I’ve never kept a journal. I’ve tried. About 15 times. I’m a writer, after all. We’re supposed to really dig journals and write in them every single day. But every journal I’ve ever started ends after about one or two (really lame) entries. Then it’s nothing but blank pages. And my kind hates blank pages.

I’ve given it some thought, and here’s what I’ve come up with as to why I can’t embrace the journal:

1. There’s no audience. Apparently, I need this, regardless of whether or not my stuff gets read. When I write, I assume that at some point, someone, anyone, will read my writing. So in a sense, I’m addressing those people; I’m writing for them (as well as for myself). But a journal? I simply can’t bring myself to write for or to an inanimate object. I tend to ask a lot of questions in my writing (Why does the world suck so hard? How do we survive it? Why do we survive it?), but as much as I’d like it to, a cheap empty book of paper sure as shit can’t answer them.
2. It’s too forced. Dear Inanimate Object, Today I went to work. It was fine. Afterwards, I went over to J and Cris’s for dinner, and everyone got really drunk and hated on one another. I said a lot of dumb stuff, mostly because I’m really sad about the fact that my dad has cancer and scared that he’s going to die. It really sucks. But tomorrow’s another day! Your pal, Julie. The thing is, I’m slow to process and express myself. This is why I’m a writer. I think too much and need more time to express those thoughts. They can’t be rushed or forced. Trust me. I’ve tried.
3. I sound like a fucking idiot. See #1 and #2. After I’m dead, and my children are wading through the crap that was my life, I don’t want them stumbling upon a journal that confirms what they’ve always suspected: their mother is a complete and total moron with absolutely nothing interesting to say. This may be true, but I don’t want to leave them with hard evidence.

In college, as a super nerdy wanna-be writer, I would jot down passages from my favorite books. I would photocopy poems or clip quotations out of magazines that spoke to me or perfectly expressed how I felt. I accrued so many of these clippings and copies and quotes that I started taping them into a notebook. Only when I had filled two of these notebooks did I realize that this was my way of keeping a journal.

Because I seem to be equally bad at maintaining this blog, in addition to Julie originals, I plan to post some writing that you’d find in my kind of journal. Not necessarily because I’m lazy (which I am), but because most of the time, other writers just write it so much better.

Those Winter Sundays
By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

My good friend and fellow writer Liz recently interviewed Nina Garcia. You know, the judge on a little TV show called Project Runway. Her interview resulted in not one, but two stellar articles:

“Nina Garcia’s 5 Quick Fashion Fixes for Moms”

“Nina Garcia’s Six Sophisticated Staples No Woman Should Live Without”

I know. My friends are pretty darn cool.

A while back, my best friend Lizzi gave me a tough-love speech about my writing.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she told me. “So many people don’t know what they want to do with their lives. You do. You do, and you’re not doing it.”

She had (has) a point.

My other friends express the occasional interest/concern, too. Just this past week, my friend Adam asked me about The Book.

I attempted to dodge him, mumbling something about if I wanted to work on it I would and when the time is right and I’ll get to it eventually. Sensing my neuroses, he said, “I’m not sure whether or not to ask about it. It’s probably annoying, huh?”

But the truth is, it wasn’t (isn’t). No, I told him. It’s good for me to be reminded of That Gift I’ve Been Given That I Haven’t Been Doing Shit With. My squandered talent. The thing that I supposedly love to do and yet don’t. Good to be reminded, because I spend a lot of time trying not to think about it. Because when I do think about it, I can’t come up with a good reason why. Why I continue to squander and ignore and waste and dodge.

Theories abound. I’m afraid? Maybe. I don’t think I’m talented, good enough, interesting enough, enough enough enough to “make it?” Probably. I’m lazy and just want to watch TV for the rest of my life? Perhaps. I write marketing copy all day and can’t muster any more creativity in my spare time? Could be. The Book and the issue of what the fuck to do with it and how the fuck to re-write it have so mentally constipated me that I’m literally unable to work on anything else? A good guess. I’m not really excited about my life and haven’t had sex in a very long time or been in a relationship since Bush’s first term? Okay. A combination of all of these things and more? Sure, why not?

