Here’s the challenge:

Use the word “should” in a sentence.

I’ll bet that whatever came after “should”, especially if you used “I” in front of it, was something less than pleasant.

The power of should. Should can suck all of the wanna out of you.

For writing, specifically, I wonder if too much should leads to burnout. The exhaustion of strength. There’s a basic inequity in the writing equation – You owe the world the best possible book, but the world doesn’t really owe you anything. So what fills the place that powered the book back up? All I can say is there needs to be something feeding the furnace. What’s that something? It’s poetry and heart and dreams, and those things are things you bring to yourself as presents, not things the world gives you as presents.

Should isn’t a sustainable reason. Please note, if you signed a contract or something, yes, you gotta do what you said you would do. Momentary setbacks, daily upsets, these are temporary obstacles, not apocalypses, and they don’t excuse a failure to deliver the goods. My hope is that we considered the magnitude of the desire to do it before the ink hit the paper on the promise.

So write big. Write different. Tell a new story. And don’t let should box you in.

When I send a manuscript out, I break up with it.

Not the dramatic kind of breakup. There are no tears, no threats, no ultimatums.

Just a quiet, amicable separation. I wish it well, I do. I think about it sometimes. I fantasize briefly about getting The Call while doing something humdrum – maybe driving home from work, or waiting at the dentist’s. But that heartfelt can’t-live-another-minute-without-knowing-how-it’s-doing feeling? Nope.

This is a defense mechanism. I’ll own that.

And then, eventually, the manuscript comes back. It knocks on the door, with notes tucked in its pocket.

I cave in. I let it back into my heart.

Me: “Poor little guy. I didn’t send you out with the right stuff, did I? Come in, sit down. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me all about your pacing problems.”

Manuscript: “And you don’t even want to know what they called your protagonist!”

We work it all out. We fall in love again. There’s that needy-grabby-this-story-is-mine feeling again.

Then we drive each other nuts.

Me: “Maybe chapter 12 should actually be chapter 3.”

Manuscript (mutters): “I’m going to reinsert every “just” you took out tonight. Every. Single. One. While you sleep.”

And I send it back out again. I wish it well. I do. It’s not the manuscript, it’s me.

And it comes back. I throw the door open wide, and boot the other stories to their rooms. For now.

Me: “I’m sorry I called you a “work”. That wasn’t very emotionally available of me, was it?”

Manuscript (snuffles): “You used the word “project” when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

And then we work on it some more, and drive each other nuts some more. And then I send it to the agent’s (metaphorical) house and let it bother her for a while.

And so it goes.

Since it seems to be all I can think about…

Step 1: Receive feedback.

Step 2: I need these notes. I want them. They’re good. I must get to work.

Step 3: What have I done to this story? This can’t be right. What have I done? This isn’t right.

Step 4: This can’t be done. Nope. Impossible. Took it all apart. No way it’s going back together. Furthermore, there will be pieces left over. This is a certainty.

Step 5: Huh. Maybe this can be done.

Step 6: Don’t interrupt me. Don’t even look at me. This rewrite has a life of its own. I must pursue art!

Step 7: Wow. I hope I’m not deluded. This seems quite good. Please may I not be deluded. But I think I’m there.

Step 8: Send it off. Try to forget.

Step 9: Start again.