“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.]

 

 

All who follow the Armand Gamache series by Canadian author, Louise Penny, know that Louise’s husband died in the Fall of 2016. Michael had been the inspiration for Armand Gamache as well as her devoted partner and supporter — her great love. After his death, Louise told her agents and publishers she was taking a year off but believed in her heart that the multi-book series had come to an end. She could not write about Gamache again.

She begins the acknowledgments page of Kingdom of the Blind (released in November, 2018), as follows:

   “A funny thing happened on my way to not writing this book. / I started writing.”

She then explains how, a few months after her decision, she found herself sitting at her pine writing table with her laptop open:

     “And I wrote two words: Armand Gamache
     Then the next day I wrote: slowed his car to a crawl
     And the next day: then stopped on the snow-covered secondary road.”

I love the way she told this part of her story.

I now find myself stuck as I write my second in the series which began with Other Wise. I’m slogging through and know that a lot of what I’ve written so far will end up in a file of failed attempts. Following a wonderful flurry of readings, sales, and book group discussions for Other Wise, I’m in a brief lull. And some life events around me have me looking down the slippery slope that leads to overwhelm and depression.

So I look to Louise. And to Anne Lamott. And to Rumi. And to all the wise teachers who sit on my desk, their colorful spines a standing array of encouragement.

And so I trust story as a way through. Louise’s story. Armand’s story. My story. Margaret’s story. And I honor the notion of the shitty first draft. And I welcome each new arrival to this guest house of being human — “even if they are a crowd of sorrows.” And even if they aren’t here to clear me out for “some new delight.”

And I start writing. Taking it word by word.