Stuff My Writing Students Say, Part 16

"You're kind of cranky. But in a good way."

Last night, the final night of an 11-week memoir and personal essay class, a writer who attended each session (despite complicating situations in her life), said this to me by way of explaining why she'd always turned up. "It's partly because you're a bit of a grouch, in a good/funny way," she said, and she wanted to see what I might grumble about each week. She assured me my crankiness was limited to instances of lazy writing, sloppy editing, and last minute, half-hearted revising, and that otherwise I'm a nice person.

Okay, I'll take that.

Which gave me a chance to reiterate what I say on the first day of every class or workshop, but students tend to forget: I'm not the sort to spend our scarce few hours together telling you how wonderful your precious prose is, how talented and gifted you are, that your every word sparkles. I don't tell writers, or frankly, expect writers to believe, that I love everything about their work, that they are going to get published somewhere wonderful and quite soon, that an essay or chapter is nearly perfect as first submitted.

I don't laud praise all over a manuscript, and then slip in a few small quiet words about something that you may, perhaps, possibly might consider changing just a bit, because, at least in my opinion, and I may be wrong, it could use, you know, just a bit of tweaking.

I developed this philosophy from having been on the other side of the table for years, sitting across from all kinds of writing teachers, workshop leaders, and editors. Long ago I concluded that if I wanted to grow as a writer, praise is lovely but not entirely helpful. And, it's not what I'm paying for, what I'm there for.

If I'm in the student/client chair, I'll take cranky and tough--which I'm fairly sure is mostly another way of saying demanding--over sweet and nice. Mind you, cranky/tough/demanding has to come along with: helpful, resourceful, encouraging. So I may be cranky but I try hard to be all those things, too.

Cranky/tough/demanding works if backed up by precise feedback, and focused, specific editing suggestions; with questions that help/force a writer to re-think, re-imagine, re-see (revise!) their work. So I work hard to do a lot of that.

Cranky/tough/demanding, when coupled with genuine interest in seeing the student writer challenge him/herself, also requires a willingness--in order to push that writer's craft toward growth--to sometimes not be liked. (Kind of sounds like parenting teenagers, huh?)

I'm occasionally, no maybe frequently, not liked by some folks in the early stages of working together. Most of the time, they like me again later on. But not always. That's okay.

My students and clients can think I'm grouchy or a bit of a crank, or tough or demanding, and I don't mind. As long as they also think I'm helping their writing develop, go new places, leap forward.

Growth, development, leaps forward usually aren't the result of patting anyone on the head and telling them how wonderful their work already is. Let's face it, you can get that from Mom, your best friend, your sweetheart.

The teachers, mentors, workshop leaders, and editors I had who were tough, who seriously challenged me, who were daring and smart enough to draw a line through a paragraph of mine and write in the margin "Who cares? Rewrite," are the ones who propelled me to work harder, to revise, rewrite, shred, and start again-- and to raise my own standards. The ones who were sweet and soft left me feeling good for a few hours -- and then very soon after, I felt cheated, out of money and time.

Anyway, I'm not always cranky. Sometimes I do tell students how much I admire their writing, but this typically occurs when writers have gotten through three or six or 16 drafts, and by then are beginning to be a little tougher, a little more demanding too, of their own work. 

When I can see how hard a writer has worked to make each word sparkle, each page shine – and that they've moved on in their writing development, I've been known to say, "This is GOOD."

I could say "great" I suppose. But let's not get carried away.

Read the other 15 installments of  Stuff My Writing Students Say.

Image:  Flickr via Creative Commons / mootown

Guest Blogger Nancy Gerber on A Teacher's Legacy

One cool aspect of teaching online is reaching writers across the country and globe (Mexico, Sweden, Germany, Italy, Australia, and Canada so far). But often, writers enroll who live within a few miles, and when that happens, we have a coffee together when the class ends. That is how Nancy Gerber and I met in real life a few months ago. Nancy is the author of Losing a Life:  A Daughter’s Memoir of Caregiving (2005), which chronicles the aftermath of her father’s massive stroke, and “My Mother’s Keeper” (2010), an illustrated chapbook about her mother’s descent into dementia.  She holds a doctorate in English from Rutgers University and taught English and Women’s Studies at Rutgers-Newark for eight years.

Please Welcome Nancy Gerber. 

