Coming Out . . .

Okay, I’m coming out.

     I know that may seem odd to some of you who know me (and have known that I was formerly in a committed relationship with a man for fourteen years), but it’s not that kind of coming out. I’m coming out . . . about my writing. Or, more to the point, the fact that I don’t. And as I write that last line, my hands are trembling, my mouth is drying out and I’m wondering what the “f” I’m doing telling you this. But I have to get this off my chest because I’m struggling with the same thing a lot of you struggle with.

     I have never been a writer of routine: you know, once a day, five days a week. Or, three times a week, four hours a day. Or  . . .  well, any kind of routine, really. I’ve written when inspired to write. And if that meant seven days a week, five hours a day for months, or a long weekend of sunrise to sunset writing, then so be it. But even that’s fallen off. I don’t even do that. In fact, I struggle to write anything at any time.

     And here’s what’s fucked up. I love writing. I love creating stories. I love the whole process of doing it. I love ‘effin’ rewrites! The struggle to stay honest keeps me motivated. My resistance to structure keeps me focused. My genuine desire to create honest, true characters that resonate deep within the psychological core of my audience thrills me and stirs me to push harder, think clearer, reach higher. And when I do write, and write well, I’m usually produced and to a positive response.

     So what’s my problem?!

     I’m going out on a limb here, but I don’t think I’ve made writing vital to my livelihood. I don’t see it as something that is necessary to my emotional well-being. Of course, I’ll go to the gym four times a week (when I’m in a good way), but won’t sit for an hour at my computer. I’ll not eat an ‘effin’ french-fry because of my cholesterol, or not eat a bagel because of the carb count, but I will have to negotiate, argue and ultimately force myself for hours to write, “Lights up…” And when I do, I feel sooooo much better.

     As I was watching the ball in

Times Square

take it’s 30-second decent into 2009, I quickly grabbed a pencil and thought of the year ahead. This is what I wrote: “Live well. Lise wisely. Live with laughter. Live with love. Live with art.” For me to be really healthy on so many levels, I better heed my subconscious.

     Please, please. When you see me out, ask me: “How’s your writing?” And make me tell you the truth.

[ed. note: This was originally published in The Loop.]