When You Realize You Don’t Want to be a Writer After All
By Sarah Callender | September 5, 2024 |
Well, this is embarrassing.
In June’s post, I spoke about how, as a teacher, I was so excited to have the time and the headspace to revise the manuscript for my second book, to get to know the narrator better, to incorporate new research and conflict into the story, and to, basically, write my heart out and my pants off.
I did none of that. First of all, my two college-age kids were home, and if you have young-adult children, you know they don’t always want to hang out, talk, share, so when they do, even when you are in the middle of writing, and they knock on your closed door, you invite them in, tell them that you weren’t doing anything important, then ask, “What’s up?” And when, for example, your daughter says, “Want to talk about what I should do with the length of my hair? And then maybe go shopping?” you close your laptop.
And then when you are shopping and your daughter holds up a crocheted tube top, you smile, and say, “Wow, that’s amazing!” When really, what you want to say is, “Didn’t we decide that tube tops are scuzzy and especially crocheted tube tops?” And when you find yourself offering to buy your daughter that crocheted tube top, you text your best friend (who has two boys): I just bought Sweetie a crocheted tube top. WTH?
Also distracting: I found some weird lumps in weird places and learned about a gene mutation that will require frequent MRIs. I attempted to teach an old dog new tricks after our dog sitter, the most lovely person, said she can’t care for our pup until we teach him not to bolt through an open front door or side gate and run into traffic. And yes, politics.
Those kind of distractions.
But who was this undisciplined, lazy, unfocused person staring back at me in the mirror? Was my lack of productivity merely a sign that, after a year of juggling aging parents and aging offspring, after juggling my middle school students and my middle grade book revisions, I needed a few days away from writing?
No, I knew burnout, and this was not it.
Then what was this?
In early August, having sent the most recent round of edits to my very patient editor, my husband and I biked to Seattle’s best bike trail and set out on a long ride, one that, as luck would have it, included a stop at a brewery. It was mid-ride, atop the mountain bike I had owned since 1986, that I realized what this was: I no longer wanted to be a writer.
It was all so clear! And true! Sure I was sad, but sadness was undershadowed by relief, by an airy feeling I hadn’t felt since getting the book deal two summers before. Wind in my bike helmet, a bug-catching grin on my face, I was struck by the joy and lightness I felt. And the freedom.
Then I started crying, which felt both embarrassing and unsafe.
“I have a bug stuck in my eye!” I hollered ahead to my husband. “Keep going! I’ll catch up!”
Pulling over in the gravel walking path, I saw my husband, a few hundred feet ahead, pull over to check on me.
I gave him an aggressive thumbs up. “I’m really okay!” I yelled. “Keep going! Pub-ward!”
After removing the imaginary bug from my eye, I got right back up on that bicycle, and pedaled like the dickens to catch up to my husband, in part because I wanted to catch up to my husband, but also because I like blowing past the cyclists in their fancy cycling outfits and those clip shoes, the ones not riding bikes purchased in 1986.
As I pedaled, I relished my new truth. I no longer wanted to write, which meant I no longer had to write–one fulltime, low-paying job was plenty–which meant I was free from all of the silliness and struggle. I’d get more sleep, feel more peace, be more social!
But, I told myself, I would hold my truth close until we got to the pub. This epiphany warranted a face-to-face conversation meant for my husband, not for a parade of natty cyclists.
My private truth-holding lasted less than a minute. “I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ANYMORE!” I yelled up to my husband. “I’M NOT GOING TO BE A WRITER ANYMORE!”
He signaled that he was slowing.
“NO, NO! I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT! DON’T SLOW DOWN! I’M FINE!”
When we arrived at the brewery, sweaty (both of us) and raccoon-eyed with mascara (just me) we sat, chugged water, ordered our drinks–a hazy for him, a cider for me–and one of those huge salty pretzels with a side of that pretend-cheese sauce.
“So?” my husband nudged.
“Yeah … so, I realized I don’t want to write anymore. I realized this right before the bug got stuck in my eye.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s been a hard year,” he said. “Too much juggling.”
“It’s just too hard, writing is. Getting my book published will be great I guess, but, I don’t know … will it be great? Writing used to be much more fun. Now it just feels stupid. Plus, I keep disappointing M.”