I was nine the year I fell in love with poetry. Ellen Lane, my fourth grade teacher at Woodside School, introduced me to the power and beauty of poetic language, a lesson that has stayed with me to this day.

Ellen Lane was a tiny woman, maybe five feet, small framed with curly gray hair and steely eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses.  She wore starched blouses and sensible shoes. We thought she was ancient and called her Miz Ol’ Lane behind her back, but she was probably in her sixties, not that much older than I am now. Even then, I was uncomfortable with this show of disrespect toward her but I was trying to get in with the popular girls and went along.

Mrs. Lane loved the work of Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Carl Sandburg and I think she saw it as her patriotic duty to teach her young charges about the literary contributions of great Americans. I recall her standing in front of a beige laminate desk in our cinderblock classroom, reading with such precision and force that “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” or “I’m Nobody. Who are You?” became etched into my developing brain. 

One of her favorites was Sandburg’s “Primer Lesson.”  She had us memorize it:

"Look out how you use proud words.
When you let proud words go, it is not easy to call them back.
They wear long boots, hard boots: they walk off proud; they can’t hear 
you calling ---
Look out how you use proud words."

       The poem contains an important truth for fourth graders fond of name calling, as we were.   Come to think of it, it’s a good lesson for adults, too.

That year I blossomed as a writer. We wrote weekly book reports for Mrs. Lane,  an assignment that encouraged reading, writing, and critical thinking skills. The discipline of writing those essays paid off. That same year, during Jewish Book Month, I won an award from my Hebrew School for a book report I wrote on a biography of Henrietta Szold, founder of the organization Hadassah. The committee chair called my mother to ask if a parent or teacher had helped me, and my mother assured them no, this was my own work. I still have the prize, a copy of The Book of Jewish Knowledge, inscribed: "To Nancy Frankel, 1965, from the Ada L. Goldberg Library of Temple Emanuel, Westwood, New Jersey." 

       That early success in literary criticism and the satisfaction of being recognized as a writer were important early influences that guided me on the path to pursuing a doctorate in English. I wrote a chapter of my dissertation on one of the longer works of Gwendolyn Brooks, the first black woman to win a Pulitzer Prize in poetry.   

I’ve looked for traces of Ellen Lane on the Internet. She must have passed away years ago.  I found a street named for her in River Vale, New Jersey, where she lived and taught, and also a service award in her memory sponsored by the River Vale Fire Department. I think she’d be pleased to know that her legacy as an inspiring poetry teacher lives on.


Note from Lisa:  Nancy suggests that teachers looking for online poetry resources consult 180 Poems a Day, sponsored by the Library of Congress, or the educators section at the Academy of American Poets.

Why Saying Yes When I Want to Say No is Sometimes Good.

I recently got a good lesson in walking the talk.

As a huge advocate of stepping outside of one's comfort zone, I encourage other writers to try it – write in a new genre, do something that's a little scary (Read at an open mic? Apply for a grant? Attend a conference?). In addition, I urge writers – and everyone really who is interested in developing their craft and/or career– to say YES. Yes to new and perhaps offbeat opportunities and invitations that come one's way. Not yes to everything, of course, but to those things that may help us stretch, enhance our skills, widen our connections – and who knows, maybe have some fun.

Because I dish out this kind of advice, I try to model it; in fact, it was because I adopted this mindset during my MFA program, that I advocate it at all. Back then, I said yes to a lot of things I might have otherwise dismissed as too time-consuming, too difficult, too outside my comfort zone.  I'm not always successful, but when I get a chance, I try to practice what I preach – and do it like I mean it.  

Early in January, an editor I know asked me to write a short chapter about working with a ghostwriter, for a book she was compiling, in which some 70 professionals would be giving tips and advice to business owners. This was something I felt comfortable doing, and because I want to grow the ghostwriting end of my business, I said yes, that I would be happy to do it.  A few weeks later, she invited me to appear in a video featuring several of the chapter writers, each speaking for 90 seconds about their topic. Whoa. So. Not. Happy. I said no way, thanks anyway, but no.

She asked me not to say no quite so quickly, to think about it.  

The timing coincided with Boot Camp where the focus those two weeks – in materials which I of course had written – was on encouraging the 14 writers in the class to get out of their comfort zones, to say YES.  

Ahem.

