The Write Thing to Say

Last night I spotted some friends across the auditorium of our local community theater. My husband, Michael, had noticed them first, not being hindered by writer's tunnel vision, a condition writers get when focusing on the next day's writing instead of what's happening around them.

After we'd navigated through the seats and exchanged "Wow! What a surprise!" greetings, the questions began: "So what have you been up to lately?" Friendly eyes turned my way. "Are you still writing?".  

With only a 15-minute intermission, five of which we'd used for our trek across the theatre, I felt the pressure of conjuring a quick yet informative response: "Umm…yes."

I'd hoped the short admission would suffice, but my friends' interest - bless them - went deeper. 

"Anything we can see?" Teresa asked.

Jannie chimed in. "Oh yes, where can we read your articles?"

Well, that was a good question wasn't it? I had placed a few articles in some trade magazines and local newspapers. But I knew these publications, while infinitely important to me, wouldn't be recognized by the casual grocery-store headline reader. Seeing the panic in my eyes, Michael replied, "She's been doing really well - got some articles published in magazines, won a few contests."

Their eyes lit up. Teresa asked, "Really? Where? We want to see."

I suddenly felt cornered by the need for credibility. Why hadn't I taken up something less public? Sewing maybe or Spider Solitaire. Wanting to stay on familiar ground, I said, "Well, you've heard of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books?" Eager nods. Jannie looked suitably impressed.

"Oh-I'm not in those," I rushed to explain. "There's another series of books, A Cup of Comfort. It's like the Chicken Soup books. You know, cozy stories. Anyways, I should be in that one soon." (Emphasis on "should." Always leave yourself some wiggle room.)

They seemed pleased, finally given an opportunity to praise. "That's great!" they proclaimed. Yes, I silently agreed; yes, it would be.

I'm fortunate to have friends and family members who like me and I them. We are all genuinely interested in the happenings in one another's lives. It's just that when they ask what I'm doing these days, I suddenly have to focus on how I'm doing. Have I been published lately? Am I writing every day? Am I submitting as often as possible? Am I really good at this or is it just a passing phase like high school band?

It doesn't help that the questions come in when you're most vulnerable: friendly inquiries follow a rejection note in the mail; curious questions over dinner when just that morning you couldn't think of a catchy lead if your life depended on it.

So many times I've been tempted to say, "I've started writing the next great American novel and expect to have it done in about five years, depending on how well I navigate the learning curve. Some days are heaven; others are not. But it's my version of a dream come true, and I'm precariously addicted. Don't expect to hear from me too often, but know that I still love/like/put up with you."

You just can't say that in polite society. And if you do (I tried it once), people look at you like you've announced you're auditioning for American Idol and they know you can't sing.

Do they also think I can't write? That would be worse. I've learned to practice what my writing idol Julia Cameron calls "the art of containment." So I say, "Oh, not much, how 'bout you?" and somehow stuff the regret that I can't tell them without baring my soul that I've found this wonderful new treasure and it fascinates me beyond distraction, beyond even the simplest act of sending a quick e-mail to say hello because I've been held captive by the page.

I wonder if famous authors, all published and rightfully proud, still stumble over their words when well-wishers ask about their latest project or prose. I can't imagine Stephen King being scared about a little friendly inquiry or Dan Brown being unable to come up with an eloquent answer for the crowd. I wonder if they ever feel unsure about their next writing endeavor, at a loss for how to fill in a pause.

But isn't every writer a beginner when faced with a blank page? Aren't we all searching for "what to say when" during even the most mundane moments of our lives? Or, more important, aren't we, as writers, looking for inspiration as well as - indeed, instead of - fame?

Perhaps inspiration is found in the very people who inhabit our days: those we meet, those we greet, those we fall in love with at first sight. The people we run into after a long dry spell of not seeing them at all, the people in our lives for a season or a lifetime. The crowd at the mall that walks and talks and builds the dialogue that anchors our stories with the steady assurance of real-life rhythm.

Maybe that's the key, the solution to the riddle of what to say when. Maybe writers are more about what to write now. Maybe the right thing to say is actually the right thing to write.

So the next time I find myself on the receiving end of affectionate curiosity, perhaps I'll just say, "Yes, I'm still writing and thanks for still asking. But, tell me, what's new with you?" And then I'll take notes.