The Worst Part of Being a Writer

I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.

I’ve had stories published, and I’ve had people from all over the world read them. I’ve had people love them, hate them, and be absolutely indifferent to them. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I even have people take valuable time out of their days to look up my address, sit down, and send me an email just to let me know how much a certain story meant to them.

See that last sentence? That’s the opposite of the title of this blog post. That’s the best part of being a writer. Having someone (not your mom) write you to tell you how a story moved them? That’s like Heisenberg-brand Sky Blue right there. (All the benefits of crystal meth, but you get to keep your teeth.)

Everything in my life is filtered through the lens of me, Terrie, the writer.

Not that I go into situations mining them for story. I don’t. Not usually.

Okay, I sometimes do. I admit to taking more than my fair share of stupid risks just to know how something was done or what it felt like to do it.

But most of the time, no, I’m not living with my eye on writing a story about whatever experience I might be having. Instead, I try to live as close to the heart and gut as possible. I want to live honestly. Some experiences are pure joy while others are utter hell. And of course, there is everything in between.

The stories that seem to resonate with the most people are the ones where I’ve really dug deep and dredged up some emotional shit, tried to make sense of it even.

Okay, here’s where I get to the worst part of being a writer.

When I’m writing – especially when I’m writing full-on (up to eight hours a day, recently) – I can’t turn off the tap, so to speak. When I’m cutting as deep as I can go to get to feelings and emotions that I want to express as authentically as I can, I’m there, and I just can’t stand up, stretch my back and walk away from the page and be “okay”, and in some even-keeled mindset again.

Does that make sense?

I’m emotional and drained and weepy and maybe, if it’s a happy tale, I’m elated and weepy in a better way. Basically, I’m wrecked. I haven’t moved in eight hours and I’m exhausted.

The worst part of being a writer is not the horribly aching back, stiff shoulders, blurry eyes, oatmeal brain, no money, and no social life. The worst part of being a writer is the part when I unintentionally hurt my friends.

I hurt them because I can’t pull out of the story or the emotions that I’m exploring while writing it. I do step away from the computer to email, Skype, and chat with them, but I’m afraid I’m an emotional mess.

Sometimes I need the solace of a good friend to comfort me. Sometimes I’m so beaten up inside my head and my heart that all I want to do (in lieu of a hug) is curl up in a fetal position at a friend’s feet and ask them to please pet me on the head, to please kneel down and whisper in my ear, “It’ll be okay. I’m here. It’ll be okay.”

But right here in the grind of it, I can’t help feeling that this “asking” is asking too much. Over and over again, that I am draining those closest to me, and that is horribly unfair to them. That right there, that last sentence, that is something I just can’t bear.

But the thing is, when I’m done, when I’m in a stronger place, I hope that I’m also a stronger person for having made that little emotional journey, having created a story that never existed before, that only exists because of me. And I hope that because of that, I can give something back to those friends who were there for me. Because I want to give back. I want to give back more than they gave me even.

At the moment it doesn’t seem fair. And I’m finding it very hard not to beat myself up about it.

Paraphrasing Epictetus:

The inferior man blames others.

The regular man blames himself.

The superior man knows there is no one to blame. He looks at life with clearer, more objective eyes.

Until very recently I blamed myself for everything that went wrong around me, whether it was my fault or not. Hell, whether it involved me or not. Recently, though, I’m trying to look with clearer eyes, more objective eyes.

I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.

I don’t want to apologize for that. I don’t want to change that. It’s important to me that I do this. Flaying yourself and examining your emotions is a part of being human, no? Don’t we all do it? Or is it just my warped understanding of life? I think it’s okay to hurt, to despair, to be jealous, to seethe, to desire, to know these emotions, but figure out a way not to be ruled by them.

In the end, it’s even more important to love, be kind, help others, and nurture. This is what I want to do. It’s the goal. I love my friends and my family with every fiber of my being.

The worst part of being a writer is when the balance is off. When I hurt my friends, the people I love. It’s when I need too much from them, expect too much from them, and hurt them because I’m reeling from emotions I’ve been wrestling with all day. All those times when it feels like I have nothing to bring to the table.

But this is who I am.

