Twenty writers were crammed into the little café. There were no more chairs left. We sat huddled together in a bumpy, uneven circle, straining to hear each over the sound of shifting bodies. I occupied a seat in the corner, where I could see everyone, and watch for latecomers. Months earlier, I’d put up a lavender flyer, advertising a salon (discussion group) for writers living in my area. My motivation was to gather some local writers together for coffee and conversation. I’d started and run other groups before, but nothing like this. I didn’t know what to expect.

The smell of cappuccino and dark chocolate filled the air. People sipped their coffee and nibbled their desserts and looked at me expectantly. They’d all given up a Sunday afternoon to be here. I wasn’t worried. I’d come prepared with a topic for discussion. But first I said wanted to hear from them, why they’d come, what kind of writing they did etc.

Several people shared and then, Kathy, a soft-spoken woman to my left spoke up. Smiling shyly, she said, “My novel just got published.”

The room turned silent and all eyes turned to her. She had uttered the magic words all writers long to say. Before our eyes she’d transformed from an ordinary person into someone extraordinary—a published novelist. We saw her as a survivor, as someone who’d crossed over the river of impossibility, weathered the storms of rejection, and reached the summit of success—she was a writer with a story to tell.

Kathy’s story is a story of persistence. Her first attempt at selling novel not only resulted in rejections from a couple dozen publishers, but also being dumped by the agent representing her. Discouraged, she put the book in a drawer, and forgot about it for awhile. Most writers in that situation would have either given up writing altogether or begun another book.

Kathy didn’t do that, and that is what makes her story so important. She still believed in the story she’d written, so she decided to take a good, hard look at the rejection letters she’d received from the publishers. Studying them, she learned that her book was too long and that she needed to put more emphasis on the plot.

Next comes the painful part. Kathy rewrote the book from beginning to end, resulting in a book hundreds of pages shorter than her first one. She narrowed her focus as well to the relationship between her main characters. She found another agent, and working with this agent on further revisions, she found herself with a solid offer from not one, but two publishers.

After she finished, I looked around the room. People’s faces were radiant with inspiration and excitement. We’d all been transported into the realm of possibility. I’d never felt such energy pass through a room before.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with talk of writing, and plans to meet again the following month. It was a Sunday afternoon well spent, with writers who discovered that success can be found as close as your neighborhood café.

I recently read that when Marlon Brando was asked why he didn’t memorize his lines, he replied, “Real people don’t know what they want to say.” I relate to this because when I teach or give a presentation, it flows much better and more authentically when I don’t prepare beforehand. I can reflect on what I might like to do and have a few triggers or props handy, but the REAL stuff emerges when I get out the way completely and just let what wants to come through flow unimpeded. Amazingly, I end up learning a hell of a lot as well…it’s as if I tap into an infinite, universal well of knowledge and I become a conduit for a greater source of knowledge than I would have if I’d spent time efforting at it through research, creating outlines, and writing copious notes.

After 18 years of teaching, I only discovered this recently when I began to teach teenagers. Knowing I needed to make my classes more dynamic and exciting to capture and sustain their attention, I accidentally stumbled upon a core truth at the heart of all creativity: THE LESS I TRIED to teach them or inspire them, the more I actually did and THE MORE I TRIED, the more I failed. The REAL juicy passionate fun stuff happens through you when YOU get out of the way. As soon as you put the “I” into the equation and you try and manipulate or control the outcome, your efforts flatline and the passion gets sucked dry.

My presumption that we are not the doer was confirmed by a recent conversation I had with an engineer. The engineer explained that the perception of ourselves as the doer and the originator of an idea was actually caused by a split second delay in the left side of our brain, the part that perceives the “I”. He agreed that when the “I” tries to do anything, it messes things up.

