“I should be writing,” I said to Bob after sharing an article and then thrumming through my newsfeed. That’s when the meme scrolled onto my screen. SHOULDN’T YOU BE WRITING RIGHT NOW?

Seriously. I had just said those words to Bob. And the meme appeared.

I laughed. Then I headed for my laptop and — in compliance with Writing Rule Number One — put my seat to the seat.

Synchronicity. It’s always at play. Paying attention and catching it is the key to getting down to it. Whatever the “it” of the moment is.

I’d been longing for time to process my experience at a recent writers’ retreat. I’d been wanting to explore what had come up and onto the page in response to brief prompts over four days. I’d been wanting to sit with my impressions and listen to the echos of shared words spoken by the “Salty Girls” who formed our circle of ten. I’d been wanting to revisit the interplay of voices — that of innocence and that of experience.

Re-entry had been interesting — life’s 10,000 joys & 10,000 sorrows dancing with and around me. Much needed my attention. Deserved it. Much distracted me. Much enthralled and enchanted me. And I was not writing.

As my way in, I’m sharing this with you, dear writers and creatives. I’m sharing this reminder that came to me when I needed a boot in the butt delivered with the lightness of laughter. A spritz to the heart, you might say. A reminder in the form of a question. A simple question.

Shouldn’t you be honoring your intentions — your promises to yourself?

I leave that question with you while I pull out the journey map I made on retreat … and the notes I took … and the words I put to paper … and the images rising to meet me.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?”

— Mary Oliver

What are you waiting for? What wants to be written? What wants to be made? What waits for the right time or place or life circumstance to get your full attention? What whispers—what, indeed, screams—to be expressed?

Is it a story? A memoir? A novel? … A screenplay? A painting? A sculpture? … A garden? A quilt? A photograph? … A collaboration? A dance? A song? … A travelogue? A walk in the woods? An El Camino?

This is the beginning of Spring. It’s the astrological New Year. This liminal moment following the Equinox and full moon is the perfect time to pause. To listen deeply. To give your quiet, or not so quiet, dreams the space and breath and light they deserve. You are on the threshold. Time to blow the dust off that early draft and prepare to begin again or birth a whole new being.

The rooster crows. The morning bell rings. This is your wake-up call.

“The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you / don’t go back to sleep …”

— Rumi

When I talk about taking risks, I’m not talking about doing what daredevils do. I’m not talking about the climber who tackles the untried rock face sans safety lines and gear; or the gambler who puts everything down on his favorite number as the wheel spins; or the successful woman who sheds her worldly goods and walks away from her un-lived life. Nor am I talking about the heroes—the first responder who runs toward danger or the brave soldier who refuses to leave anyone behind.

I’m talking about the not so dramatic but nevertheless scary risks we all have to take as creatives—as artists, actors, authors, poets—every time we put our works out there for the world to see and judge. Or worse, … ignore.

And once out in the world, we still must take those risks when it’s time to shepherd our works along to a wider audience. When we have to ask for help. When we know our work is being well received and still have to ask.

Living with our hearts open, our soft spots exposed, our tender feelings vulnerable to rejection is daunting. It keeps many a creative from sharing their gifts with the waiting world. The risks involved make us feel that it would be easier to keep our imaginations in check and our stories to ourselves. But we know, underneath it all, that that’s not true.

If you’re sitting on a dream, take the risk. Then take the next. And so on until your heart swells with the joy of being your own champion, your own version of a dare devil, your own best self.

Here’s my latest risk straight from my discomfort zone: I’m asking all my readers who have enjoyed, liked, loved, or been moved by Other Wise to consider posting a review online.

A simple honest sentence or two and some stars—yes, the stars do matter—will help potential new readers find the book. It’s necessary to continue the work of book-shepherd to Margaret’s story even as I work on the second in the series. (It doesn’t matter that you didn’t buy the book from Amazon, only that you have an account. You can go there and post a review. You don’t even have to give your name.)

And then, since I’m asking, maybe you could tell two friends, or five, or …

I won’t know whether you respond or not, so do what feels comfortable. Maybe it will feel like taking a little risk. Maybe it will nudge you into sending your own gems out. Maybe it will just feel good.

[Please leave a comment (it won’t show up immediately) and let us know how you’re doing and what you think.]