So I spent some time, during a longish car drive, trying to figure out why I was so automatically opposed to the video invitation. It didn't take long:  I hate having my picture taken (and a recent spate of video chats only reconfirmed my fear of video). It would take place on a Saturday that was already crammed with other work and family obligations. The only photo of myself that I like is the one here on the blog, taken during a shoot for an Oprah magazine essay, when professional make-up and hair experts were on hand. And, I am profoundly uncomfortable writing for video, especially with a strict 90 second limit.

I had to get tough with myself and ignore the weekend timing; I could work it out, after all. But the rest still stopped me, especially the scriptwriting part. Then I remembered something I tell my kids to ask themselves when they are stumped:  Is there anyone I know well who can help me?

There was. I asked my 17-year-son, who is a host and sports  analyst for his high school radio station, and who has taken a summer sports broadcasting program for four years, to help write the script.  I gave him my chapter to read, and he banged out a good rough draft in five minutes; we edited together, and then he helped me rehearse, and get the timing right.

Finally, I came up with a way to deal with the camera issue, and called the editor to see if she and the videographer would be willing to shoot me in deep shadow, since after all I would be talking about ghostwriters (sample line: "If I do my job right, you won't be able to see me on the page either.") They agreed.

Perhaps these were not the very best creative solutions, and yes, I know the witness-protection angle may be a little bit corny. I may get hives when I see myself in the final video. But I was pleased that I had been able to work around my discomfort and to say YES.  I had a little fun, too. That's allowed, right?

Not exactly qualified for that writing award? Apply anyway.

This is a story about freelancing, a wild chance, nostalgia, looking back in order to go forward, friends with blogs, and a little luck.

A few months ago, I was fortunate to be awarded a scholarship (in the category of Nonfiction Article Writing) by the Education Foundation of the American Society of Journalists and Authors (ASJA), to attend ASJA's annual three-day conference in Manhattan.

I knew I would gather plenty of terrific advice, tips and knowledge from the panels and seminars, and I looked forward to spending a few days around fellow freelancers, exchanging inside info and trading (a few) horror stories. But the real reason I wanted to go to the ASJA conference was that I hadn't been to one in about 20 years. Before that, attending the ASJA event had been an annual outing for me, beginning with my first, the year after graduating from college with a journalism degree.

At the time, I was struggling to support myself as a freelance writer, and saw the conference fee as a necessary investment. I was right – from that first conference, I made important contacts with editors who sent work my way for many years. After that first attendance, I made the ASJA meeting a fixture on my calendar, even after I began working in public relations a few years later (another story!).

The conference slid off my annual agenda at some point. Until this past winter, when I got the idea in my head that, living just across the river, and wanting to expand the freelance journalism arm of my career, I really had no excuse not to attend again. Except of course, the fee. I visited the ASJA site a half-dozen times, filled out the registration form, and then let it languish. That money, I kept telling myself, would be better spent on my son's tuition. Or the other son's cello lessons. Or groceries.

One late winter morning this year, I was doing one of the online things I do every day – reading my friend Erika Dreifus's great blog, Practicing Writing. That day, she reminded readers that the deadline for the ASJA Education Foundation scholarships was that very afternoon. I thought for a moment about applying, but immediately dismissed the notion; I figured the selectors were probably looking for someone either (take your pick): younger, with less (or more) publishing credits, in worse financial circumstances, with less (or more) experience.

Then I remembered something I'd read a while back on another great blog, where novelist Tayari Jones wrote a post meant to encourage young writers to think big and be a bit reckless in seeking out opportunities. Tayari passed along advice she was once given (and I'm paraphrasing here): Every day in the writing world, someone is awarded something for which he or she may not seem especially qualified. The trick is to keep applying for things, because one day, why can't it be you?

The ASJA application, including links to published articles, a CV, and cover letter explaining why the scholarship was being sought, was due in a few hours.

Why can't it be me? I hit send.

Here's what was so interesting to me, sitting in on ASJA discussions again, some 30 years after having attended my first conference: How much has not changed, and how much has. On the one hand, everyone was discussing the very same things that we worried about in 1982 – the best way to query editors, how to attract an agent's attention, negotiating rights and fees, interviewing difficult people, keeping clips organized and presentable. But that was fine, because in the intervening years, everything else had changed, and so doing all of those basic things that propel a freelance career, now requires an entirely different set of skills, tools, technology.