I shared this conversation in an email to my brother in-law, an artist, and he responded by describing his experience when he paints, “When I go into a painting, you might say that I intend to be spontaneous once that the brush has its first dip into the paint. When the painting is going well (here I begin to sound like Jackson Pollack) “I” have no idea of how it will go or come out. The more I try to intervene, the worse the result in the long run and “I” recognize it as a failure or simply as a bad result (since I’m an old hand at this). But then, I always hear the voice of Carl Sublett, one of my favorite professors, who said. “We never LOSE a painting,” which means that your spontaneity can have freedom after you re-evaluate the painting and align yourself again with your original intention. You “repaint” the painting. In other words, it seems like intention is a program of the ego and spontaneity is when one releases oneself to that “cosmic intelligence” or “great spirit”. When the two are one, then you’re on a roll.”

Releasing oneself to that cosmic intelligence or getting out of the way creates the space for magic to happen. Life becomes more of a dance that way with us as both the participant and the observer.

If you really knew that the part of you that you refer to as the “I” was really a perceptual trick and actually wasn’t deciding or controlling anything, imagine the freedom that would come from that! Imagine truly knowing that you could trust what is happening as it’s happening rather than feeling the need to control it or change it! You would be free to just experience it, to be in it without an agenda.

This of course, would not mean you would become completely passive or catatonic. Instead, you would simply shift from directing things to following where you were directed to go. The cool thing is that there is no one exactly like you, so what comes through you is a specific set of experiences that can only manifest through your particular form with all of its unique characteristics.

Ultimately, what this all means is that you would remember that you are not the “I”, but the life force and awareness behind the “I”. The “I” is merely there as a tool to use to gain experience. Where we get tripped up is thinking it’s who we are.

I used to think these peak experiences, spontaneity and the feeling of being in the flow was something random that just happened here and there. Now I see that this as the natural state of our being, and the best indication that we have finally gotten out of our own way.

Let’s face it. Life is quite simple when you really look at it. We all want the same thing: to love and be loved. Period. Beyond that I would add that we all want to be seen and heard and appreciated. We all want to feel connected and to feel meaning in those connections. Plus, being touched regularly is nice. Add to that some creative expression and you have a pretty rich life.

At the core of life is our communication with each other. What we say and don’t say. The messages we send out with our eyes, our expressions, our body language.

We crave connection. It is our life blood. Restrict that connection, and our being begins to wilt and wither, like a plant without sunlight.

Love needs to flow. In its pure unconditional state, it is expansive and inclusive. It continues to grow and build on itself. And to do that it must be expressed freely.

Love is abundant. It is everywhere. It is we who limit it with our conditions and possessiveness and definitions and boundaries. We cling to it out of fear of losing what we have or not getting what we want. We treat it as though it is a scarce commodity that will run out and dry up.

Communication is love’s channel. Listening and receiving and letting someone truly express who they are and be heard is a great gift, yet it is so rarely given. Like a delicious meal, conversation is meant to be lingered over, not rushed through.

You can discover hidden territories when you slow down enough to really speak and really listen. New ideas are born. Wisdom is revealed and shared. Wounds are healed.

Talking, when done for its own sake with grace, is a subtle, yet beautiful art, often neglected. Consciousness has been shifted by those who understand this art, and who know first how to listen and then how to speak.

Speaking up can be the most radical of actions. It can stir people up, inspire them and get them moving.

Silence is just as powerful.

Our voice and our words are incredible tools once we remember how to use them. Most of us hold back. We censor ourselves mercilessly, depriving others AND ourselves our deepest interiors, preferring instead to skim along the surface of life. No wonder we’re hungry with longing.

I propose the following: Listen harder and longer. Engage. Immerse yourself in another’s ideas and being. Really be there. Speak using your whole voice. Don’t hold back. Expose yourself. Be bold and brave. Whatever you do, bring something to the table. Make it worthwhile for the person(s) listening to you.

Broaden your circle. Don’t talk to the same people all the time. Seek out new people. In fact, make it a point to meet someone new every week or even every few days.

I guarantee you if you’re willing to expand your circle and go deep with people and really engage with them, that your consciousness and your life will begin to shift in miraculous ways. New opportunities will start to emerge that may even take you in a whole new direction.

And that is just the beginning; many great ideas have been born out of a single conversation.