“M” is my editor.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. I turned to the big screen TV. Olympic table tennis was on, and we let ourselves be mesmerized by those placid-faced, polo-shirted ping pong magicians. Now you see the little white ball, ladies and gentlemen, now you don’t.
Riding back home, buzzy from cider and logy from pretzel, I felt peace: Sure, I had to fulfill the obligations of my book contract, but beyond that, I could wrap up this little 25-year experiment. I could just be a middle school teacher with a disobedient dog, errant lumps, a gene mutation, aging parents, a lovely husband, and funny adult children. There was no need to invite additional struggle into my life.
I slept hard and well that night, waking only three times, each time falling back asleep after only 20-30 minutes of unnecessary and unproductive rumination. In the morning, when my alarm went off, I hopped out of bed, got dressed, went downstairs to pour a cup of coffee. And for the first time since my nocturnal ruminations, I remembered my bike trail realization.
Immediately, there was a lump in my throat. But as it wasn’t the scary, errant kind, I decided to ignore it. I played the Wordle, texted my Dad my score, drank my coffee and ate a piece of chocolate. The lump remained. I ate another piece of chocolate and drank another cup of coffee. No improvement.
Tilting my head, I listened. Upstairs, my husband was out of the shower, so I went to the bottom of the stairs, cupped my hands around my mouth, and yelled, “I REALIZED I DO WANT TO BE A WRITER!”
A pause. “YEP!” he replied. “SOUNDS GOOD!”
Rolling my eyes at myself and my own silliness, I put on my dog-walking shoes, leashed up the pup, and together we cruised down to the bike trail, which is also Seattle’s best trail for walkers, for disobedient dogs, for writers who no longer want to be writers, and for ex-writers who realize that in fact, they can’t be anything else.
Your turn! When have you wanted to stop writing, and how long did the stoppage last? Can you pinpoint the reason for the sabbatical? How did you get back up on the writing bicycle?
Thanks, dear WU-ers for reading and responding. We are a less lonely crew of creatives because we have one another.
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
I loved this. You can’t NOT write. It’s in your genes. I get it.
Thanks, Carol. I was hoping at least three or four WUers would be familiar with this feeling. ;) You’re so kind to comment!
Sarah — I love this so much, and all I can think to say is that in future versions of such episodes I shall try for scenarios in which I have an excuse for my sudden tears. Biking is a good one. Thx.
Yes! While riding, there are so many good excuses … in addition to “bug in my eye,” you can claim “rain” or “sweat” or “clear bird poop.” I’m sure there are others. Thanks, Vaughn!
Sarah I relate to this! I have always been self-employed in one way or another, so my inner, goal-oriented boss is constantly having to put up with my whiny inner employee and her whims. But while riding this roller coaster, one thing seems constant: giving myself permission to quit always bestows the freedom to choose writing, once again. You’ve hit on something important—no one is making us do this. It is a choice, and a contract with self that needs to be renewed each time we wonder whether we are getting enough return on our investment.
Yes, Kathryn! It’s such a weird (and perhaps human) experience … how once we know we don’t HAVE to do something, it’s suddenly much more appealing. I guess that’s one of the benefits of doing work that certainly doesn’t pay very well? It’s too bad writing isn’t more lucrative, but it means we can “quit” whenever we want, and for as long as we want. xo!
I like what you said there. The part about making a contract with ourselves and remaking it. Love that! Thank you!
Kathryn, how perfect your comment about permission to quit giving us the freedom to choose writing again. That is such a key element of this wacky world of writing and I think most of us can relate. I know when I’ve toyed with the idea of quitting and just stop for a while coming back feels more like a free choice.
Ah, Sarah, I love this. I think we have to give ourselves permission to mentally quit every now and then, even to actually quit for time if that’s what feels right, to know we can do it anytime we want to, so that writing always feels like something we choose, not a slog we force ourselves into.
My husband and I always joke, “How can I miss you if you won’t leave?” But we’re only sort of kidding. We’re together almost all the time and want to be, but each of us also has separate pursuits we enjoy, and that let us always relish coming back home to each other. I think that applies to our writing too. Thanks for sharing this–sometimes we have to give ourselves permission to consider letting go so we can remember why we won’t.
