I'm Writing a Book. I Hope It's Not Miserable.

"freedom watch" 2024, part 1

I chose a guiding word for 2024—the word freedom. It’s a word I’m confident we’ll hear a lot on the campaign trail in the United States. The word means something different to me than it does as a political slogan, but what does it mean? 

I’ll be reflecting on the word freedom here in the Blue Room every so often this year, to see how it’s guiding and challenging my life. Here’s the first installment.

I’ve been working on a book proposal for the last couple of months. I submitted it to my publisher in mid-November, and got some feedback that the structure of the book didn’t work. I had divided the content into two parts, and the editor commented that the material felt like two different books as a result. So I massaged the proposal a bit more. I’ll say more about book specifics in time; suffice to say that I’m thinking about the world as it is and the world as it could be. I wondered: instead of covering the former in part one and the latter in part two, what if I integrated my ideas point by point? 

This notion led me to shorten part one into essentially a robust introduction, focusing the bulk of the book on what I’d been calling part two. The new structure would have seven paired chapters, or fourteen chapters in all, with each pair of chapters in conversation with each other. That felt right to me, so I put together a rough prototype of the outline—not fleshed out, just a proof of concept. Back to my editor, who volleyed with “this is better, but now I want to see the expanded outline.” 

That’s when the real challenge began. 

I should pause here and say that writing is hard. There are times when it feels amazing, but every writer I know prefers having written to currently writing. And book-length projects are a particular slog. I recently ran into a friend, a pastor/writer I knew when my 18 year old was in diapers. She was working on a novel at the time, and guess what? She’s still working on that same novel. 

Revisions, new drafts, glimmers of inspiration followed by crashing self-doubt… I’m not trying to be a martyr here; there are plenty of difficult vocations out there. I’m just saying, the romantic view of the writer, keyboard cheerfully clacking, words effortlessly flowing, is a fiction. 

But there’s a difference between difficulty and misery. This is a distinction for all of us to be attentive to, but as parents of anxious kids, it’s been especially important for my husband and me. 

When anxiety is high, it’s understandable to want to mitigate our kids’ discomfort: I’ll email the teacher and see if you can get an extension. Don’t worry about school today; just rest. We hate to see our kids in active distress. And some level of accommodation is appropriate. But with anxiety, there’s no getting better without some discomfort. Like weight training, in which the muscles sustain actual tears, then repair themselves to be stronger than before, we have to stretch ourselves in order to build our capacity… which can lead to greater comfort. 

I heard a term this week, originally from a yoga instructor: safe pain, the idea that pushing beyond our comfort zone is going to hurt a bit, but shouldn’t become an active “ouch.” Safe pain levels will differ from person to person and situation to situation. Managing it requires listening to one’s body and trusting one’s intuition. Having compassionate people by our side helps.

I often compared my kids’ struggles to hiking a mountain. It’s going to be tough; there’s no escaping the burning quads and heaving lungs. But we have to calibrate the challenge appropriately. I would often say to Robert, “We think we’re asking them to climb Old Rag. What if this is actually Everest?” It’s hard enough to do difficult things; we don’t need to heap misery on top of it. And while some miseries can’t be eradicated entirely, we all have at least some agency to shift ourselves into a place of greater ease. 

So. My book proposal. I beat my head against it for several weeks, moving stuff around, rewording and restructuring. Is this section redundant? Would it work better if I retitled chapter four to include X instead of Y? Are chapters nine and thirteen too similar? This tinkering is part of the process; I get that. But at some point I felt like I was trying to solve an unsolvable puzzle, like one of those games of solitaire in which you discover the king you needed was at the bottom of the biggest pile, and the two on top wouldn’t budge. 

Again: it’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard. But it was such a relief to have the thought come—and it really was a fully-formed thought, a voice I could practically hear—This is your book. And if it’s your book, there should be ease. What would bring more ease?

And then the next thought came: what if, oh I don’t know, there were six sections instead of seven? 

I started playing with that structure, and as if by magic, I finished the outline within an hour. I submitted it, and a few days later, I got the thumbs up from my editor, who took it to the broader committee. I received an offer to publish on Wednesday.

My dad was a writer, and a bit of a mystic, whose spirituality was informed by the Twelve Steps, a lifestyle and set of principles that are difficult, yes, but are also a means to greater freedom, especially in comparison to the misery of active addiction. In one of his last letters to me before he died, he said,  

Don’t let the perfectionist stuff cause you stress. It isn’t worth it. To be spiritually in harmony with the universe, whatever happens must be for the highest good of everyone involved. This means we don’t force things to happen, we allow them to happen. When I struggle the most with my writing is when I am trying to force an outcome. When I am able to remove my ego and become part of a flow of creativity which neither begins nor ends with me, the work is effortless and much more effective.

That’s what freedom invites me into right now: a rejection of the lie that grinding is the only way to go. Instead, I take part in an organic, creative impulse that’s been present since the beginning and will continue long after I’m gone. Difficulties are unavoidable, but freedom means I can shrug off the unnecessary, usually-self-imposed misery… a move that can lead to joy.

Your Turn

• Where are you experiencing difficulty right now?

• Is there also misery? (If so, I’m so sorry.)

• Is there anything you might let go of—or take on—to move toward greater freedom and ease?

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What I’m Up To

Yesterday’s discussion of On Tyranny, and how to find hope and purpose in this conflicted and chaotic world, was delightful and energizing. You have one more chance to join my supporting subscribers for conversation on Thursday, February 1 at noon Eastern via Zoom. 

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Link Love

Beautiful photos of wildlife, taken from drones:

Difficulty but not misery, sea life edition

Steady on.