“Happy is the heart of him who writes; he is young each day.” Ptahotpe, c. 2350 B.C.

When we were young, the world was full of possibilities. We could be anything we wanted, believe in anything (Santa Claus, E.T., magic) we could imagine and play “let’s pretend” to our heart’s content.

But, as we traveled through adolescence into adulthood, reality came in with a thunk and we were told to be practical, realistic and get our heads out of the clouds. And for the most part, we writers, like the rest of the world, did so.

But there is always a part of us that stays childlike, who believes that the pen or keyboard has some magical powers. It must, because, after all, look at what comes out of it: stories about people who don’t really exist, facts gleaned from research that have changed the world, truth buried under mountains of lies.

And each time we wield that “magic wand,” we travel back to childhood, returning to a place where we believe anything is possible. And that sense of belief rejuvenates our jaded spirit and makes us young again.

Have you had the experience of “going back in time” when you write? Has it made you feel that anything is possible?

“I write … For the joy and exultation of writing itself.” Edward Abbey

I love to write—oh, how I love to write!

I’m not crazy about the editing stage, at times, research can be tedious and as for the selling process, well, “frustrating” is the word that springs to mind.

But I love writing. I do it just because—even when what I write has no intended audience other than myself. I do it like Yellowstone’s Old Faithful, erupting when the pressures of my thoughts can no longer be contained within my mind.

Writing is fun, self-satisfying, my excuse for not holding down a “real job,” my raison d’etre.

What about you? What is writing for you?

“So why do I write…? Because in spite of myself I’ve learned some things.”—Ralph Ellison

Sometimes, what we learn from writing isn’t what we hoped to discover but what we needed to discover.

This can be most apparent when we journal. We start out unloading our anger and fear, blaming our disappointment or setbacks on someone or something outside ourselves, but then, as our hand continues to move across the page, we uncover the truth of the matter: that perhaps we had some part in the outcome, either through a conscious act or an unwillingness to make a change.

Somehow, when we start writing, all the lies we told ourselves, all the deceptions and mistaken beliefs that we held up as a shield, are challenged. We can do it in prose or poetry, in fiction or non-fiction, in a piece meant for public consumption or in a private diary.

It doesn’t matter how and where it is presented. What matters is that we approach the act of writing as an exercise in honesty, keeping ourselves open to find the truth.

“I am writing this book to please myself…to clarify something in my own mind.” James Truslow Adams

While the finished writing product is a “going out”—we share it with the world—the act of writing is a “going in.”

We delve into our hearts and minds and souls, trying to understand the thought or concept from every angle. We look for validation of our own beliefs yet are (hopefully) open to re-evaluating them if what we uncover challenges them.

If we do our job well, we come away from the process with a better understanding not only of the subject matter but of ourselves: how we felt and thought, where we were on track and where we were sadly mistaken.

Writing and wisdom go hand-in-hand, unless we write blindfoldeded, refusing to see and hear and learn.

What did you discover about yourself while writing?

“The great advantage of being a writer is that you can spy on people … Everything is useful to a writer…” Graham Greene

Writing can grant us an immunity from what would normally be thought of as “bad behavior.”

• Eavesdropping is considered rude, unless you’re a writer, in which case it’s called “research.”
• Asking personal questions is inappropriate, unless you’re a writer, in which case it’s called “interviewing.”
• And telling the world about traumatic family experiences is referred to as “hanging out dirty laundry,” unless you’re a writer, in which case it’s called an inspirational story.

The bottom line? Being a writer allows us to do or say what non-writers wish they could. It’s like a undated hall pass, allowing us to go when and where we like, all in the name of writing.

What freedoms has being a writer given to you?

“I don’t believe I’ve had more than two hours a day to myself…I am a cauldron of seething frustration…”—Michele Murray

When my children were little, I used to get up at 4 AM to write my copy for the newspaper before they awoke and required my full attention.

Years later, when I would visit my parents for a week or two, I used to keep the same schedule, so my writing would be finished before my mother came downstairs and asked if I was going to work all day.

And during those years when my full-time work was in a field unrelated to writing, I would have those frustrating moments when whole sections of writing would pop into my head but never make it to the paper because I had other work to do.

Even now, living alone, I don’t have 100 percent control over my time. Deadlines and marketing work, household tasks and family obligations find their way onto my to-do list, leaving me with just a few stray hours here and there for the kind of writing I want to do.

It’s a balancing act. I'm walking a tightrope from one obligation to the other, trying to keep my frustration under control. It’s not that I don’t want to do all those other tasks or respond to those other needs. It’s that I have this nagging feeling that my time is limited, my opportunities far from boundless—and if I don’t do it now, I run the risk of never doing it.

“I get more and more impatient with bothering about things.”—May Sarton

When I give talks about being a home-based entrepreneur, I’m often asked if I get distracted by the household tasks: the yardwork and garden, the laundry and shopping, the little things (vacuuming) and big things (tearing up carpeting) that are part-and-parcel of owning a home.

Most of the time, I can keep these distractions under control and on a schedule, working them in during those times when my creative juices have dried up.

But sometimes I find myself in the aggravating position of trying to accomplish two distinct tasks simultaneously: writing my book while harvesting peppers or finishing an article while painting the office.

It’s not that I don’t know how to prioritize. It’s that sometimes, two tasks occupy the same level on my to-do list, jostling each other like two kids vying for the front seat in a car. No matter which one I choose, the other one cries out for attention.

This is when, as my friend Lee says, I just have to “suck it up” and accept that there is no happy resolution. I need to close my eyes, pick a project and do it and then, when it’s completed, work on the other one.

I can’t be in two places at one time or be two different people. I can only do what I can do to the best of my ability and energy.