Bad Advice Wednesday Holiday Edition

categories: Bad Advice / Cocktail Hour



Joan R. Wigglesworth of Manhattan, Kansas, writes: “To be a real writer, must I write on Thanksgiving Day?”.

Thanks, Joan, for your thoughtful question.  The answer is, yes, you must.

  1. Dave writes:
  2. Debora writes:

    Yahoo! For once, I can check the YES box!

    Not only did I write, but I also worked on my writer’s space–a constant challenge in 1033 square feet filled to the brim with two dogs, a cat, one boyfriend, all of their paraphernalia, and–oh yeah–me! (Previously we were one additional canine and one boyfriend’s son…wow.)

    It seems much of the contents of my life has been off-loaded into a myriad of boxes–the only thing that could be done as each new comer arrived. On Thanksgiving, I began again to organize the chaos by emptying a coat closet of several of my boxes. The purpose being to spread out my clothes (which were, of course, in boxes–since I had given my master bedroom closet to my boyfriend and left only one four foot rod for myself). The good news is that I can find my clothes finally.

    The bad news is that the only place to stack the boxes I moved was into my writing space…which forces me to go through and purge my treasures. Treasures like five flashlights of various sizes and cute colors used for mountain biking trips, river trips, and backpacking–each an exciting and memorable time. Like a tape measure that is the only remaining item from my high school sewing kit (was going to be a fashion designer, likely on account of the fact that my mother used to sew beautiful clothes for me). Like a tiny shred of paper on which I had written in equally tiny print WHAT ARE YOU BELIEVING RIGHT NOW?

    Which turns out to be, once again, a very pointed question as I consider whether my boyfriend and I will actually be able to build the house we designed–or not. As I consider how to best care for my 17 year old dog, who declines and plateaus, declines and plateaus. As I consider my friends who just lost their 24 year old son–a loving and moving memorial service on the ski mountain this past Wednesday. As I consider simpler things like writers writing and all of those gorgeous happy airborne balls…