Procrastination is an insidious disease. We can become stuck in the thick mud of inertia, unable to move forward for days, weeks, months, and sometimes even years. Projects lay collecting dust, abandoned and neglected, lifeless and without hope. We can see them everyday without even acknowledging them, until finally we don’t remember why we ever felt excited about those things. We become disconnected from our passion, because it’s easier; life is less complicated that way, we tell ourselves. Passion is messy and it stirs up too many feelings. I’m just fine the way I am, thank you very much.

But the truth is we’re not fine. Not at all. Because an essential part of who we are has been locked away. Our pilot light is a mere flicker of what it once was. We’re operating at a diminished capacity and don’t even realize it until something jars us awake, a song, a play, a movie, a painting, a poem or some powerful trauma occurs and helps us to regain our sight. We’ve joined the living dead and coming back to life can be quite a shock, especially when we realize what we’ve been missing, how much we’ve given up. Comfort has replaced passion. It is much easier to meet our obligations and then, once met, put our attention on relaxing and forgetting about those obligations. An unending circle of monotony lulls us into a zoned out place where we are simply existing and not living.

There’s a big gap between surviving and thriving. Many of us, once past the fear of surviving, get stuck there on a kind of plateau; tired from the exertion required to deal with the wolves at the door, we want to rest awhile and enjoy the fruits of our labors. The illusion of security, at not having to struggle to survive, makes us complacent and we resist the challenge of working toward the next level.

Survival makes you sharp; it gives you an edge and keeps you awake to opportunity. Take that away and the energy kicks down a few notches, the engine idles instead of revs, life becomes a slow burn. We try and minimize the ups and downs, by minimizing the risks, lest we upset the comfort level we’ve worked so hard to achieve.

Moving around the obstacles of distraction in order to get to the real stuff takes tremendous focus. Our minds jump around randomly landing on idea after idea, magnetically pulling us this way and that. We have to repel that magnetic pull with an energy that is even stronger. So often it is much easier to simply give in to the whims of our minds. Leading takes strength and motivation. Following only takes surrender. Surrender is a good thing, but shouldn’t be done unconsciously. Following the random thoughts our minds spit out to wherever they lead, results in a life of chaos and a deep sense of unrest.

To move to the next level creatively, we need to get in touch with our passion; we need to fall in love again with our dreams. Love will move us forward with far less effort than discipline alone. We don’t want to feel that it is all work. If we’re not enjoying the process, then we shouldn’t be doing it. Repetition, habit, commitment are necessary to build strength and momentum toward our dreams. The process is heart of it. The feeling of accomplishment is its own reward, but that will pass and we must begin the work again. The work itself has to be its own reward or there is the danger of being seduced by the trappings of success, which when you look at it, is simply another plateau of escape in which you run the risk of drifting away again.

Then there are our inner demons, whose sole job is to fill us with self-doubt and make us ask questions like, “Who am I to think I have anything worthwhile to say?” or “What difference does it make if I do this or not?” or “This is no good.” or “I don’t have time.” or “Nobody gives a shit.” There’s nothing worse than allowing these demons get the upper hand. You’ve got to shut them out and disarm them by acknowledging them and doing your stuff anyway.

Great things have been accomplished in spite of these creepy, dark parasites lurking in the shadows of our psyches. Teach them to heel and they will get out of your way. Just don’t ever let them get the upper hand or they’ll knock you out of the ring for days. Sometimes you can outsmart them by indulging them completely. If you’re having a particularly bad day, quit, give up, say you’re never writing another word, painting another stroke or playing another note. Go to bed, watch television, play computer games, but don’t do anything creative. Protest, sulk, complain. The next day, you’ll be surprised to discover that after a day of complete rebellion, you can get up with enough energy to complete a mountain of work.

The demons of self-doubt need to be dealt with just as you would children or pets. Set limitations and boundaries and keep them in their place. Denying they exist will only make them stronger. Face them and let them know that you know they want your attention, but you are busy now and have to put your attention elsewhere.

What about beautiful days, outings with friends, and other seductive attractions? How do we handle those? With discretion. We need to meet our commitment first, then we can play. Our lives should be balanced enough to accommodate a healthy mix of work and pleasure. There are always exceptions, of course. But beware of the tendency to make too many exceptions and sabotage your progress. Then, you’ll be right back where you started.

