My latest novel ANIMAL INSTINCT is about a woman rediscovering her desire in midlife — it’s been called a best book of the year by NPR, Oprah Daily, and more. You can order it here. And hey, if you do get a copy, DM me your receipt and I’ll comp you a paid subscription to this very newsletter, Writing on the Verge (this gives you access to alllll the archives, which otherwise get paywalled after a month) ✨✨✨✨✨
It’s probably revealing too much to share that I have a post-it on my desk that says “Remember, you are a human animal, not a machine.” I don’t know about you, but this is a reminder I often need. Some unholy combination of Protestant work ethic, Jewish guilt, and American productivity bro has resulted in me, a writer who never feels like she is writing enough.
Objectively, I know this is hogwash. I write a lot. And also… how much of my writing needs to exist? It’s not like I’m producing semiconductors, or beehives, or lipsticks that stay put even when you eat a burrito, or other things the world truly needs. But my need to produce work isn’t, of course, rational, and it’s not even really about the end result — it’s about feeling like, if I am not writing, then what is even the point of me? Like… just a… human being on Earth?
I know, I know, I need to go back to therapy BUT the point here is my creative demons are not procrastination or distraction but rather the opposite—having an expectation of myself that when I have writing time I will spew out reams of pages, and that only this counts as creative work.
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