Oh my gosh, Tiffany, yes! Your comment (and others’ comments) help me see that we really do need to know there’s a choice. Sure we have to write even when we don’t feel like writing, but if we have to joylessly muscle through any creative endeavor, for any extended period of time, the joylessness will likely make its way into the creation.
Same goes for marriage. :)
Thanks for sharing your lovely (and funny) analogy. It is SO true.
Sarah! I didn’t realize you were the author of this piece until I got to the bottom, laughing and loving it. So good. Glad to hear your book is nearly out in the world. Love to you and Cal.
Kim, what fun! First, I see you at the vet, and now here at WU! Thanks so much for taking the time to read and to comment. Jeff/Cal and I were riding on the Burke-Gilman, and we stopped at Stoup in Kenmore. I recommend their big pretzel. :) xoxo!
Ok, Sarah. This is the first WU post that was so relatable I got a “bug in my eye” while reading your story. I’ve felt all these things (and I’m similarly smiling as I buy my college-aged daughter the same dumb top I wore in the 90’s). I was with you with each turn of your mind and wheel but kept, thinking this lady is too good of a writer to stop. Now—I’d have been perfectly fine if you’d ended the piece with chocolate cake for breakfast and a goodbye but, it was also a relief to read the true ending. :) Happy trails, sister!
Oh Nell. Thank you for this. I so appreciate your empathy. And how have our offspring NOT learned from our own fashion mistakes?!? I love the energy in your writing. Let’s both of us keep going! :)
As you aptly noted in your opening, Sarah–sometimes life is just too much of too many opposing needs. When my mom went in hospice, and out of hospice, three times–I had to set writing aside. I couldn’t meet critique partners’ needs, and I didn’t want to keep making excuses so it was easier to quit. And it was a good decision that gave me space when I needed it. My head wasn’t in a good place for kidlit vibes, and forcing it just made me feel inadequate and wasted precious time that was better spent elsewhere. But now –I’m back to querying.
Oh, Wendy. Thanks so much for sharing this. Caring for aging parents is a priviledge. It’s also really, really hard. No one needs to feel inadequate, or like a time-waster, especially when you are caring for a loved one, and I’m so happy you listened to heart and head. And I’m just as happy that you’re back in the game. Happy querying! I so appreciate your words today.
You know I’ve been in A Struggle with writing for a while. Reading this, I wondered if, dear teacher, it has something to do with learning—or rather what happens when learning pauses. This is a fresh thought for me, so bear with my long-and-winding ramble.
Learning is rewarding, right? When things click—the critique partner’s insight, the tweak that brings a character to life, the plot twist that suddenly feels inevitable—there’s a nod of recognition, that rush of understanding. We feel balanced on whatever road we’re traveling.
But sometimes the wheels stop turning. The revelations stall. The insights dry up. We nod along with the motions of writing, but we don’t quite “get it” anymore. It’s as if there’s a gap between the effort we put in and the meaning or magic that used to propel us forward. And suddenly, we find ourselves just… stopping.
A bug in the eye at least makes sense and gives reason for a pause as we deal with it.
When it comes to writing, the proverbial bug in the eye can make a lot less sense. Maybe it’s not just about burnout or discipline or drive but about a fundamental need for that sense of revelation—those moments when learning becomes fuel. Without that, writing can feel as pointless as an endless uphill ride.
But maybe we can treat those “gaps” as bugs in the eye—minor, temporary irritants. Or maybe we can embrace a long view of it all. Because sometimes the desire to write persists, even when that gap doesn’t close. The fuel doesn’t always come back in a great gush. And yet, we get back on the bike. We might pedal a little slower, be a bit less sure of where we’re headed, but we’re still moving.
Maybe that’s the quiet power of it all—writing through the gaps, without always knowing when or if the fuel will return, but trusting that the road itself, with all its bumps and pauses, is still worth riding.
I’m glad your lumps are being cared for, my friend, and that you found out about that sneaky gene (I have one of those, too). I’m glad you decided to get back on the bike. And I’m glad you have such an awesome partner for the journey.
Ride on, Sarah!
This is just beautiful, TW. It’s a work of art, really.