My point being: I have no fucking clue why I’d rather write about not writing than write something of actual substance. And without understanding the why, I’m not quite sure how to overcome the problem, other than just telling myself to get off my ass and goddammit do something already. But that hasn’t really been working out so well for me.

Own worst enemy? Yep, that would be me.

My only consolation is that I’m not alone. Other writers experience the same damn issues. In her post on writeforyourlife.net, a site about writing that I read in lieu of writing myself, Manuela Boyle breaks it down:

There are lots of us writers who make their living doing the thing they love; and yet as a result, don’t make their living in the way they’d really love.

What I’m trying to say is that the writing skillset is like France: much bigger than you thought when you get there, and that if you’ve got talent, then hell, make like Simon Cowell and put it to work.

But let’s pause and think about the writer’s gentle soul awhile. Some of the copywriters I know have literary or non-fiction ambitions; others quite simply, don’t.

Some are lazy when it comes to that magnus opus, some think they’ll eventually get round to it, and others know their own creative practice is good for them, like greens are, but don’t want to participate.

A handful—and here’s the type that impresses me most—do both. They write copy in the day, and create worlds of their own by night.

What of the writer who is (g) all of the above? What will light a fire under her ass? Though a better question might be: If the fire isn’t already lit, is it even worth hunting around for those matches?

[Today I’m participating in a mass blogging. WOW! Women On Writing has gathered a group of blogging buddies to write about family relationships. Why family relationships? We’re celebrating the release of Therese Walsh’s debut novel today. The Last Will of Moira Leahy (Random House, October 13, 2009), is about a mysterious journey that helps a woman learn more about herself and her twin, whom she lost when they were teenagers. Visit The Muffin to read what Therese has to say about family relationships, and view the list of all my blogging buddies. And make sure you visit Therese’s website to find out more about the author.]

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A few years ago, my mom asked me if I thought we talked enough.

“Should we be talking more than we do?” she asked. “Ruth talks to Lisa almost every day,” she added, referring to her best friend and her best friend’s daughter.

“What?” I said, buying myself some time. Then, “No. I think we talk just the right amount, Mom.”

“You do?”

Though the content of our conversation was new, the feelings it provoked in me were not. When my mom asked questions like this, questions like, “Do you love your English teacher more than me?” she didn’t want honesty. She wanted me to tell her that I loved her most of all. That she was doing everything right. That she was a good mother.

She wanted reassurance.

“Yes,” I said. “If we wanted to talk more, we would.”

“We would?”

The dialogue continued in this vein until my mom concluded that Lisa had started talking to Ruth more when she became a mother herself. I made a mental note to expect this same conversation after the birth of my first child.

During a recent trip to St. Louis to see my parents, my mom and I attended a reading (ironically organized by my dad, who works for the library). I happened to be in town with Sue Monk Kidd and her daughter Ann Kidd Taylor, who, after co-authoring a travel memoir together, spoke at length about the mother/daughter relationship.

Though their relationship is on the ideal end of the mother/daughter spectrum, their talk was excellent. Kidd pronounced the relationship one of the most complex, citing the Greek myth of Persephone, and discussing the cyclical pattern of loss, search, and return intrinsic to the mother/daughter bond. Like Demeter, the mother is continually losing her daughter; she searches and searches for her, until finally, her daughter is returned to her, only to be lost once again.

What’s interesting to me about this myth, and about Kidd’s use of the myth to structure the book, is that the story is told from the mother’s point of view. Persephone isn’t an active participant in the tale, or the relationship. She’s stolen from her mother by Hades; her mother searches; and Persephone is returned to Demeter for a finite period of time (spring and summer).

What would the story look like from Persephone’s perspective? Perhaps her mother’s need for her is too great. Or maybe Persephone wants someone to know her, really know her, for the adult she has become. Could it be possible that she chooses to leave? That the brief period she spends with her mother every spring and summer is enough for her? That too much time, the addition of fall and winter, would only damage the relationship they both want to preserve?