A bit of a razor’s edge, to be sure.

Writing is food for my soul, the creative flow that connects me with the brilliant mosaic of life. It’s how I make sense of the chaos, put order into the messiness of life, and channel the boundless reams of energy stored up inside my brain.

Writing is a download from the universal computer. I was born to listen to the thoughts and ideas running through my head. Gifts, they are, presented to me at random, in the hope that I will take them and mold them into something unique, a new perspective or grouping of words, that makes a brief, but hopefully strong connection with the reader.

Most days, my daily life of work and parenting squeezes me dry. However that doesn’t stop me. In fact, I write all the time.

In my head.

While walking or driving or standing in line, ideas for essays, book titles, and screenplays run through my head like a ticker tape. I’ll hear entire paragraphs recited in a steady stream, at least, that is until I get distracted by physical reality, such as having to cross a busy street or place an order for lunch. It’s amazing to me sometimes how much stuff is going on in the background of my life.

Usually, I’m successful at holding this background hyperactivity at bay. It tends to quiet down when it doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell I’ll pay any attention or if I’m in the middle of a family crisis or I’m sick. At those times, it fades into a subtle whisper. However, as soon as I open the gate a little and take a peek, it roars into my life again, bold and dramatic. If I even steal little bits of time to write, my writer brain gets excited like a dog waiting to be taken for a walk, and it begins to throw ideas my way, hoping I’ll catch them.

When I open the door to my writing self, like a child, it wants to stay out and play. It is very self-centered, and wants lots of undivided attention, something I’m often in short supply of. Just as I get settled in and comfortably into a rhythm, something in my “real” life interrupts me, taking me away from my writing for long periods of time, making me lose track of what I was doing in the first place.

When I don’t write for an extended time, the frustration builds as illustrated by this little rant:

My dreams seem to be passing me by, a slow train filled with passengers who know where they’re headed, are happy to be together, and confident they will arrive on time. I stand on the edge of tracks wondering how I missed the connection. Air hits me in gusts as car after car whizzes past, the people inside unaware of me except as part of the scenery, because where they are going is important. In fact, they are stuffed to overflowing with their own self-absorption, which is why, I suppose, I cannot join them. My thoughts have been captured by the needs of others; I’ve willingly allowed myself to be taken prisoner by them, surrendering without a fuss, protesting only occasionally when the whim strikes me.

My house is too crowded, there is no place for my Muse to relax or settle in. She simply stops by once in a great while, knocks on the door, peeks in, shakes her head at the mess, and tells me she’ll come back another time.

Returning to the writing again takes discipline, though not because I have writer’s block. Far from it. For me, it is because I know the floodgates in my brain will open up, and I won’t be able to catch the ideas fast enough to make use of them. My writer brain is a leaky dike that I try to fix by jamming the holes with my neglect and refusal to play.

But I don’t ever really quit. I can’t. I need that part of myself as much as it needs me. I’m just learning to juggle stolen time better.

It truly is the journey, and not the destination that matters to me both in writing and in life. The process itself is what brings me pleasure; the knowledge that it will be published, while exciting, is secondary.

Books have always been good friends of mine, which is one of the reasons I would like to publish one. I want to return the favor that other writers have done for me. I often say to my writing students when they are feeling discouraged, “Someone wants to read your work as much as you want to write it.” Or I say, “If no one had the courage or confidence to write, the world would be without books.” This usually results in big smiles, because they realize that all books start out as ideas in the minds of writers, and they have just as much chance as anyone to get those ideas published. I tell myself the same thing when I wonder, after a trip to a warehouse sized bookstore, if the world needs another book.

The world will always need more books, and writers to write them.

I was born with ink in my veins instead of blood. Coal black, pulsating and vibrant, it coursed through my body and filled my mind, making me scream with agony as an infant. Everyone mistook it for colic and treated me accordingly. Really, what I needed was darkness and quiet, so that I could think, and later so that I could write.