It makes me wonder about the connection between learning and curiosity. Or the link between curiosity and revelation. It’s so much “easier” for me to write fiction or creative nonfiction once I am driven to understand something or someone. But often I don’t even realize that I’m writing to understand or learn something. The revelation sneaks up on me, and yes, those are the most delightful moments! But we can’t have the revelations all the time … and maybe the words we write between moments of revelation are the gaps? It can be tempting to stop writing in those moments, but then we limit the opportunity to, eventually, stumble across another revelation. And what a shame that would be, to miss out on a revelation that’s just waiting for our words to bumble by.
It’s like the catch phrase for the Powerball (I think?): You can’t win if you don’t play.
Thanks for every word of your lovely comment!
xoxo!
Your essays are always such a delight, Sarah. I’m sorry it’s been a year of juggling and health surprises. Your ability to make us laugh, despite that, is a gift. I look forward to reading your MG novel. Maybe you’ll consider one day writing a book of essays or memoir. I, for one, would read that book, no matter the topic.
I’ve stopped physically writing at times, because of circumstances, but I’ve never stopped being creative in some form and hearing stories in my head. As soon as circumstances changed enough, I was back to writing the stories down. I think of it like dreaming. It’s not really a thing you can stop easily.
Wow, Ada, I LOVE the idea that writing is like dreaming. That’s really beautiful. And when I think about it, not getting enough deep sleep results in the same crummy state of mind that I experience when I’m not writing. :) See how smart you are?
Thank you for your very generous words.
Sarah, everyone else has said everything else so I am just going to say I adore you. (And wish you all the best with the health and the juggling and the biking without spandex).
Sometimes I like to imagine getting matching cycling outfits for me and my husband. And the little shoes too. And matching helmets and cycling sunglasses and water bottles. It makes me giggle to think of that.
I adore you right back, dear Liz!
Sarah, so much of your lovely essay resonated, the juggling, wondering which balls to drop–of course, the writing can wait when your grown daughter wants to spend some time with you. I loved how the freedom to stop writing made you want to return to the page, your stories. Btw, I never believed your title…it’s so obvious you need to write.
You reminded me of my own bike rides near the winery. I was pregnant at the time with my first baby and I literally thought I invented the art of growing a baby because it was endlessly fascinating. I craved hot dogs and I don’t even like them, lol, but I’d stop to eat one every time on my bike ride. I wasn’t a writer back then, but with my second baby, I started writing (no hot dog cravings this time)… and now she’s getting married and I’m not writing a whole lot but the stories keep coming so I scribble them and wonder how many I’ll develop before grandbabies arrive…
I laughed out loud when you mentioned that you invented baby-growing. I was just talking to someone who, I think, is under the impression that *she* is the actual inventor. I’ll let you two duke it out. ;)
I love that someday you might be reading your stories to your grandbabies! Thank you for the beautiful comment and kind words, Vijaya. :)
Ah Sarah, you never never disappoint. Why, because you are so HONEST. Some writers have to present fine ideas and amazing experience that after I read, I feel like a failure. YOU, on the other hand, are LIVING your LIVE, with your children, your husband, your teaching job…so that your posts reflect the reality of the struggle to write. YES, my three amazing children are on their way, but there are always THINGS that happen, joyful more often! But writing requires you BE ALONE, with your work, your characters, while my husband must sometimes wonder what the HELL I AM DOING. Thanks for a breath of fresh air. Your post made me feel REAL and not like a loser, Beth
Oh Beth. You are the opposite of a loser … and this comment is evidence of that! Thank you for your very generous, very thoughtful words.
What the hell ARE we doing?!? ;)
Awesome post, Sarah! Anyone reading it would know you are a writer to the core. And that’s the key, understanding a writer is NOT someone who writes all the time, like some suggest. A writer is someone who loves the craft. A writer feels the need to string words into prose to varying degrees and at random times. A writer is, above all, a human being with needs, quirks, and responsibilities beyond writing, yet a writer’s eyes and mind sponges these for nuggets of story. You are a writer whether you write today or not. Cut yourself some slack.
Big hugs, Dee
Oh, Denise. Thank you so much! This is such lovely encouragement! xox!
