Snowman On Fire

Writing takes practice, just like hockey, baseball, or public speaking. And like hockey, baseball, and public speaking, I’m way out of shape. First blog post since the beginning of December, nearly six weeks without putting keyboard and brain together, and it gets progressively harder to crank out coherent (let alone amusing) thoughts on anything.

One of my favorite books about writing is Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird,” named for direction given by her late father to Lamott’s brother, who had proscrastinated in writing a report on “birds” until the last minute, and then panicked. His advice: Just take it bird by bird, and you’ll get through it. Great advice from a great writer.

So the Snowman is back, slightly more rotund in shape for lack of exercise, round in sound for lack of writing, and stacked three high with ideas that haven’t quite made the cut. I’m going through them, bird by bird.

I’m almost afraid to admit it, but 8 Days, 8 Nights has a full outline. 23 chapters worth, not counting front matter and a potential epilogue. I like to find stupid omens in whatever I can, and I’ll take “23″ as a good sign, for it’s Scott Gomez’s jersey number (and Gomer has a real-life cameo in the book).

Finishing the outline was only made possible by exactly one person: my wife Toby. She’s gotten me to think about other things (like our somewhat insane cardiologist friend and the purely insane number of hockey jerseys I own, each of which tells a story), many of which could turn into books. Knowing that there’s something beyond “the hockey book”, the source of my car ride and shower time obsessions for the past three years, means that it’s safe to finish writing it. I think writer’s block isn’t about knowing what to write now, it’s about worrying what you’ll write next, and the horrendous fear that the current good idea is your last. And just to be sure that the current good idea gets done, Toby just knows when I’ve been up too late writing and would benefit from a large Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee sitting on the kitchen counter, saving me a trip down the street with one eye open.

That, hockey fans, is the definition of true love.