The Resolution to Write (Or, I Give Myself Very Good Advice But I Very Seldom Follow It)

Whenever I talk to a writer, it seems like the topic of writing time is broached. Granted, I don’t talk to a lot of writers anymore (though I’d like to change that); most of my conversations revolve around preschool and poop. But whether conversing with a writer or a mother, I find that the tone is often the same:

How often do your kids poop? How often do you write? Is once a week enough? Have you tried sleep training? I start an egg timer and I stay at my desk until it buzzes. I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year. I’m taking a parenting class at the Y. They say things happen in their own time. Have you tried probiotics? Have you read Burning Down the House? Charles Baxter is a genius. I hate Dr. Sears. All you need is fresh air and exercise, and things will fall into place.

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A Last-Minute Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s been a while since I wrote a letter like this, and I understand that you primarily take requests from children, but I have a lot on my mind this year and I thought I might as well take a shot by sending you a good old-fashioned Christmas list. These aren’t the kinds of things that can fit into a stocking or a brightly wrapped box. No, like most grown-ups’ Christmas lists, mine is full of intangibles. And before you crumple this up and throw it out, I’ll tell you I’m not asking for peace on Earth. I know that’s impossible, or else it would manifest like it did in that one Simpsons episode where peace meant everyone on Earth had died. I’m not asking you to change the nature of humanity, nor do I expect you have the power to tinker with the clockwork of world or local politics, any individual human heart or the nature of groupthink. My requests are much more selfish than that. Because while I know you’re not a miracle worker on the grand scale, I’ve got to hope there are some sparks of magic in that sack of yours, and I could certainly use a little magic this year.