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Another Wonderful Letter from Jen Pollock Michel

This week, Jen Pollack Michel sent me another letter:

“You and I both know that the writing life requires the discipline of leaving white space in our lives: time to read, time to journal, time to burrow deep into ideas and stories, time to stare out the window. Both of our lives are busy enough with family, but adding to this regular travel and speaking? I know it’s not sustainable for me. I think what I’m trying to reckon with is what you wrote about in your last letter. I need to see the confines of this garden I’m called to tend, see its boundaries from the expansive land surrounding it. The horizon is endless, but I’m not meant to be looking at the horizon, just the plot of dirt beneath my feet. That’s what I need to till and tend.”

To read it in its entirety, head HERE.

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Also…I’m hosting a FREE 20-minute writing class each day next week via Zoom helping kids (around ages 12 – 16) start to write their own story. 3/23 – 3/27, 1:30 Eastern time. You can sign up here: eepurl.com/gWLHVb

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We spoke with award-winning author Devi Laskar about writing. She had one piece of advice that really struck home.

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Dad, I Love This Day

All eight of us plus Mimi Silva.

Ten years and five months ago, Maile and I made the biggest move of our lives. I’ve talked about it before, but due to various financial situations and the strange coming together of uncontrollable forces, we had to move from a place we loved back to where I grew up (which was also a place I loved but wasn’t planning on returning to at that point). I didn’t have a job and we had four children and we moved into my parents’ basement. It was a hard time.

The hardest part of that whole show wasn’t living in my parents’ basement–it was rather cozy, kind of like a hobbit hole. And the hardest part wasn’t starting over again at 34, although that was tough. The hardest part wasn’t even the $60,000 in debt or getting through that first Christmas or scrapping for various part-time jobs or selling as much as we could.

The hardest part was the unknown.

We just didn’t know what was going to happen next. Would I ever get a job? Would writing projects come in? Would we ever be able to get our own place? How long until I figured it out?

Every day, every hour, every stinking minute, I had to grab control of my brain and bring it back into the present.

Do what you can now.

Focus on this moment.

Live in the present.

The only way I could keep from spiraling into a really dark place was by simply enjoying whatever it was I was doing in the moment: playing Candy Land with the kids or reading a book or working on a story or taking a walk with Maile. The future had too many variables, each of which felt way out of my control.

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I’m not saying we shouldn’t be thinking ahead or trying to plan or make arrangements for what we’re going to do when this virus thing passes. But I am saying that it’s not helpful to permanently set up emotional camp in the future, to try dealing with all possible scenarios, to worry and worry and worry about how long this thing is going to last or what if that happens or how in the dickens are we going to get through this without losing our minds.

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Leo calls for me from the bathroom. He needs me to wipe his butt. This is one of the parts of parenting we don’t talk about very much. Or at all. And mostly I think we should probably keep it that way–the less talk of wiping kids’ butts, the better, as far as I’m concerned.

Except for after I helped him out and he washed his hands and we were leaving the bathroom, he looked up at me and said, in his most sincere voice, “Dad, I love this day.”

Why would he say that?

Why wouldn’t he say that? We have plenty of food. He’s getting to spend time with the whole family, as much time as he wants. We go to the park. We play more games than usual. We’re eating dinner together every single night. He has his own personal butt-wiper.

I love this day.

This day. This day of uncertainty and viruses and plunging markets and economic shadows and elections and books to sell and all of that.

I love this day.

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The weeks ahead can look long and uncertain. They might be long. Who knows. There are those among us for whom this sickness poses a significant threat, and that cannot be diminished, not if we’re going to love our neighbors as ourselves, not if we’re going to take care of each other.

But Leo’s words have been sticking in my head.

Dad, I love this day.

Those words open my eyes to the goodness of this day. And they also open my eyes and my heart to wanting to make this day good for those around me, for my neighbors, for my friends, for all of us isolated in our little spheres, dealing with our own emotions and problems and fears and uncertainties.

Let’s be there for each other.

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When we were preparing to move north ten years and six months ago, Maile heard God’s voice in a way she never had before. It was like this pulsating thought in her mind, so strong she is certain it did not come from her own being. And in that moment God said…

“Maile, this is a gift.”

A gift.

“Well,” she replied, before rolling over and going back to sleep. “It’s a pretty shitty gift.”

But without that incredibly hard time, we wouldn’t have experienced much of the amazing things we’ve experienced in the last ten years, things I wouldn’t trade for anything. Would we have had our final two kids without going through that? Would I have written any of my books or met any of these amazing writing friends?

Ever since then, when hard times come, I wonder.