The passion to write is an ancestral legacy bestowed upon me by my great-grandmother, Georgia, and her daughter, Dorothea. Both writers, but neither associated with the fame or recognition that might have graced their lives or justified their actions. The literary road they traversed was badly overgrown, and strewn with the remains of despair, loss and failure. Their words haunt me and beg me to take heed:

Life, I was given.
I made of it what I could;
not what you would have made,
nor or even what I would;
only what I could,
what I could.

This is the first stanza of a poem called, “Limitation”, written over sixty years ago by Georgia. They are the words of a woman who lost two of her sons, one to death by drowning, the other to suicide; they are the words of a woman whose husband took a mistress, gave her all his love and in the end all his money; they are the words of a woman who frequently feigned ill, retreating to her bedroom for days on end with “spells”.

Georgia’s poetry is stuffed into an old brown suitcase next to my desk, a reminder of someone close to me who traveled the literary road before me. Though her work was published here and there, it is clear from her poetry that she was a frustrated writer. In 1932 she wrote,

Life is an unsolved riddle, so it seems,

Where one is often robbed of sweetest dreams.
Is it to prove the metal tried by fire
That one must lose where one did most aspire?

Within that poem, called “Life’s Riddle” she states,

we no longer wish
For what has proved impossible. We strove in vain.
Was all denied for good of others?

This dilemma, so common to women then and now, drove my grandmother into her room. How else could she have survived and maintained her sanity but to cull out a place to write and grieve and reflect upon her life’s limitations. I imagine it took tremendous courage for her in the midst of infidelity and death to find her own voice. Or perhaps writing was what spared her from severing her own life cord. The power and magic of words charmed her and held total despair at bay. Each word transforming her pain into something hopeful and full of meaning.

“Artists require firstly space,” wrote Georgia’s daughter, and my grandmother, Dorothea. She too, wrote poems. Hundreds of them. She also painted and sculpted. But like her mother, she was destined to fall short of her goals as an artist. In her case, it was her love of a Polish composer, eighteen years her senior and the birth of their son, that caused her to detour. In spite of years of training, and work, she put her career second, her needs third, her life at the bottom of her family’s list. There simply was no space for her.

“In love and in motherhood, woman is acted upon by others,” Dorothea wrote. Not much different from her mother; their similarities in fact, eerily alike. In her case, her husband did not take up a mistress, instead, after the birth of his son, he took up residence in a separate bedroom. To her, an act, that must have felt like total abandonment. It is important to note that her husband, Felix, was a virgin at forty when they married. Sex, snuggling up with a loved one in bed, passion between two souls, was not in his repertoire.

Society dictated that Georgia and Dorothea choose their family over their art, resulting in intense frustration and half-baked attempts at creative expression. Their self-denial and poor marriages open the door for endless questions: Must one make a choice between creating art and nurturing a family? Are artists bad candidates for marriage? Does having a good marriage necessitate trading one’s creative passion for random mediocrity?

It is a recurring theme in my life, this balance of writing and family. For my own parents, each represents the opposite choice. My father chose his song writing and music over his family. He died young, drug addicted, and full of grief over his self-inflicted estrangement. My mother, on the other hand, gave up a bright future in dance, when she became pregnant at twenty-two, after eighteen years of lessons and hard work. While she mourned the loss of her art, she eventually accepted her choice, and now she celebrates her children’s and grandchildren’s lives.

My dilemma is to find a happy medium, to take the road that exists between my parent’s extremes. I search through Georgia’s and Dorothea’s words, gathering up the clues of lives unfulfilled and seldom rewarded. I ingest their poetry until it becomes part of me; its fibrous mass courses through me, a rough reminder of the need for a balanced diet. I gain fuel for my vision of myself as a writer. I give voice to their enforced silence. I strive to become the writer they were never allowed to be.

Dark, silent rooms still soothe me and quiet my ink-stained heart. So does the softness and honey-sweet smell of my son’s flesh. It’s hard to make a choice. I often stand at the fork in the road, in limbo, wishing I had a better map. I long to write; I need to mother. Common sense prevails mostly. The rest of the time I resort to gambling, and toss a coin.