Back in 1982, I recall wide-eyed, eye-rolling, grudging reactions in some sessions to certain ideas of changing up the way one does business. In 1982, a panelist suggested that five years hence, everyone in the room would own at least one computer on which we'd all be writing our articles. Having seen computers being installed in the journalism classrooms at Syracuse University just before I graduated the year before, I believed it, but I noticed quite a few crossed arms and shakes of the head around the room.

It was a similar scene several years later, when in those same ASJA sessions I heard another speaker declare that in just a few years, we would no longer be printing out word-processed articles and stuffing them into envelopes to send off to editors. At another ASJA I attended, probably around 1990 or so, I remember someone said the words electronic communication and web page. Some people seemed excited, but others clearly were not happy to contemplate the coming changes.

Fast forward to this past April, when there was a lot of talk about online activities -- creating a great website and blog, building a Twitter following, knowing how (and how not) to use Facebook and other social media, writing for online venues, SEO skills, developing e-newsletter lists, building an online portfolio of clips. Mostly, audience members welcomed information on these topics. But then in some sessions, where the conversation veered to video blogging, podcasts, writing for phone apps, formatting ebooks, and other issues, I could sense some reluctance (could some of that have been coming from moi?), and suddenly it felt just like old times: Can all this newness really be coming our way, be here already? Yes, and how wonderful. Yes, and oh no!

One way the conference also felt familiar, for me at least, was in the way these gatherings are good for one's career, and the soul of the work-at-home freelancer. I got to talk, in the flesh, with other writers – some with more experience than I, whose tips I appreciated, some with less experience, whose questions I was happy to answer. I met editors face-to-face and gathered useful intel on what might get an assignment nod. I was able to listen to others ask the questions I was either too hesitant to ask, or would never have thought of – and heard the answers in real time. I shared a meal, a drink, a coffee, with people I might not have sought out – a design blogger, a pet columnist, an education writer -- but whose company, and insights, I enjoyed.

And, I got to write this blog post – which I hope will encourage other writers to go ahead and ask for that scholarship, apply for that residency, enter that contest, go after that job. Why can't it be your turn next?

Writers: When offered help, do you say YES?

A few years ago at a writing conference, I took a master class with a writer who'd published novels, memoirs and essay collections. About 12 writers met with this author for several hours over two days for a combination of lecture, discussion and workshop. The second day's class focused on the first two pages of a manuscript, with each of us reading ours aloud for feedback. At the end of the session, the author offered to take another look at any two-page rewrites that resulted; all we need do is email them to him with a reminder note.

I thought he was maybe just being polite, or that he'd send back a standard perfunctory reply along the lines of "Good work and good luck." I figured he must be too busy anyway. Then weeks went by. A few months. And when I did finally think about following through, I decided he probably wouldn't even remember making the offer.

Then one day when I was feeling particularly miserable, his card found its way to the top of my messy desk. A week later, I'd rewritten those two pages based partly on his critique and hit send, reasoning the worst that could happen was he'd ignore my email.

Three days later, I got a response – several paragraphs on precisely what he thought I'd done well in the rewrite, and a few more specific suggestions for further development. And at the end, a P.S. "You are the only writer in that class who took me up on my offer. Actually, I've made that offer about four times in the last two years, and have only heard from two writers, you included."

I was floored. What idiot writer would pass on the opportunity to get further feedback from a writer of this man's stature, at no additional cost? Well, me, almost.

I thought about this again recently after I got back from another conference and realized that the writing world is probably littered with similarly squandered opportunities.

What writer hasn't at least once received an unexpected and generous offer (from a writer, agent, editor, publisher), to look over something at no cost or obligation – a proposal, manuscript pages, idea, query letter, synopsis, contract – or to otherwise provide additional assistance, advice, contact? And how many times have we either let it slip through the cracks of memory or busy-ness, or filed it too deeply in the back of our minds, or figured he/she was just being polite or wouldn't have the time or interest to respond anyway, or would have forgotten they'd even made the offer?

As for me, the next time someone extends me such an offer, I plan to surprise that person and follow up.

Note to (Writer) Self: Who do you think you are?

Occasionally, like all writers I think, I waste time (and energy) talking myself out of some major project I'd like to tackle.

Self, I say, you simply don't have enough time to write that. Pathetic little self, you don't yet have the credibility you need to get that project sold. Little nobody self, what makes you think you can get access to those interview subjects? Insignificant little writer self, how do you plan to execute such a vast project, the likes of which you've never even tried?