Could it be possible that this is a gift?

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Dad, I love this day.

Check out our latest podcast episode, this one with award-winning author Devi Laskar. Her main message? Don’t quit. Keep going. You can listen HERE.

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Some Thoughts On Not Quitting: An Interview With Devi Laskar

Today we talk with Devi Laskar, the award-winning author of the fabulous book, The Atlas of Reds and Blues. We discuss the importance of teachers in forming our literary interest, and Devi shares her long and difficult (and ultimately extremely encouraging) journey into publishing which included losing a manuscript.

Devi gives some of the most practical creative advice anyone has given on the podcast. If you feel like giving up, or if you want to be encouraged in your creative pursuits, you don’t want to miss this one.

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As always, there are a few ways to listen: click the play button in the image above, go to the webpage to hear this and all of our other episodes, or head on over to Apple podcasts or Spotify!

Those in our Patreon community receive occasional bonus material and have the opportunity to join in conversations about writing and creativity. This month’s book is The War of Art. You can join our Patreon community at the $5 / month level HERE.

Finally, please leave a review wherever you listen! Reviews are so helpful.

Keep writing!

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The Time that is Given Us

This morning I’m sitting at our dining room table amazed at how quickly life can change. Not even two weeks ago I was in Nashville, giving away ARCs of These Nameless Things, hanging with friends, having the ashes placed on my forehead and, eyes closed, listening to the priest say those words that suddenly have even deeper meaning:

From dust you have been made, and to dust you shall return.

Now we sit quietly in our house. Poppy and Leo bury Playmobil characters in kinetic sand. Sam sits at the end of the table, reading. Cade and Lucy and Abra are still sleeping. Maile returns later this evening from a solo writer’s retreat she’s been on for three days at The Black Barn, working hard on her middle grade novels. I imagine we won’t be leaving the house much for at least the next two weeks—school has been canceled, church services suspended. But we have plenty of food, and I can work from home. Only two of the eight of us have suffered from asthma in the past, so we are mostly low-risk. We are so, so blessed.

I spoke with a friend yesterday who works for a company in the travel industry. It was his responsibility to call 75 drivers and let them know that their business has declined 95%. He was tasked with talking with these drivers and determining who needed work the most. Many of them graciously bowed out, saying they could get by without the work, insisting he give any remaining drives to those who needed the work the most. Others said they live week to week. They’re not sure what they’ll do without the work.

In these times of great uncertainty, there will be opportunities for us to exhibit great kindness. For some of us, this might only mean staying home as much as possible so as not to aid the spread of the virus. For others of us, business owners, it might mean being generous in a way that hurts our pocketbooks. For still others, it might mean being merciful when collecting what is due to us. Or sharing our paper towels. Or checking in on a friend with a quick text message or FaceTime call.

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

So, today we will sit down together while Lucy plays some music on her guitar. I’ll encourage the kids to write at least a page in their journal. We’ll mark time playing video games and card games and fighting over silly things. I’ll try not to watch the news too much.

In many ways, this is a different world from the one we were living in a week ago, a month ago. But in other ways, it is not so different—we are still all called to think of others before ourselves, to practice mercy and kindness and grace, to replace the toilet paper roll if we use the last of it.

I love you all. Be safe. Be kind.

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Postmarked: Dear Jen (30)

Dear Jen

Just when I thought the mornings were getting lighter, the time changed, and now all of us here in the Smucker household are meandering around through dark breakfasts again. But despite the darkness, I can tell the seasons are changing. The buds are forming on the trees, the grass is recapturing a kind of hopeful, almost-green hue, and the sunlight lingers in the early evening. My quarterly reminder is here: things will always change, good and bad will come and go, and even the darkest seasons eventually give way to light, even if its soft and can barely be seen above the city skyline.

I’m glad to hear you are on track to finish your next book as planned, although I do have to admit, I felt both a small cringe as well as a sense of awe when you described the process you’ve been through: “I studied 41 chapters in the Bible, read 3,055 pages of commentary, wrote 190 handwritten pages of notes, composed 27000 words in outline, drafted 64,000 for the manuscript.” The cringe comes from my resistance to research. The awe comes from how thorough you are, how dedicated to your craft and the message of your book. Well done, and keep going.

For some reason, thinking of you doing this work reminded me again of the phrase I was handed over a year ago: “Tend to your own garden.” When I envision all of that work you’ve done—the research, the reading, the study, the writing—it brings to mind the image of someone casting seed out over a patch of tilled earth, working diligently in that space, caring for each square foot of the soil. Never mind the expansive farms that border this garden, the ones that stretch on for miles with their complex machinery and ever-droning harvesters. Never mind the ones that seem to be growing more exotic things than the gardens we have been given to look after.

