It’s been weird lately, thinking about these letters that I write to you, because I haven’t had anything new or exciting or revelatory to share. In fact, as I sat down for dinner with friends last week, I remember furiously wracking my brain for something — anything — to say in response to the inevitable, “So… what’s new?”
Nothing is new, and yet everything is new, because life is one big giant paradox. That’s not the answer I gave, though — instead, I meekly shrugged and said, “Not a whole lot. Just… writing.”
Which is true. For the first time in my life, I have been writing consistently, habitually, every day. Every day I wake up, feed the cats, make coffee, and sit down at the dining room table with my Girl In Space manuscript binder. I handwrite at least two or three pages. I set myself up for the next morning’s writing session, by scribbling myself a little note or leaving myself on a cliffhanger.
Then I take a shower and move on to my other work — responding to emails, preparing for an upcoming talk, hopping on a conference call, etc. After lunch I run errands, and try to do a workout, tackle any house stuff that needs to be done. Then it’s dinner time and, depending on my energy, I’ll either write a little bit more afterward or go into relaxing mode. I do this same thing every single day.
It’s balanced, rote, and extremely dull. At least, it seems dull to an outsider. And in a way, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? We set up habits (something I was always extremely resistant to) to remove the extra work and streamline the friction and drama and resistance we face when sitting down to start writing. My habit makes it automatic (if not easy) to just sit down and do the work every single day.
I’m making unprecedented progress on my creative projects, and it makes me feel amazing and fulfilled in the deepest depths of my heart. But it makes me really dull at parties. Which, honestly, is an exchange I’m happy to make.