Write when you can, and feel lucky you're able

I was frustrated.

I couldn't figure out some aspects of the newest Word program, and the piece of fiction I was trying to write wasn't turning out the way I planned. The computer was annoying; my words sounded stupid and trite. I was about to give up; maybe try again later.

 And then I remembered Susan Spencer-Wendel.

Have you heard of her? She's a former journalist and author of the bestselling book, "Until I Say Goodbye: My Year of Living with Joy," the heartbreaking yet inspiring account of how she spent a year - the only healthy one she had left - after being diagnosed with ALS, a neuromuscular disorder often referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Wendel's book details how she spent a year embracing life with her family and friends and doing her best to live in the moment.

ALS is particularly cruel - it robs your body of its mobility bit by bit while your mind stays sharp and aware. Susan wrote her book, all 89,000 words of it, with her right thumb, using an iPhone when her fingers began dragging over the touchscreen of her iPad.

She finished it in four months, knowing her deadline was non-negotiable.

"Such is the power of desire," she said.

I fired up my computer and started over, feeling incredibly lucky to have the opportunity.

What are we waiting for, then?

From the poet John Greenleaf Whittier, a little Friday food for thought: "For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these: 'It might have been.' "

It reminded me of this:

Who am I? Well, I'm a writer, of course

When my children were small, I talked about them constantly. If you know me at all, you've likely heard a story about bathtime, bedtime, naptime or the lack of such.

In fact, if I had any inkling of how much I loved being a mom, I might have had even more kids. (I would have hoped against hope, of course, that doctors would have introduced a new, less painful way of birthing them.)

I lamented that I had no time to write - my kids took up every spare moment of the day.

But it pains me to say it ... my kids are growing up. They're increasingly independent. They need me, sure, but not quite as much. So I put together a tiny writing nook at  home, outfitted it with a perfectly adequate computer, and worked out a little evening writing schedule in my head.

But I haven't written a story in months.

Oh, sure, I've written for work, and I've written freelance, but I haven't written for me. My blogs have sat empty. My stories, some half-finished, have just been waiting patiently in their folders.

I've likened my imagination to the Tin Man when Dorothy first found him that field. Slow. Rusty. Wanting to move forward, but stuck.

Maybe I'm just not good at transitions. Or maybe,  for awhile, I simply misplaced my identity. After all, for years, I was a journalist. Now I'm not. Then I was "Mommy," and I was always, desperately in demand. Now I'm just "Mom," and while I'm still  loved and needed, I see more independence on the horizon.

But I'm still a writer. Always have been, always will be.

That last part is easy to forget. But I think I'm starting to remember.

Writing inspiration from frosting and anxiety . . . .

I've never really believed in the necessity of writer's angst.

You know what I mean - the belief that a writer can't churn out the copy unless she's dreadfully unhappy. Sure, you hear all about these authors with tortured souls - and I'm sure they have their reasons - but most of the writers I know are pretty even-keeled. Funny, even.

Yes, they may get kind of cranky, but that's mostly because of the paychecks they're pulling down.

That type of angst I find completely understandable. The other kind truly mystified me ...  until last week, when my daughter was leaving on an out-of-state school trip. She and I are very close - and I'm horrendously overprotective - so when she and her dad left for the airport and the house was silent and still, I felt close to tears.

At loose ends, I grabbed a cupcake from the kitchen. I ate off all the frosting. Then I sat down listlessly at my computer, dawdled a few minutes, then started to write. And suddenly, I was able to come up with the intro to a new project I've been wanting to try  - a romance. I've never written one before, and though I had an outline, the beginning was stumping me. Having a place to start my story made me feel (a little) happier that day.

Maybe that's how the whole writer's angst thing works.

"He was gone. And I couldn't stop eating.

Grief does strange things to you, you know. It keeps you up late at night as you sweat and turn and tremble, it makes your eyes glaze over with memories,  it forces you to obsessively search your inbox for messages you know will never arrive.

And it makes you eat. A lot."

For me, social media is just one more way to chat about writing and books - and keep in touch

I was reading a few funny blog posts the other day from writers who were getting a little frustrated with social media.

They didn't want to blog or tweet or Skype or sell - they just wanted to write. And while their comments were funny, they were serious.

I could relate. While most of the time, I'm very enthusiastic about blogging and tweeting, sometimes my inspiration just flags. And I'm an extrovert - I can't imagine how difficult it is for an introvert.

So I try not to think of it as a chore. I just think of it as chatting. To me, it's all about meeting people. Maybe new readers. Or other authors. Or even other moms, or friends I've lost touch with over the years.

I've met some great people since I've gone online, and I know if I keep plugging away, I'll likely meet more.

Writing can be a lonely business. It's good to know you have friends out there.

That's what keeps me going. One post, one tweet, one page at a time.