I can’t say enough how thankful and grateful I am for the friends who understand and accept this ‘me’, as difficult and draining as I know I am at times. When I’m this much of a mess, it’s you who gets me through the day, you who are there, leaning over and patting me on the head and scratching behind my ears and whispering down: “It’ll be okay. I’m here. It’ll be okay.”

What I really want them all to know is that I will give back again, I will love, and be kind, and support, and nurture again. But for now, while I’m in the heat of it and can’t step away from this emotional tempest,  I just want to say this: I appreciate you. I respect you. I admire you. I’d take a freaking bullet for you. Please know if it wasn’t for you I couldn’t bear any of this. I love you.


That Time I Thought I Could Converse with the Crows

It’s kind of true. I go for an early morning walk roughly the same time every day. For a month or so now when I get to a certain point on that walk, I come across this crow sitting on top of a huge mound of dirt. Since I have nothing better to do, I talk to it. “Hey there. What’s up? You going to warn me if an earthquake is coming?”

Sometimes it just stares at me like I’m an idiot. Sometimes it cocks its little crow head. (…Like I’m an idiot.)

I walk on.

crow talking

This had been going on for awhile, and he wasn’t there all the time — like once every four or five walks. And no real conversation had taken place yet either. But I’m nothing if not an aspiring optimist. So I kept trying.

Then one day I was actually talking on Skype with a friend when I passed the dirt mountain. Despite the fact I was prattling away and had earbuds in, I heard this loud cawing nearby. I popped out an earbud and to my surprise the crow was sitting there, bobbing his head, and making a fuss.

I was so excited! He’s talking to me!

My interpretation: He was upset because I hadn’t given him proper morning greetings that day.

Suffice it to say, it was from that day onward that I was convinced I could converse with crows. Or I could with some practice. It would take time. But him and I? We had a connection!

Now fast forward to yesterday. I was walking my walk, but my regular crow was absent. No hurt feelings here. He’s got a life, too. But farther along I spotted three crows hanging out by some rice fields and a small stream. I did what anyone would do in that situation. I stopped a little distance away and started chatting them up. “Hey, I see there are three of you. Friends? Come here often?”

To my surprise they all seem really interested in what I had to say. I mean, they weren’t flying away. So I kept talking, letting them know I get them. I understand. Meanwhile,  the whole time I’m thinking holy cow (!) I’m really doing this. I’m like the crow whisperer or something!

I step closer, closer. They’re still not flying away. They’re still hugely interested in what I’m saying. Now I’m thinking I’m some kind of crow linguist savant. Maybe I can write a book. Or star in a TV show. Something pu tout by National Geographic or the Animal Channel.

Talk. Talk. Talk.

Step. Step. Step.

This could be my THING!

Just when my conversation is getting a little more complex, and I’m trying to explain the Brexit vote to them and why they should be worried, I take one more step. I’m right up on them.

They caw and hop-fly a little distance away. What did I say? Come on?

Then I see why they were so reluctant to leave in the first place. Why they put up with my inane chattering.


*Warning: Photo of dead aquatic animal below.*

eel shadow

Yup. Someone had (maybe them?) caught an eel and tossed it up on to that concrete thing. It wasn’t necessarily my witty banter that kept them from fleeing. It was a delicious breakfast.


Which made me sad and then made me remember my original crow, the one that hangs out on the dirt mound. Maybe he’s really not into me. Maybe it’s not into my winning personality or my sparkling charm at all. Maybe there are just a whole bunch of juicy worms buried in that humongous dirt mountain, and he’s just guarding them … from me.

But I’m nothing if not an aspiring optimist, so I remember that day he called out to me when I passed without addressing him. That happened! Maybe it’s not that I *can’t* converse with crows. It’s just I’m getting the vocabulary wrong. I’m still convinced he was trying to tell me something. Perhaps it wasn’t, “Hey, you didn’t say hi this morning.” It could have been, “Big juicy worm! RIGHT HERE! You should see this!”

So not a real conversation…yet. But I’ll take it. It’s a start.