Delusional self, I continue, that just wouldn't contribute to the bottom line, so stop dreaming. Sorry old self, I say, that idea is just too big (or too different or too much of a reach); you shouldn't try it until you have more (take your pick) experience, publishing credits, contacts.

Finally, I say to myself (by this point I'm on a pretty good self-defeating roll): Who do you think you are anyway?

It's pretty easy to see how quickly I can go from the above to….procrastinating, hedging, avoiding, delaying -- and forgetting all about it. Eventually, I put the BIG idea in a mental drawer, sigh, and move on -- to projects I know I can handle, those that come with guaranteed paychecks, those I know (based on past performance) I can complete with relative confidence.

The funny-sad part of all this is that I don't (ever, really), become unproductive on a daily basis. I keep on producing words and pages and finished pieces, like I always do. I keep taking on new editing clients and ghostwriting projects and workshops, as I always do. I don't stop writing new material or stop teaching, or stop coming up with good ideas for the work I'm already doing. I don't stop querying for freelance assignments or stop submitting my work to literary journals, like I'm always doing.

But then, that's the problem right there: What I'm already doing. Not reaching. Not stretching. Not thinking about or doing something about even one of the bigger solo projects that I both hunger for and recoil from.

I try to ignore and deny this tendency I have to push aside my own BIG goals and just keep doing what I do. I reason with myself that there's no DIShonor in that, in continuing to write, teach, edit and otherwise work hard at a writing life I've carved out through hard work and perseverance, is there? No.

But.

Sometimes I forget. I drop the smiley face, and the sunny everything's-fine front, and let someone see what it is I keep shoving aside as a writer -- that raw, empty spot I want to fill in with the work of that BIG idea, that hole I keep covering over. That happened a few weeks ago when I shared a meal with a writer friend who told me, simply and firmly, to get over it, to get on with it.

Writers, this is the kind of writer-friend you want. You want this kind of friend even if, at the moment, you want to toss your Caesar salad onto her lap.

Since that lunch, I've been thinking about the bigger picture, my BIG ideas, and for the first time in a long time, there's no attendant Greek chorus of Oh-No-You-Can't and Who-Do-You-Think-You-Are playing an endless loop in my brain.

And now, here comes 2011. Time for me, a list lover, to make the planning list I do every January, of what I'd like to accomplish writing-wise (or at least work on, diligently and with conviction) over the next year. Looking back at last year's list, I can cross off 7 of the 10 things I listed, and that's pretty good.

But nowhere on that list was there even one BIG idea, one project that beckoned and also scared me.

In 2011, I plan to scare the hell of out myself.

Today I'm thinking about why I write. Father did know best.

My father was a major reason I fell in love with words. Each night, he read two newspapers. From the time I was first able to read, he pointed out interesting articles. He wrote short stories, allegorical fables, and letters to the editor which he never mailed. He kept them all in a drawer. He wrote some really terrible poetry, and some pretty darn good poems, and sent them to everyone he loved. He loved books, and he knew the difference between writers and authors. He was philosophical and corny, naturally intelligent but formally uneducated. And, he innately knew, when it came to a piece of writing, that shorter was better than long.


He died three years ago today.

My father detested cold weather and moved to Las Vegas as soon as I graduated from college. But four years or so before that, he accompanied me on a tour of Syracuse University, on a winter day when the temperature barely reached 15 degrees. When we exited the journalism school complex, a blast of frigid wind slammed into us, and he handed me $20 for cab fare and went back to the hotel (where I'm sure he read all the local newspapers.) A few months later, he wrote the first of many tuition checks.

Three years ago tonight, on an airplane heading west through darkness to a too-bright Las Vegas morning, I wrote a eulogy. It took me two hours. It was too long. And, it's never finished.

The Joy of Julie, Julia, and The Joy of Cooking

When I saw the Julie + Julia movie recently, I loved the scene in which Julia Child finally comes face to face with Irma Rombauer, the author whom she's admired and idolized, the author whose book, The Joy of Cooking, had already spurred Child to train as a chef and agree to co-write Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Child discovers that Rombauer is not the precise, serious, erudite author and exacting trained chef Child had imagined, but someone more like Child herself – a woman who loves to cook and loves to write and is rather quirky and has grit. But what really interested me was Rombauer's explanation that, even though the book by then (1947) was a huge bestseller with a major publishing house, it had started its original publication life in 1931 when Rombauer used her meager life savings to "have it printed" (translation: she self-published, or in the parlance of the day, used a vanity press.) Recently, Joy of Cooking was "selected by The New York Public Library as one of the 150 most important and influential books of the twentieth century," according to Simon & Shuster.

