more you push the boundaries of what is comfortable, the greater the potential for enjoyment.

In the days ahead, set your sights on things that pique your interest, even if they stir up feelings of discomfort. Remember that small steps count — every rung on the ladder to the diving board gets you closer to jumping. In fact, not only do they count, but they can and should be celebrated. Small steps over time create momentum. And momentum will carry you far.

The Page of Swords is ready to leap. And whether we know it or not, so are we. The next step is waiting for you. It’s up to you to take it.

---

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this letter and would like to receive future installments in your inbox every Sunday, please consider becoming a subscriber.