The Not-a-Rice Ball Rice Ball – Onigirazu

An onigiri is a rice ball. The verb nigiru meaning to shape or mould something in your hand(s), not unlike, um, a rice ball. It’s also important to note that rice balls are the standard, go-to, easy-peasy meal of choice all over Japan (what a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was to my generation when I was growing up).

It’s not an exaggeration to say that since coming to Japan I’ve made hundreds of these sticky fellas. I’ve wetted and salted my hands, tucked salmon or tuna or pickled plums inside, and squish-squish-squished the rice into an onigiri. Or at least some malformed, gaijin version of one. Sometimes I even wrapped them in nori-seaweed.

But, alas, the boy-child has moved out of the house, and my husband doesn’t eat rice, nor do I. So no more rice balls.

That is until just recently, when I discovered someone kicked the whole onigiri  meal up a notch. It’s this thing called onigirazu (<–That’s the negative form of the verb right there.) *Not* to shape or mould something in your hand. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

After further study, I found that not only do you *not* shape the rice in your hands (which if we’re being honest here is actually the most exciting part of making the darned things), but you can add any ingredients you can possible dream up. You’re not stuck with the traditional salmon, tuna, and pickled plum fare.

So I thought, hey, why not? I’ll give them a try. Here’s my second attempt at making onigirazu. (First attempt = hideous = me weeping into my apron.)

First, you decide what you want in your not-a-rice-ball rice ball.

Mmm, pastrami, cheese, lettuce, cucumber. Why not?


IMG_4966 (1)


Next, on a piece of Saran Wrap you lay out nori (a special kind of nori that as far as I can tell is only different in that it is salted and more expensive). Then spread on some rice, thinly. Thinly now. Don’t make the same mistake I made that first time. #rememberhideous


Then you pile on all your goodies, in any old order, I guess. Mayonnaise FTW! Top all this off with another thin layer of rice (Not shown because it would cover up the yummies).

Pro tip: If you put the cheese on top of the warm rice it gets melty~.



Next (and this is the hard part), you fold those four corners over to make a little package. This is where the Saran Wrap comes in handy. To do it properly you kind of have to hold the whole thing down and press on it, so the rice warms the nori and softens it and it forms a nice shape. (Seriously, this isn’t as easy as they make it sound, and also…it feels a whole lot like “moulding” in your hands when you’re doing it. Just sayin’.)


But then it finally keeps its shape and you get to retrieve your sharpest knife and you cut that puppy in half (or in fours for the wee ones!)

Voila! Onigirazu!


They’re veritable rice sandwiches! Which might not sound as melodious as onigirazu, but hey(!), if it’s got lettuce and mayonnaise and some sort of luncheon meat on it, it’s a sandwich in my book. (Bread’s entirely overrated.)

The above is kinda my recipe, but if you Google around you can find all sorts of great fillings.  Smoked salmon and cream cheese, BLTs, chicken salad and lettuce, spam even!

There you have it. This new (but actually it’s been around for 25 years, just no one knew about it) thing that’s happening in Japan: The not-a-rice ball rice ball. Or, as I like to call them, Rice Sammiches!


And for my next trick: peanut butter and jelly onigirazu.

What? Why not?


*There are loads of great sites out there you can search in English, but here’s one in Japanese that has a bunch of photos to give you all kinds of ideas.




Pushing the Reset Button

Lewin’s Equation: B = f (P, E). Behavior is a function of a person and his/her environment.

The way I figure it, Ol’ Kurt Lewin was trying to tell me that in order to change my behavior (being an all-out slacker about my writing), I needed to remove myself from my stale environment (um, where I was) and go somewhere else.

So I did.

Now here I am in the States for a little over a week, holed up in an adorable house on the west coast. And you know what?

I’m writing.

It worked! Lewin, you old dog, you. You were right.



My new routine goes like this: I wake up around five thirty-ish every morning, make coffee and pretty much get to work. The rest of the day is butt-in-chair, eating breaks, bathroom breaks, and a whole lot of tap-tap-tapping on the computer.

The words might not be profound, and — if we’re being perfectly honest here — there’s probably a whole lot more time spent staring at the screen and re-reading the same sentence 200 times than actual new words being birthed, but that’s okay, too. It’s still forward movement as far as I’m concerned.

That’s the good news. All those ruts of bad habit that I’d developed in Japan seem to be gone. You know, like taking several naps a day and checking Facebook every third breath.


But then yesterday I noticed that some of my good habits have vanished as well. For one, I used to walk everywhere in Japan. Hours. Now I only manage a daily, 30-minute trip to the beach and back. I just can’t help feeling guilty about any time spent away from the computer. Another thing is that in Japan I had finally learned to stop eating until I was overfull. Here in the good U.S. of A., however, there is so much amazing (Read: I can’t find in Japan) food, and it’s all so available and so cheap and the portions are so freaking enormous.


Nom nom nom.

IMG_4546 (1)

I’m not fretting though. It’s temporary. Being here feels deep-down good. It feels like my reset button has been pushed, and I now realize it’s up to me — after I return home — to hold close all the positive, forward moving habits I can and discard the crap that was dragging me down and wasting my time.

Who knows what’s going to happen in the next few months, few years, longer? I certainly don’t. But I do know I’d rather be working toward something exciting than sitting in front of the TV on my butt all day  — which with all the great programming out there these days, is something I could see a different version of myself doing, numbing and on some level enjoying it. Nope. Not this me. Bigger fish. Fish fry. All you can eat. Wait. What?

That said, it’s now time to get back to that butt-in-chair thing I was talking about earlier. No TV though. I promise. Okay then, just at night. Two hours. One movie. We’ll call it research.  Or vacation.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

desk 1

My desk.

desk 2 view

My view.

I really am looking at my screen. I am.

A Watershed and an Existential Crisis

One year ago this month my son, Julyan, started his second year of university and moved out of the house. At the time I thought I was being clever by planning ahead, applying for a scholarship and a prestigious workshop, also picking up a few more part time jobs. Keeping busy would stave off empty nest syndrome, right?

Well, I was right. Kinda.


As it turns out it wasn’t empty nest syndrome that blindsided me. It’s not about me missing my son — actually, I’m thrilled to see him thriving after what was a horrendous high school experience. Instead, it became apparent that after he left the house, I began having my own little existential crisis. There was me trying to figure out who I am. What now? What kind of person do I want to become?

This last year has been a watershed. There have been enormous highs and painful lows. Through it all I kept trying to self reflect and look inside or, when that didn’t work, I attempted to see myself as a third party would, with some kind of objectivity. But I just couldn’t pinpoint it. All I knew was something felt out of whack. Wrong.

Then it hit me.

All my life I’ve been pretty good at fitting in. We moved around a lot when I was a child, and adapting to new environments was an important skill I had to learn. It’s no surprise then that after 25 years in Japan I’m an old pro at “being Japanese”. Not entirely, that’s impossible, of course, but I have the self deprecation card laminated and slipped inside my front shirt pocket for easy withdrawal.

Undervaluing myself and excessive modesty worked well when, for 18 years, I had to play the Japanese mom role and fit in as much as possible in an attempt not to be the nail that stuck up. Invariably the backlash of my gaffes fell upon my son.

It’s only been very recently, with the help of an amazing friend, that I’ve finally come to realize I’ve played the part of someone totally void of self-confidence for so long that I have in effect lost all my confidence.


Now that the problem has been identified, I can work on fixing it and rebuilding a new me. I can honestly say that for the first time in decades I’m tickled pink about my goals and dreams and my reasons to see them come to fruition. Add to that the fact I’m old and less afraid of screwing up and doing hard work. Time is running out. What else can I possibly do at this juncture?

Yes, everything might feel out of whack and wrong, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s exciting. It’s something to work with. Anything is possible.

Truth be told, there is a request from a publisher to read my new stories for a possible second collection. My agent still digs me. I’m moving way out of my comfort zone and trying my hand at (and really enjoying how difficult it is) podcasting. Even my website has been moved from one host to another and it’s all refurbished and shiny. I absolutely love it and thanks to a dear friend who did all the heavy lifting, it feels like just the push on the back to get me blogging again.

Stars are aligning. Ducks are falling into step behind one another. I’m sitting here about to set my lighter to this laminated self-deprecation card and see what happens.

Stick around, friends. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I got a good feeling about this. Are you with me?

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