You’ve heard about the cobbler who has no shoes? Well the same often goes for writers and writing coaches. We get so busy helping others that we lose the time, energy or inclination to do our own writing. Sometimes, however, seemingly out of nowhere, the urge snakes through the weeds and grabs you by the ankle. And there you are, writing again.
I have to confess that I’ve got at least two projects I’ve wanted to write for more than a decade. I guess I haven’t wanted to write them badly enough, because they’re still not done. Then one day, I suddenly found myself writing something of my own.
The impetus? My nephew Benjamin moving in with me.
I’ve never been a mom. I wanted to have kids, but the right guy just didn’t come along and I changed my mind about having them alone. So my niece Julia and my nephew Benjamin are the children I never had. Unfortunately for me, they’ve grown up in Paris. As a result, seeing them has been sporadic at best. So when Benjamin needed an educational alternative to the French system that would force him to specialize before he even knew where his interests or passions lay, I invited him to stay.
I knew his moving in would be an adjustment. I just hadn’t quite realized what that adjustment period would entail. I had joked about writing a book called Auntie Mom should he take me up on my offer. The operative word here: joked. By the end of the first week, however, I knew I had to start taking notes.
So I sat down and began to scribble. My opening line:
If beginning parenting is like riding a tricycle for the first time, I’ve just been thrown onto a Harley without ever having ridden a two-wheeler, let alone one with training wheels.
That set the tone and the first chapter fell into place in a way I had never experienced. Maybe that’s because I was finally writing about something close to me. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t stop. I had meant to write for half an hour to an hour, but I was afraid that I would forget some of the key events that had rocked my orderly little world so I kept going. Besides, I was not about to step off the wave that was so unexpectedly carrying me along.
By late afternoon, I had a very sloppy and utterly incomplete version of my first chapter, along with a lead to my second:
I knew I had to get an agreement on certain basic expectations before Benji arrived. “You might want to ask him about his expectations before you hit him with yours,” said my friend Cyndee.
Awesome idea from a trusted friend with two kids. She should know.
So I called Paris and asked to speak with my nephew.
“Have you decided if you’re coming to spend the year with me?” I asked.
“I’m 85% sure,” he answered. Not 90%, but 85% sure. Okay, I thought. Take what you can get.
“So what do you expect your day-to-day life to look like?” I asked.
He paused. “Well, I’m French. I’m European. I expect I’ll be very popular.”
I just love that!
I didn’t write at all in the week that followed, but I knew all too clearly that I couldn’t delay for long. I was actually writing something of my own that seemed heartwarming, funny and revealing. And it hadn’t taken a miracle—just my nephew and me.
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