Many years ago, my mom and I went alone to buy the family Christmas tree, sans dad and brother. We looked at tree after tree; my mom would point them out; I would veto them. It’s too tall, I’d say. Or, it’s too big; it won’t fit; it’ll make a mess. When we finally decided on a Douglas Fir, the man who helped us load the tree into the car laughed at us.

“It’s like a role reversal,” he said. “She’s like the mom.” He jerked his thumb in my direction. I couldn’t have been more than 13. My mom and I exchanged uncomfortable glances and feigned polite laughter.

Do we talk enough?

In the myth, the fact that Persephone is responsible for her mother’s happiness is presented as a given. A non-issue.

And yet the weight of this responsibility is enough to pull her below the earth’s surface.

It’s that heavy.

We talk just the right amount.

My good friend Katherine just had a piece published in Education Next. If you’re at all interested in education, teaching or learning, you should check it out.

I have a new post up at Fringe Magazine.

Also worth reading: the magazine’s tributes to the late John Updike. Additionally, one of my favorite writers, Lorrie Moore, wrote an excellent tribute in the New York Times.

I’ve been busy. I know everyone says that, but I mean really busy. I’ve lucked out with some freelance work; things have fallen into my lap at just the right time. And I’ve said yes to everything, because, well, I’m unemployed and can’t afford to say no.

In the midst of my busyness, however, I managed to score a full-time job. An absolute miracle in this economy. Though my full-time gig doesn’t officially begin until February 2, I’ve had to prove my worth and be “brought up to speed.” What does this mean exactly? More work.

I’ve spent the last 10 days or so working, on average, 12 hours a day. I haven’t slept much. I’m on an every-other-day shower schedule, which means that I smell great. And my back is so tense that I’ve taken to (lamely) pounding on it myself.

Last Wednesday, I attended a freelance-writing seminar. It attracted the usual oddballs—both actual writers and the people who think that because they have cats/ride horses/live in their mother’s basement and love to make up stories, they, too, can be writers. One woman asked dozens of bizarre-o questions, though one question in particular was somewhat useful to me: What should you do when you’ve overcommitted yourself? Is it okay to turn down a project?

The presenter, a published freelance writer and editor, said that as a rule, unless the project sucks big balls (my words, not hers), she never passes on a writing gig. “Some weeks will go by, and you have no work,” she said. “Then other weeks are just insane, so I tell myself that those weeks are just going to be about work. But, really, having too much work as a freelancer is not a bad problem to have.”

In other words, take work where and when you can get it, and thank your lucky stars for it. 

So I am and I will. Even if it lands me in traction.

When a man I’m seeing for the first time finds out that I’m a writer, he usually apologizes. “Sorry for my terrible e-mails,” he’ll say. “I’m so bad at grammar.” On the subject of books, he’ll add, “You probably know way more about this book than I do…”

I find these comments both sweet and mildly annoying. On the one hand, I appreciate the attempt to legitimize and give weight to what I do. He is saying that he admires my skills, skills he does not possess. He is giving my knowledge and intelligence the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I’m not crazy about the assumption that I’m a grammar Nazi; or, rather, that I judge a man by his writing skills. Or his literary tastes.

In her New York Times essay, ”It’s Not You, It’s Your Books,” Rachel Donadio explores the notion of book taste as deal-breaker. She writes, “Anyone who cares about books has at some point confronted the Pushkin problem: when a missed—or misguided—literary reference makes it chillingly clear that a romance is going nowhere fast.” Various writers and editors weigh in on the issue: for some, a high-brow appreciation of books is essential in a partner; for others, not so much.

I lean more toward the latter category. So your favorite book is The Da Vinci Code—so what? Are you intelligent? Can I have an interesting conversation with you? Are you passionate about your field of work, whatever that may be?

