A few weeks ago, I cleared out my writing studio and turned in the keys. A sacred space for two years, letting go was a difficult decision.
There were the windows, the solitude, the pride in calling that space Mine. There was the feeling that having a writing studio somehow makes me an official writer. And in many cases, that has been true. I did a lot of work in that space: wrote plenty of blog posts, revised several essays, peeked at my novel time and again. In the end though, getting there became a challenge (there’s the day job, time with family, trips out of town…things I couldn’t or wouldn’t give up for a few hours in the studio). So I wrote the email to my landlord, let it sit in my draft folder for the day, sent it the next morning. Got a little weepy when packing up books and sweeping the floor.
But you know what happens when you let go of one precious thing? You get busy working on another. Perhaps out of frustration or anger or fear that letting go would be the beginning of the end of my writing, I cracked down on a short story I’ve been loving but not revising for (what feels like) years. Take that, I said to the Universe, to myself. Then I sent the story out into submissions.
In a week, I received an acceptance.
(I could have cried. In fact, I still might once it hits the presses.)
I’ve moved all my things into my basement office now, surrounded by the kids’ art and a basket of yarn and knitting needles (for when I need a more tactile creative experience) and one window that lets the air in just fine.
In these last two weeks, I’ve spent more time in my writing than I did for the last six months.
The moral of this story isn’t that in letting go you always find someone to publish your work or that you finally finish that book or collection of essays. It isn’t even that every cloud has its silver lining. Sometimes a cloud is a cloud and you feel like shit for a while. The moral is: Don’t quit because one thing didn’t work out like you hoped. A studio doesn’t make a writer. A published story doesn’t make a writer. Persistence with the pen does.
Whatever it is, let it go. Then, keep on keeping on, no matter where you lay your notebook. Your story matters, and you always feel better when you put it to paper.
Last weekend, I spent two full days 
From the people who chose their pencil and read the paper right there in the studio, I saw a lot of head shaking and heard repeat “oh no’s” and “I can’t.” In those observations, I realized most of us carry misconceptions about how writing prompts work.
If you can write an award-winning story in one sitting, forget the prompt; I want to know your secret! For the rest of us, think of a prompt as a nudge, a spark of an idea.
Listen, creative expression is all about interpretation. If the prompt says, “yesterday’s coffee,” you could start with the cup of coffee you had yesterday. OR you could go straight to the syrupy mix you discovered in the office carafe last Monday morning and the fact that you were totally desperate, because (you fill in the blank), so you heated up that sludge in your officemate’s “I’m the BOSS” cup and drank it anyway.
My favorite conversation during the open house was with a woman who wasn’t a writer at all. She picked out a prompt–with enthusiasm–and said, “I’m a quilter, but you never know where things like this will lead, what kind of new quilt this prompt might inspire.”
Most weeks, it was harder than heck to crank out a decent story in such short time, but all that choppy writing was worth it. One of my very-raw pieces, “The Peninsula,” grew in length and depth through years of revisions and recently found its way to 
>> Fellow writers. Bet you’re wondering what prompt you might have discovered in that pile of wrapped pencils. Here’s a sneak peek: