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I was driving home from the gym the other morning on one of those days that makes you forgive Austin for the unbearable Texas heat and humidity in the summer: early February, sixty-eight degrees, not a cloud in the crystal-blue sky.
The gorgeous weather was supposed to hold for the weekend, so I started thinking about biking with my husband, a hike in the greenbelt with my best friend, maybe a game of pickleball at the park with some pals.
The hubs and I have a favorite food trailer park nearby that always feels like the wooded campsites where some of my favorite younger memories have been made—I made a mental note to ask him if he wanted to go there this weekend, or maybe meet some friends on a deck somewhere for dinner or happy hour.
That kind of weather always makes my soul and my psyche feel expansive, and so as I drove I started noodling on some ideas for a keynote speech I’m working on, eager to get home and explore them, write it all down.
And then at a red light, a car pulled up next to me bearing a logo for a local hospice service, and my pleasurable reverie evaporated.
While I was driving home appreciating this incredibly lovely Earth we get to live on, idly musing on the countless ways I might enjoy it, somebody was waiting for that car at home knowing that the days they had left were finite and few.
What Are You Putting Off for Tomorrow?
I’ve written before that I often keep my life in perspective by thinking about the end of it, what I might feel or regret or treasure most at that moment, and I always come back to the same answer: It’s not any of the things I might have done or not done that will preoccupy me when I know the clock is running out, but the people in my life. Did I spend time with the people who mattered to me? Did I let them know how much they meant to me?
I don’t think I’ll be thinking about the work I’ve left undone.
And yet…so much of the pleasure of my life revolves around my creative work as an editor and writer and teacher. So much of what gives my days meaning and satisfaction is about exploring ideas, thinking through and developing them, and sharing them.
In that flash of a moment, glancing over at that hospice car and imagining the person at home waiting for whoever was inside, a bloom of sadness filled me at the idea of knowing your creative time was at an end, that you’d put everything into the world you were going to, that there were so many ideas yet left to examine and explore and sink yourself into but you would never again have the chance.
Read more: “What Makes a Successful Creative Life?”
How many days do you put off or cut short your creative time because you know you have the luxury of tomorrow?
That “someday” mentality may let us put off writing that story that has so bewitched us, the one we’re “still thinking through,” or that we may be struggling with but so desperately want to put on the page the way it lives so vividly in our heads. The one we imagine putting into other people’s hands one day, drawing them into the world we’ve created, moving and affecting them in some meaningful way.
I’ll write tomorrow, we tell ourselves. Or this weekend, when I have a little more time. Or the amorphous black hole of “soon.”
What if you suddenly realize that all those days where you thought you had the luxury of tomorrow made you put off doing the thing that would have given pleasure and purpose to so many of your todays?
And so maybe that idea begins to lose its spark. Maybe it’s snuffed out altogether as that assumption of the surfeit of time we have to accomplish it lets us believe that one day we will.
But what if we won’t? What if that hospice car is headed to your house one day, and you suddenly realize that all those days where you thought you had the luxury of tomorrow made you put off doing the thing that would have given pleasure and purpose to so many of your todays?
Tomorrow Shapes Every Today
I don’t really subscribe to the idea of living every day as if it’s your last. I think it puts too much pressure on us to make every day a peak experience, when that’s not the reality of life.
The truth is there will be days you can’t or don’t want to write, where the healthiest choice may be not to, whether that’s for your own psyche or to free time for other things that matter to you, like the people in your life or the other pursuits that give you pleasure and joy. And that’s okay and normal. Mundane Wednesday is more of part of the fabric of our lives than those peak experiences.
Read more: “Most of Your Life Is Medium”
But I was still glad for that reminder of the luxury of tomorrow—never more so than right now, when today can feel like a toxic fire hose of anxiety and many people may feel discouraged and disheartened about whether there will even be much of a tomorrow for us, and what it might look like.
The luxury of tomorrow is hope. Hope that it’s the day we’ll finally crack the code on that story that’s been vexing us. Or that we might finally get the call from that agent or publisher who’s looking at our manuscript. Or that this is the day when some reader will pick up your book and be deeply affected or changed by it.
But we have to write it.
Hope that we might begin to wake up to how polarized the world has been manipulated into becoming and remember that we are one world and one people and one species who have so much more in common than we do different. Hope that the attack and erosion of our norms and laws and environment and simple human kindness will stop.
But we have to take action to make it happen. (And hang TF on.)
The loss of hope is what paralyzes us, keeps us from living the life that is our birthright as individuals: one rich with promise and opportunity—and a future.
The loss of hope is what paralyzes us, keeps us from living the life that is our birthright as individuals: one rich with promise and opportunity—and a future.
