It’s the American Way.

I bought into it, though. All of it.
And to a great extent, I do believe that we can create our own lives if we want to.

Undeniably, luck and serendipity have made a few propitious guest appearances in my life.
But when it comes to writing the memoir I’ve been thinking about,
well, that’s about as far as I’ve gotten.

Thinking.

Oh, I’ve made a few starts. But basically, I’ve avoided it, even as it pokes at me. Every day, a little cheerleading devil dances in my head:

Get Writing! Make it Happen! Just Do It!

But — nothing happens.

It seems as though I’ve got no time at all, when, in retirement, I have all the time in the world.

So much time, that I’ve been seeing my trainer three to five times a week for a year, even as I obstinately refuse to lose my excess weight. Despite myself, I’ve built strength and flexibility. But I never have been and am not now “athletic.”

Yesterday, mid-workout, Trainer Chris instructed me to do 30 of what he calls modified cobra push ups. It’s not a real push-up. Basically, the top half of the body comes up, lifted with the arms, but the knees remain on the floor.

I assumed the position, and then lifted. As I did, my entire body automatically went into the regular push-up position and came up. Not just the top half. My whole body.

I did three sets of 10 real push-ups. Not perfectly. But just about.

I don’t know which of us was more surprised, me, or Chris.
My body wasn’t surprised, though.
It knew it was ready.

When I got home, that writing devil began tormenting me again. I whined aloud about my inability to get writing. I exchanged emails with my angel of mercy about it. I knew I needed a jump start. But what?

Maybe I’ll go back to the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, I thought.
But, those sessions are a crap shoot. They could be really good,
but there is an equal chance of their being insufficient.

Then, for some odd reason, I thought about a writer and writing coach I’d seen at a writers’ conference a year ago. She was good. So was her book. I quickly brought up her website. Just two days ago, she’d announced a 12-person memoir writing workshop. Nine weeks this spring into summer. Writers new to her had to submit work before getting accepted.

I wrote a quick application email, attached two essays and then pressed SEND.
Most writers –even journeymen–are sickeningly insecure about their writing and I’m no different. I obsessed all afternoon about whether she’d let me in the workshop. Maybe my writing sucked really badly. Maybe she’d think I was just a hobbyist and incapable of actually writing something worthwhile.

And then, hours later, her email popped up.

I couldn’t open it. I was afraid. M. offered to read it for me.

I was IN!

You’d think I’d been accepted at Harvard.
Which tells me how much writing this book means to me.

Oh, I could’ve signed on with her last year, or at least applied. But here’s the thing:

Maybe when it’s time, well, it’s TIME. And nothing before that will work.

Maybe it’s like 30 pushups.