I love how Child seems to visibly convey something important not-yet-published writers need to know -- that published writers are not so different from us. They just kept at it and kept at it and invested themselves and believed in their project. And, I liked the way, without praising or condemning the concept of self-publishing, it was just another fact about the book.

I have lots of opinions about self-publishing but mostly it boils down to: it all depends on the book, the topic, the author, and his/her goals. I thought of this again today when I found this list of other books which surprisingly began their publication lives that way. Take a look.

Write Me a Roller-Coaster

If my 2009 New Year's resolutions had been to spend the month of January being frustrated, being disappointed, being grateful for the power of my extended network of writing friends (in person and online), and being left to wonder (often simultaneously) if "this writing thing" was the best or the worst part of my life – well, then I would have to get a gold star for keeping those resolutions.

I'm still exhausted and reeling from a confluence of experiences, events and situations, writing-wise, that made up my month; not to mention the mental gymnastics required to keep myself on something resembling an even keel. Though I’m not trying to be coy or overly dramatic, it still feels too soon to write about any of the situations specifically, except perhaps to say that:

• Sometimes what I want (to do, to accomplish, to experience) turns out to not be what I need, at the time, either as a writer or as a person.
• Sometimes my personal family life reminds me, emphatically, that the writing has to take (a way distant) second place, and that sometimes, this is a good thing.
• Sometimes, many jobs, even the ones which I seem perfect for, will go to others, even to others who seem singularly unsuited.
• Sometimes, someone (or some organization/publication/group) who previously had offered a career boost, instead closes a door.
• Sometimes, a quiet supporter of my work comes forward to make an unexpected, bold gesture which humbles me, and opens a window.

…Accepted essays fall victim to folded publications.
…A new column never bows because of a shuttered website.
…Clients change their minds, their budgets, their email addresses.
…Agents lose interest.
…A long-awaited residency at an artists' colony is interrupted by…life.

And yet….

- New writer friends appear and buoy me.
- A reading is well-attended.
- Downtime makes it possible to draft a business plan for a former idea, to polish a big chunk of a new proposal.
- Taking stock, slowing down, and taking a look around, once dismissed as luxuries, suddenly feel essential and important, and too-long overlooked.
- Writer friends graciously contribute killer guest posts, just because I ask.
- My family, and especially my husband, remind me that my presence is valuable, not (just) my words.

Always, and still, I come back to writing. And I remember, that there are twelve months in a year.

Enough Words. Enough.

Some years ago, I came across a list of words which, the author claimed, would never fail you, which would provide the answer to just about any difficulty. I copied the list and stuck it in my calendar and each year, transfer it to the new one. Today, as I was moving junk into the 2009 calendar, it fell out and I was reminded once again that often the "answer" requires no more (and not less) than an altered perspective.

The original context may have been related to weight loss (and when I tried to track down an author, the list did pop up on many weight loss sites, always anonymously). Still, I find it useful when confronted with family, work and other personal challenges, too. Yeah, it's a little bit Pollyanna. Sue me. It's my guess that we can all do with a few words of encouragement going into 09:

Prepare
Relax
Risk
Act
Accept
Believe
Forgive
Wait
Care
Choose
Smile
Trust
Listen
Change
Persist
Pray
Focus

A few of these I use frequently when I'm troubled, especially: Wait. Listen. Act.
A few I should use more often, but invariably remember too late: Forgive. Relax.

And to this list, I'll add two more words that have become important to me recently:

Enough. Quit.

Enough, as in, maybe I've already got enough --of anything, or even everything. Anyway, enough to get by. I have a feeling in the economy ahead, this is a word many of us will need.

Quit. In my opinion, quitting is underrated and mistakenly thought of as an easy out. For me, quitting is often quite difficult, especially when it involves stopping a project bound up in a lot of emotional and creative "equity." But sometimes, under certain circumstances, the right decision really is to stop what I am doing. Put it aside. For awhile, or forever. And start something else.

In fact, I'll go further and say that I hope to quit a bunch of things in 2009. Some of them I will talk about here.

What about you?