I’ve been writing online since 2008 or so, which is actually a little mind-boggling to me. I used to share without inhibition in a way that I’m almost embarrassed by now; and a day without sitting down to write at least a sentence or two felt incomplete. Granted, I had a lot more time back then, but with the help of nap schedules and a morning babysitter a few times a week, I can once again visualize the old version of myself, who makes time to sit down with a cup of coffee and put her thoughts into words.

The other day, Gideon went down for his last nap of the afternoon while Sophie kept herself busy in a corner of the playroom and I took a deep breath—in the chaos of our first week of sleep training I had almost forgotten that on the other side is a lot more time to spend at your desk, or to light a candle and clean the kitchen while a pot of soup simmers on the stove, or to make some tea and watch an episode of Mad Men while both kids are resting.

If you’ve read here long enough, you know of my love affair with a book called Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir. One of my creative writing professors in college used it for our workshops and it really stuck with me—it’s perfect when you have time but no inspiration, which is where I currently find myself.

So here are a few prompts, from my trusty and well-worn copy of Old Friend from Far Away, just like the old days, in case you could also use a little creative nudge. I used to put due dates on them but I think I know better than to set myself up for failure that way, especially before I’ve even started. But then again the thing about writing and creativity in general is that the more you do it, the easier and more natural it becomes. Let’s start with five.

• What about a time you slept outside? (OFFA, 36)

• Tell me about how a relationship ended. (OFFA, 37)

• What can you give up knowing? (OFFA, 168)

• Where is the hottest place you’ve ever been? (OFFA, 249)

• Where did you always want to go but didn’t? (OFFA, 262)

See you again soon.

"Let's try not to eat so much for breakfast today because we're going over to my tia's house for lunch later," my mom explained to us over her small cup of strong, sweet coffee. The hot Italian sun beat down on us despite the early hour. It was July.

We were in Avezzano, a small mountain town about an hour away from Rome, and we had just woken up and were eating breakfast outside on the patio of another cousin's home. Breads and cookies and chocolate and fruit were laid out on a tray before us and I remember thinking how much I preferred drinking coffee like an adult and being able to eat cookies for breakfast. I was eleven.

We spent the afternoon shopping and trying not to eat. I was amazed by how beautiful Italians make everything--an espresso becomes a work of art with crema, steaming in all its perfection in a tiny ceramic cup and saucer. My mother purchased a bracelet and I watched in awe as the saleswoman put it in a box and tied a gold ribbon around it, then placed it in a small shopping bag with purple tissue paper and handed it across the counter with a smile on her tan face. "Grazie, signora." Even their words are beautiful.

Later in the afternoon we drove closer to Rome to my great-aunt's house, and the lunch festivities began. My great-aunt, my mom's tia is a small, round woman who wears floral dresses and brought out plate after plate of delicious dishes. First, two kinds of pasta, then chicken, then beef. Lasagna and salads followed. We ate for two hours, and my younger brother and I stuffed ourselves until we could barely breathe.

My dad sat next to us, laughing and telling us about the first time he ever went to my mom's house when they were first dating. My grandpa Albino also had several dishes ready, but my dad filled himself up on the first pasta, unaware that there was more to come. Today, he only took a little of each course--he had remembered and he was prepared for the marathon lunch banquet.

My mom sat in the middle of the table, rapidly conversing with her family in Italian and sometimes turning to us to say something in English. She's trilingual but says Italian is the hardest. Without knowing for sure, it's impossible to tell which is her first language.

After all the plates were cleared, my great-aunt came out bearing dessert, and I somehow managed to sneak away from the table before tiramisu was forced upon me. I walked into the backyard and sat beneath a shady fig tree. The afternoon had edged into evening and it was finally a bit cooler, but I was uncomfortably full and told myself I wouldn't be able to eat again for days.

I laid myself down in the grass to take a nap, but there was a low-hanging branch and a dewy purple fig sat right before my face, so I picked it and ate it and then fell asleep.

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This post was originally published on February 26, 2011. I wrote it in college, but I've been thinking about it a lot this week (there are figs everywhere right now! At the grocery store, on Instagram, in my kitchen, on my plate). I had to do some digging to find this post (I thought I had accidentally deleted it), so I thought I'd re-publish it for any of you who haven't been around since 2011--can you believe I've been writing on this blog for that long? If you have a favorite vacation/travel memory, I'd love to hear it.

Last night I found myself feeling uninspired so I did what I always do and flipped my copy of Old Friend from Far Away open to a random page and read what was there. This quote was staring me in the face and I was writing it down before I even had a chance to realize that I have already quoted it once right here.

“Don’t be hard on yourself...Allow the luxury of time, dreaming out the window, a little noodle walk through a dime store, then like a female lion after her prey, go directly into the animal art of pen across paper...

I know more but I don’t push it because there are things I don’t know that I want to come to me. I’m calling up understanding beyond myself. If I get too determined, too linear, I’ll miss the tugs of intuition at the periphery of my perceptions, the things I don’t want to say, the things I have never said...”

— Natalie Goldberg, "Old Friend from Far Away"

Maybe it's time for me to find some new books.

Either way, I feel this way every year and can't seem to escape it--September is here and there are pumpkin beers on draft everywhere but it's still too hot. Students are back in school and I am another year away from it all with dishes in the sink and essays I wish I had written months ago.

So I wait.

--

Currently I'm reading a collection of letters between Julia Child and Avis DeVoto and I'm simultaneously charmed and discouraged by their passion for food and politics and friendship and life and everything in between. Sometimes I wonder, did Julia ever have days or even weeks where she just didn't write a thing? Where she went to bed early and felt uninspired and grateful for takeout or leftovers?

I like to think that she sometimes woke up with a stuffy nose and a headache and decided to take a nap in the afternoon instead of folding laundry or working on her next project, which is exactly what I did yesterday.

"I'm enjoying it immensely, as I've finally found a real and satisfying profession which will keep me busy well into the year 2,000. But I wish I had started in when I was 14 yrs. old,." she wrote about the cooking classes she started teaching with two other women in France.

I feel that about my own life sometimes. But other times it is clouded by self-doubt and worry.

I think we'd all be a little more successful (and happy) if we could only get out of our own way.