Tend to my own garden. Again and again I come back to this.

Isn’t tending our own gardens the very thing that leads to stories like the one you told in your last letter, where someone gave you a card to let you know how your writing has mattered to her? When we tend our own gardens, when we stop jealously eyeing the fields of others, it gives us the freedom to do the work we have been called to do. And what good work it can be. What good work it is.

And when we tend our own garden, as you mentioned, this “making” does its good work in us. Maybe that is what lies at the end of this writing journey we’re on—not necessarily best-sellers (though it would be nice), or critical acclaim, or awards, but a thorough and complete remaking of ourselves. Can anything till up the inner self like writing? Can anything better use the compost of life than these small literary gardens we’re looking after?

This novel is still a heavy slog, but as one writer said, “Hard writing makes easy reading.” How I hope that will be the case with this one.

Warm Regards

Shawn

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What began as a Twitter conversation between two writers on creative work and family life has become an exchange of letters. Here is where Postmarked began:

Postmarked: Dear Shawn (1)

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In the most recent episode of The Stories Between Us, I make a confession, Maile talks about depression and creativity, and we dig into the weighty topic of revision. You can listen HERE.

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Rethinking Success in the Creative Life: Why Write?

The table is set, and the late-winter night settles on the city. The candles dance, smooth in their movements. The air smells of baked Brie and the wine is uncorked.

There is a knock, and kind faces peer through the glass. I go to the front door, open it, and friends spill in along with the cold. Hugs and smiles and laughter. I’ll take your coat. What can I get you to drink? What have you been reading? Our conversations quickly veer towards books and words and the things that have moved us.

We sit at the table long into the night, our glasses empty. Must nights like this end?

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I wander the cold streets of Nashville, fresh from the Ash Wednesday service at an Episcopal church. The night is freezing cold, and the wind whips its way around corners, through alleys, up against buildings. I pull up the hood of my winter coat, my eyes watering. I turn a corner and walk downhill, slip into a hotel, and make my way to the bar.

There, friends. There, a warm drink. There, we wonder about the nature of things, the presence and absence of God, the strange ways we were all brought up to think about things. We move from the bar to a table. I take them in.

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I have spent meaningful time with well over twenty wonderful writers in the last two months. Maile and I met up with some friends in Kentucky for a long weekend. Not long after that, I traveled to Tennessee and caught up with a few more friends there. The following weekend, we invited friends over for dinner–writers and small publishing house owners and a couple of my favorite booksellers. These times with creative people were meaningful, saturated with a desire for hope and beauty to find their way to the forefront of our culture.

As I think back on the last few weeks, I am made aware of the fact that each of the writers I’ve talked to and hung out with recently have two things in common.

First of all, every single one of them writes beautifully. Their stories are stunning, their nonfiction work moving. They are very good at what they do, accomplished, and dedicated to the craft.

Second, few of us are able to make a living strictly from these artistic endeavors. Most of us do other things to help pay the bills.

Doesn’t this beg a question? Or two? Or three?

Such as, what does it look like to be successful as a creative person?

Such as, what are my goals?

Such as, why write?

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Instead of following those questions too far down their respective rabbit trails, today I’m thinking of all you writers out there, toiling away in obscurity. Writing your hearts out. Revising. Looking for agents and publishers. Independently publishing and marketing your work.

This is good work that we do.

Making money while doing something does not inherently prove or disprove its worth.

Not making money while doing something does not inherently prove a thing to be with or without value.

Why write? Here’s how some authors have answered that question:

“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself…It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” – Harper Lee

“Writing eases my suffering . . . writing is my way of reaffirming my own existence.” – Gao Xingjian

“I believe there is hope for us all, even amid the suffering – and maybe even inside the suffering. And that’s why I write fiction, probably. It’s my attempt to keep that fragile strand of radical hope, to build a fire in the darkness.” – John Green

“I just knew there were stories I wanted to tell.” – Octavia E. Butler

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There is a table that is set for you, writer, no matter why you write, no matter how much money you make, no matter the size of your audience. And all you must do to be welcome at the table, to join in with the banter and the conversation and the laughter and the sadness of all the writers in the world, and all the writers who have ever been, is to pick up your pen, or open your laptop, and write.

Simply write.

In our most recent podcast episode, I make a confession, Maile talks about depression and writing, and we explore the ways and means of revising. You can listen HERE.

If you’re interested in receiving an ARC of my upcoming novel, These Nameless Things, find out how to win a copy HERE.