Here’s the thing about being a writer: Your get tired of talking about books. If you’re an editor, and you fix people’s horrible sentences for a living, you just get tired. Also? Writers have writer friends, and together we obsess about what we do, and say pretentious things like, Well, I thought The Story of Edgar Sawtelle was highly overrated, but did you read Ann Beattie’s latest story in The New Yorker?

Many writers, too, like myself, grew up in a literary family of some kind. My grandfather was an English professor, my mom an English teacher. Before she had children, my grandmother worked in publishing. My aunt is a librarian. My dad works in development at a library. My childhood home is about 50 percent book. My mom once dreamt that we were all walking, talking books. In another dream, she was drowning in them.

Because of this, all of this, I don’t need a man who’s well read. Nor one who’s mastered the art of good grammar. There’s something to be said for differences and balance in a relationship. Though I may draw the line at someone who uses too many LOLs or BRBs. Oh, and “you” is a word, not a letter. And don’t even get me started on “its” versus “it’s.”

Okay, so a girl’s gotta have some standards.

Writers are a strange breed. Especially nonfiction/memoir writers (though, of course, we’re not nearly as strange as the poets).

Often, in our writing, we reveal some of our most private thoughts, secrets, and actions. For example: Before I wrote “The Spirit Loved One,” only three people knew that I had wet my bed at the age of 18—my mom, my dad via my mom, and my best friend (Lizzi). Now it’s out there for the world to know.

Yet, despite our startling revelations and admissions in our work, in our lives, writers continue to be immensely private people. Even our closest friends and family members don’t always know what we’re experiencing, grappling with, obsessing over, or suffering.

For me, at least, this dichotomy explains why I am a writer. It’s not easy for me to feel vulnerable, or to ask for help, or to put myself out there and watch how people react or don’t react in ways that are helpful or hurtful to me. I spend most of my time up in my head, analyzing and re-analyzing, trying to determine why things and people are the way they are, what I can do to be better and more, what I might have done that’s potentially hurtful or not enough. (Self-flagellation is one of the first things you learn in Writing for Beginners.)

Writing allows me to step out of my head in a way that simply opening up to people does not. By writing about a vulnerable feeling or time in my life, not only am I expressing something that I can’t express in person, but I’m also turning that expression into a story. It’s not me, in other words; it’s a story about one part of, or one experience in, my life. A story that, if I’ve done my job right, makes a larger statement about the human condition or the world in which we live.

Turning a difficult personal experience into a story and letting the world read about it feels safer and easier to me than sitting down with people I’m close to and telling them about it.

Like I said, writers are weird.

Of course, when strangers read your very personal work, they feel closer to you. For the writer, this is both a blessing and a curse. In addition to our own selfish motivations for putting pen to paper, we write to connect with and reach out to people. To assure our readers that, hey, whatever you’re feeling or hoping or fearing, we’re doing it, too. Because writers spend so much of their time feeling different and alone, we dedicate our lives to assuring other people that they aren’t those things. Look, we’re saying, we’re all in this mess together. Ain’t it grand?

And, yet, though we cultivate a connection through our words, the reader doesn’t know the writer. The reader knows only what the writer has chosen to share. What the writer writes and who the writer is are very different things.

Again I return to this: Writers are immensely private people. At readings I’ve attended, I’ve watched authors struggle with questions that have nothing to do with their writing and everything to do with their lives. In these instances I’ve felt indignant. Back off, I want to say. It’s the work that’s important, not the writer.

Then again, perhaps it’s unfair of writers to feel this way. To put so much out there, but insist that what’s out there has nothing to do with the whole of us. To insist that our writing isn’t us, but instead just a tiny piece of the vast, complex puzzle. We’re like one giant tease of personal information; we let our readers in, then slam the door in their faces.

But, like it or not, this is the way we do things—in some cases, it’s the only way we know how to do things. It’s how I cope with my hardships and my world. If you read my work, if you read my blog, you probably don’t know me the way that you think you do. You know only the piece that I choose to share with you.

The rest of the pieces, or rather, the whole, are reserved for a select few. They’re the pieces that the public at large will never know. Ironically, they’re also the pieces that allow me to do what I do. The pieces that make me a writer.