Hope is more than just the luxury of tomorrow. It’s the necessity of it. The belief that that there is still time for us to pursue our goals and dreams and desires. That we will have the chance to do so in an environment that allows and encourages us to explore our full potential. That things that are backward or broken or wrong can yet be made right.
One day every one of us will lose the luxury of tomorrow, because that car may be coming to us and we will have no more tomorrows. But hopefully for the great majority of us, today is not that day.
Today is the day we can remember that that luxury gives shape and meaning to our now—and to the futures that we dream of. If we want to enjoy those future tomorrows we need to take action today, each and every today. Move the ball a little bit further down the field toward the goals that drive us: for your writing, for your life, for the world.
Read more: “Measure Your Life by What You’re Doing, Not What You Want to Do”
Tomorrow is what gives us hope for today. No matter how bleak things may seem right now in your work or your life or your world, there is always the hope of a better tomorrow. But it requires working toward it today.
Hope may be a thing of feathers, but it’s also a thing of fire. We have to keep ours burning, even on the days when that future may feel dark or impossible, and use it to do what’s important to us and gives meaning to our lives.
Authors, please share how you hold on to your own hope, what tomorrows you dream of that help get you through the tough todays, and what action to take to move toward that hoped-for future. How do you stay motivated, focused, and driven in your work, your life, especially amid difficult times?
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14 Comments. Leave new
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Not so long ago, I could’ve answered this with ease. Now, I find myself trying to recall what I would’ve written then.
In my sixty-five years, I’ve survived more bad than I want to share, or anyone wants to hear. Always I made it through while holding on to the hope that tomorrow would bring the happiness I dreamed about as a child.
I envy my past self’s unfounded hope in the face of adversity. It’s almost comical that I’m desperate to manufacture the hope I wrote about in every story I’ve ever written. I need it so I can revise the hope I held tight when I drafted. Readers need it. I want to give it to them.
Much of what I used to do is, as of late, failing me in the face of crushing isolation. Increasingly, I’ve spent time outdoors, especially hiking, where judgement (or worse) doesn’t follow me. I adopted a cat, Evie. Sometimes, I just simply read old stories to recapture what’s slipping away.
Oh, Christina…I’m so sorry to hear you’re going through a difficult time and feeling isolated. Do you have support you can reach out to–family, friends, fellow writers? There are some wonderful communities that may offer a bit of connection that might be welcome: writing groups, local MeetUps, maybe even classes in things that interest you? Loneliness can be so soul-draining–though nature is often nourishing and it’s good you’re getting outside and being active. And your kitty, Evie…! When I got my dog Brinks when I lived alone, I remember how it transformed the energy of the house and made me feel like a “we” instead of just a “me.” I hope you might reach out for connection, companionship, and help if you need it, and that you find a bit of light and hope filtering in soon. Hang in there.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you. I participate in a couple of writing groups online that help. I also interact with other hikers online who have helped me a lot with gear, etc.. Evie has definitely turned my home into a “we” place. From our first night together, she’s cuddled with me, and the majority of the time sits with me while I edit. She’s also prone to “losing her ever-loving mind.” It’s great. We play a lot. Some days it’s hard, but each morning I keep trying.
Hang in there, Christine. And Evie sounds like a delightful companion. <3
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you Tiff for this lovely post. Timely, as ever.
Thanks, Syl–I’m glad it hit the right note at the right time for you. <3
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Dear TYM,
Yesterday, I clicked the button to receive your posts, and I’m so glad I did. Thank you for the lovely reminder to embrace hope. The experience I had this morning–after reading your post– underscored your message.
I’ll see you one car with a hospice sign and raise you a man on the ground waiting for the EMS to lift him onto a gurney. I pushed my cart by the guy lying on his side in the Walmart parking lot. He had a full head of dark hair, a look of bewilderment, and a crowd of well-wishing strangers seeing him into the ambulance. All I could do was pray for his recovery and feel grateful for my own good health. I had just enjoyed a walk with a friend, so if it had been me on the ground, at least I would have done something fun before I landed there.
At the end of the summer, I’ll enter my seventh decade. I’m incredibly fortunate. I don’t have to make time to write as I once did. I remind myself to appreciate the life I have–giving thanks is the best way to focus on what’s “right” with your life.
Like most people my age, I’ve been through trying times. And as staggering as they are, the hurt will and does pass. Pain lessens. Returns. Eases. Courage grows. You think you won’t get through the tough times, but is there a viable choice? Keep going.
My enviable challenge is to limit the hours I spend at my desk in the head of imaginary characters and find ways to engage with real people. I find motivation through spending time with new friends, reaching out to old friends, and traveling when I can. It energizes me, gives me new material, and makes time with my invented world more fun.