We’re talking specifically about writing (or not writing) *novels.* I’ve been writing all my life, and I’m still doing it, if you count my substack missives and email blahgs and similar exercises in social engineering and showing off my huge intelligence. But although I have also completed two novels and written large chunks of three more (not in that order), it has taken me *years.*
As each of you knows, a novel requires the writer to turn away from the world and sit alone in a room. For a long time. And even when you finally have the bit in your teeth and your fingers are flying on the keyboard, a beloved relative is being admitted to the hospital *at that very moment.* Oh, and you are out of coffee and your HOA is turning your case over to a collections agency and the water heater is making a funny noise.
There is a good reason so many famous novelists were antisocial weirdos from wealthy families.
Michael, this was such a fun and funny comment. It definitely shows off your huge intelligence AND your huge wit. I’m so glad you noted the difference between fiction and nonfiction. You’re absolutely right about the difference between the two. Thank you for pointing that out!
Happy blaghing, mister!
I realize this is a tiny bit off topic. But, speaking as an extremely experienced dog trainer, here is how you teach a dog not to bolt through the door:
Have a bunch of tiny treats that the dog really likes a lot.
Stand by the door. Open the door. The dog leaps for the opening. You briskly close the door in his face. You are quick about it so you don’t bash him in the nose or let him out the door. He can be on leash if you’re worried you might not be quick enough.
Repeat until, when you open the door, rather than leaping for the opening, he looks at you, wondering if you have lost your mind. Praise happily and hand him several little treats. Repeat, repeat, then put the leash on the dog and repeat five times, then finally say, “Okay!” and take the dog out for a walk.
Do that type of training every day for a week, never ever take or let the dog out without saying “okay,” and boom, you will now have a pup who doesn’t leap for the open doorway every time the door is opened.
That’s amazing, Rachel! Thank you so much! He also is scared of rain, wind, and airplanes. Do they make noise cancelling dog hear phones?
You are so kind to share your wisdom and expertise. Thank you, thank you!
:)
Thanks for this Sarah! Ironically, I just finished a piece about a bike accident I recently had on Pegasus, my 1983 bike. It took me a month to write, and I posted it on Substack to the tune of….crickets. As I watched a Star Trek rerun I thought how nice it would be to have a regular job with an established set of skills. A dentist. Or optometrist. Or a barista. Something where I can immediately see the results. And then I got ready for bed and opened up a mss and started revising. There is no escape from such great moments of satisfaction.
Yes, Carol! I would also like to add “mail carrier” to my list of , “I wish I were a … instead of a writer.” I would get my steps in (multitasking) each day, and because I would carry dog treats, I’d make lots of friends.
I love that you just got right back up on that writer-cycle.
And I’m so sorry about the bike accident! I hope you are okay. I also hope the bike is okay. I think you likely win the Oldest Bike award. Thank you for sharing your ups and downs. Writers who say they are unfamiliar with those ups and downs are simply not being honest. xox!
I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was nine. My English teacher gave me a positive reaction to my creative fiction assignment and it put me on cloud 9 (no relation). I was reading with vim and vigor and by the time I was twelve I had consumed 1984, Brave New World, Stranger in a Strange Land, Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men, and a bevy of other titles advanced for my age. I didn’t start writing professionally, however, until 1996 and it wasn’t fiction. For the following twenty plus years I would work revising editions of over one hundred computer book titles. Even co-authored two and wrote one solo.
I’m sure you already know what happened to that industry.
I’d already been a consultant and worked as a stiff for a few IT departments, but 2008 was hard on a guy with as much experience as mine but lacking a college degree. So things cruised for a while, I did some contract consulting while the book work dried up entirely, then it all stopped. I felt it was the perfect time to kick my writing into gear, but it never really happened. I blogged far more often so that’s what I focused on for years.
Then 2020 rolled around, I caught Covid that February, shared it with my family, and sunk into a long-Covid funk. I’ve been there since, now saddled with something called Cushing’s Disease. Brain fog, exhaustion, and general joint pain all over (not to mention osteoarthritis and degenerative disc disease and bad knees and a fused neck…) have all conspired to make me very uncomfortable in my own skin.
And yet, my desire to write hasn’t been this strong since I was that little left-handed boy with a nice teacher.
