When I teach Writing as a Spiritual Practice, I boldly tell my students that even the minutia and trivia of their lives can be fodder for writing, especially when you think you have nothing worthwhile to say. Go ahead, write the awful truth: your life can be mundane, unimportant, boring. Write your daily “to do” list in narrative. Write “I can’t forget to buy dog food, and I better email Pat today, and oh gosh my hair looks awful, I need a haircut.” Can this be writing? It’s all compost, I say, someday you will find a tulip or a turnip growing there, I promise.

But some days I don’t believe my own stuff, you know? My listing compost won’t grow anything, it has no rich meaty red worms squirming with hunger, or slimy banana peels thick with mold. There are no invisible bacterial creatures going about their daily business, brutally colonizing the muck like Vikings landing on the unprotected shores of England. No no, my listing compost is made of flattened dust balls and year-old barbecue ashes that deaden anything they cover. I suspect my Muse is hiding out in her bathroom, sitting on the toilet and idly thumbing through a magazine, thinking her own thoughts and dumping her own waste, and withholding both from me. While here I am knee deep in dust bunnies and breathing stagnant air.

Sometimes writing ain’t no fun, you know?

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