One way I stay focused is through my wonderful writing accountability partner. We met in an online group. She and I have faithfully sent each other our weekly writing goals for the past four years. I live in Texas with my husband; she’s a widow in Illinois. We met face-to-face in September for the first time. She won tickets to the Grand Ole Opry and invited me to join her in Nashville. We both took a risk, stepped outside our comfort zones–and had a marvelous time together.
Before I’m the guy in the Walmart parking lot or the one the hospice car is heading toward, I want to have some stories to tell. I want people to say, “you did what?!?”
Hell, yeah, I sure did, and guess what I’m doing next week.
I
I’m so glad you did too, Pat–nice to see you here!
Your story about the man at Walmart…that’s a powerful reminder of the same kinds of feelings I experienced seeing the hospice car–even more so, because that kindness and support you saw from fellow shoppers is so heartening and tender. And yes…incidents like that are such a potent reminder to be grateful for our own health and ability. Your reminder about gratitude in general is well taken–I try to remember it too, but it can be easy to get sidetracked into deploring what’s wrong, rather than being thankful for all that’s right and good.
I love this especially: “the hurt will and does pass. Pain lessens. Returns. Eases. Courage grows. You think you won’t get through the tough times, but is there a viable choice? Keep going.” If that isn’t the crux of what life is, and how we navigate it, I don’t know what is.
What a great story about your writing accountability partner and how you met! And the friendship and creative support that have resulted from your impulsive decision to take a leap. A long time ago I realized I’d let my life narrow–burying myself in work and responsibility and being careful and cautious about most everything. I decided I’d start saying yes–to almost anything, every offer of an adventure or something outside my comfort zone or something I might have said an unthinking, reflexive “no” to because it was new or complicated or unknown. I think the pendulum eventually swung back more to the center, but I try to remember to do what you did: Just say yes, take a leap, see what happens. Just live fully–and make a story to tell.
Thanks for the comment.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
It’s pouring rain and blowing here, and there are two turkey vultures soaring right outside my window, seeming to revel in it. The almond trees are still blossoming, despite the February funk. Remembering to stop and experience nature, and feel the feelings that it engenders in me, spurs me to share that emotion through my writing, even if it’s on a different topic entirely.
And my ever-faithful writing buddies, showing up day after day and week after week, inspire me to keep on keeping on. Their successes remind me of the rewards of hard work, and their struggles help me feel less alone in my own.
The connections, with nature and with other people, are really what I hope for, today and in the future. The work is in remembering to reach for and notice them, a little more each day.
That sounds lovely, Heather. I love a good rainstorm too–there has to be a German or Icelandic word for the warm, pleasurable feeling when you’re inside and cozy watching and listening to it. 🙂 Like you, I find great solace and centering in nature, and inspiration–it seems to clear my thoughts. And in community too–exactly. Thanks for sharing this–and being part of mine.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Speaking of rain, I remember vividly being in third grade.
The teacher asked us to “describe rain.”
It occurred to me that I should put a bit more into this assignment, so I thought about it. Finally, I wrote, “uncooked macaroni spilling onto a linoleum floor.”
The teacher contacted my mom, raving about how creative I was, what an asset that is to have in a classroom or anywhere (and this gave my mother hope through all my failed classes of high school 😉
Sometimes I will look back on little wins––yes, even ones from third grade—to help me maintain some confidence.
A favorite screenwriter, Scott Frank (‘Get Shorty,’ ‘Queen’s Gambit’) said, “Confidence is key. Writers write when when they know they can.”
We KNOW when we have that confidence, and we know when we don’t. But the key is to write even when we feel we don’t, because, like working out, We feel wobbly at first, and then we find our stride.
Ha–what a great story, Nathan–not just how much it affected you (but I get it–I joke with my husband that I need a sign that says, “Will work for praise”), but your metaphor itself. I heard that rain. 🙂
And yes, I agree: confidence is key. I frequently have to remind myself that I know what I’m doing, I’ve done it before, and I can do it now. Thanks for sharing this.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Beautiful post, thank you Tiffany. I was diagnosed with cancer in my late 40s, and learned then that there are no guarantees. I try to remember to live each day fully, to be kind and generous, though I’m not as consistent as I’d like to be. I write when I can or when I’m motivated; sometimes getting butt to chair is the hardest part of that endeavor. I’m fearful for our future during these times of upheaval. All I can do is persevere, do what I can to make things better.
I’m so sorry about your diagnosis, Leslie–that has to be a very hard thing to hear, and to deal with. Your approach feels like the healthiest one under the circumstances, to me: Take each day as it comes, live it fully, don’t beat yourself up…be kind.
I share your fears for the future. Sometimes, though I wonder if it’s ever been different–meaning it seems to me that each generation may fear what comes next. I hope the moral arc continues to bend toward justice, and that we might continue to evolve as a species…but there are no guarantees. Your approach helps me here too: one day at a time, live it fully, be kind, do your best to make things better. Thanks for this comment.