Struggling under the crushing weight of all these factors I have no control over, surrounded by every single possible tool I could ever need (I have a load of computers from a range of eras), and a cadre of close friends and a loving family who want nothing more then to see me happy, I still can’t write.
I have seven blog post drafts open in my markdown editor. I have a writing folder full of incomplete projects. I’ve switched to Micro.blog for blogging to get away from the admin-heavy WordPress I’d been using since that CMS appeared on the beta scene. And yet, I can’t write.
Sure, I can blog a few times a month, and I’m all over Mastodon, but I’ve gone from being able to crank out 3,000+ words a day to barely a few hundred. I wish there was something I could do about it, but with all these medical issues in play, I’m not sure there is.
In the meanwhile, I’ll just keep trying :)
Wow, Tyler. Thank you for sharing this with the community. You are not alone in how you have been forced to face and adjust to life’s challenges. But you ARE unique in how you have reacted and adjusted to them. Reinventing yourself in the face of challenge–the ecomony, technology, long Covid–is simply what you do. You have grit, and it’s this grit that will get you through this patch too. The writing may look diffierent, but you are still writing. It’s truly amazing, your tenacity. Keep trying, keep going, keep writing, my friend!
I always come late to a WU post, because I’m in Australia. When I read you story in my email inbox (after that intriguing title I dove straight in without waiting to head over to the WU site) I knew there would be tons of comments and I wasn’t disappointed. It’s so relatable. Who hasn’t visited and revisited the many stages of self-doubt, angst, fear, mental fatigue, and so on. It would be easier to just stop and spread the energy around or expend it on something less stressful. But being a writer isn’t something we do, it’s who we are. Can you stop the stories in your head or the itch to put those words down on paper or keyboard? I can’t. And apparently, neither can you. Which is such a good thing, because you are funny and smart and I think the world needs your voice.
Deborah, thank you for sharing your comment. I LOVE this: “But being a writer isn’t something we do, it’s who we are.”
That’s such a good reminder to me … I’m going to print it out and tape it on the wall, where, when I am writing, I’ll see it and think of you. It certainly would be easier not to be a writer, but how dull! And can you imagine how “constipated” we would feel? All those words and stories just stuck inside us!
Thank you for being here!
Speaking selfishly: I would not want a world in which you weren’t writing and sharing whatever you wrote. You have a gift and ARE a gift.
Also, I can relate. Many times over the past 17 years, I have found myself at the bottom of a dry well, hardly interested in even looking up let alone climbing out. And when that happens, when I give myself permission to quit, that palpable sense of relief (which you describe so gorgeously here) sneakily triggers fresh hope and energy and interest, and before I recognize what’s happening, I’m again obsessed with writing something new.
I suppose the explanation is that whatever wires us to express ourselves through the written word has no regard for lumps or pups or politics or the publishing biz or or or or. And recognizing that we can quit paradoxically enables us not to want to! It’s kind of cool, actually. Thank you for demonstrating this with such warmth and humor. This post was just what I needed to see today. xx
Therese! Thank you for sharing here. It’s so great when someone with so much writing success shares her experience with the bumps … truly a reminder of this fact: “getting published” does not mean “I have made it.” It’s just a different (and in some ways, harder) phase of the journey, one where we have to KEEP making it.
I love this sentence: “I suppose the explanation is that whatever wires us to express ourselves through the written word has no regard for lumps or pups or politics or the publishing biz or or or or.”
“No regard for …” that’s a brilliant way of looking at it.
Thank you! Miss you!
THANK GOODNESS FOR THIS LINE (I was beginning to tear up) “for writers who no longer want to be writers, and for ex-writers who realize that in fact, they can’t be anything else.”
Xoxo! Maria, thank you. Happy writing to you. I really appreciate your comment and your presence here.
Sarah, It happens all the time: NFL quarterbacks retire–and then come out of retirement, without the benefit of a bike ride, cider, or a pretzel. Congratulations on both decisions. You were right on both counts. I look forward to your next.
Yep,
I think of the Sister Act statement Whoopie Goldberg makes, “If you get up in the morning and all you can think about is singing, then you’re meant to be a singer” But sometimes it hard to keep going all the time. We do need little short breaks if we are to do this great work.