Just Do It

“There are years that ask questions
and years that answer.”
-Zora Neale Hurston

It’s early December, which means it’s time for me to write the annual holiday letter—because in my family, the task always falls to me.

I arise from bed with determination. After transferring a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, I eat some oatmeal, make coffee and with a steaming cup in hand, I climb the stairs to my office, walking right past the unread newspaper. I open the lid of my laptop with ceremony and push the power button with a flourish. Settling into my chair, I sip coffee as I watch the screen come to life. I open a new Word file and name it “Holiday Letter.2008.” So far, so good.

But instead of staring at the screen, I stare out the window above my desk, looking for inspiration. Then I remember how much more inspired and focused I am after a brisk walk or run. And besides, the sun’s out this morning. I need to catch some Vitamin D before the clouds move in. I lace up my running shoes, put the leash on the dog and we hit the open road.

When I return an hour later, I’m greeted by the buzzzzz of the dryer alarm, reminding me I need to fold the clothes before they wrinkle. As I head upstairs, folded clothes in hand, I notice the dog hair that’s collected in the corners of the stairs. No choice but to vacuum. And while I’m at it, I realize it would be silly to only vacuum the stairs. So I vacuum the whole house.

Then I remember today’s priority. I march back upstairs and as I plop down in front of the computer, I catch a whiff of myself. Phew! After all that walking and vacuuming, I have no alternative but to shower.

Refreshed, I return to my desk and decide I should reread holiday letters from past years. I’m so flooded with nostalgia that I barely hear the sound of Steely Dan on my cell phone, my daughter’s ring tone. Can’t ignore her call—we haven’t talked in over a week. Forty-five minutes later, I’m back at my computer.

But before my fingers hit the keyboard, I make the mistake of looking up at the clock. It’s time for lunch. I march back downstairs and slap together a peanut butter sandwich. While I eat, I glance at the newspaper splayed out on the kitchen table. I don’t let myself read the conclusion of any story that jumps to another page.

Enough is enough. I march back upstairs, slide my legs under the desk, and with a deep sigh, begin to write. And as I do, I remind myself of the goals I set for myself each year:

1) To remember who my audience is—friends and family—who accept me for who I am. Why would I need to impress them with lengthy descriptions of my trip to Spain, the achievements of my kids and my husband’s work accomplishments? (The trip immersed me in a new culture; the kids have found their niches and are happy and healthy; and Jim still finds his job stimulating.)

2) To write in first-person. Although I’ll mention something about every member of my family, the viewpoint of the letter is mine. I remind myself how irritating I find letters in which the writer—for example, Kathy—writes about herself in third-person.

3) To use my own speaking voice. I want to sound like I’m talking to friends and family around the kitchen table.

4) To find the blessings in the last year. And the humor—always, the humor.

5) To not be afraid to tell the truth. Maybe, as Zora Neale Hurston reminds me, the last year has been one with more questions than answers. No need for gory details. Just enough honesty, grace and reflection for my friends and family to know that next year, I’ll probably have more answers.