The Case of the Missing Fire

Writing privately and publicly, for forty years (and the comments are open)

“So, what do you do?”

Whether it’s the random guy in the elevator, or the form I have to fill out at my dentist's office, I constantly need to define myself professionally. From ages four to twenty-two, the answer was actor. Then I was a student for a while, and then writing two books gave me the courage to claim writer. Then I became a yoga teacher, followed by mental wellness advocate, then keynote speaker and consultant, and founder of a non-profit for military Veterans.

But writer is the title that has felt most essential, because even when it wasn’t income-producing, it still felt definitive. As a kid, I would write and bind my own books - such as The Case of the Missing Fire, which I still think is a freaking amazing title. I also had what I termed “Collected Works” at age 9.

Writer is the thing that I am most — the essence of my core. But I haven’t been writing as much these days. At least, not publicly.

A small sampling of the writing I did as a kid

I have been doing a fair bit of personal journaling, which is different, but it’s its own powerful practice. I’ve been inspired by the Book of Alchemy, which has compelling stories of writing and offers engaging prompts.

There has been a lot to process in my life lately, and writing is the only way I know how to deal with massive amounts of change. (Correction: it’s the only healthy way. I know other ways that involve cocktails, but since I’ve been sober for almost six years now, I do a lot of writing.)

I dipped my toe into talking about this change publicly; you can read that here.

One of the worst things about being a writer is the part when you share your work. I’ve always struggled with that mean voice in my head, who yells, “BLA BLA BLA SHUT UP NO ONE CARES.” (The voice isn’t creative. But he is persistent and rude.)

Writing publicly about your own life can feel narcissistic and obnoxious, especially in the face of these endless “unprecedented times” we are living in. But putting your ass on the line is part of the job. You don’t get to call yourself an artist without being vulnerable and putting your work into the world, for it to be accepted or rejected or laughed at or ignored completely.

If you’re not brave enough to do that, you don’t get to claim the title.

So I share. Here. With you.

Because when we share our story, we allow the space for other people to feel less alone so they can fully own their story, too. Every single one of us has a story. That’s the foundation for connection and community.

It’s easy to worry about whether our work is “on brand” or monetizable, or if you’re entering “influencer” territory —shudder. (For transparency’s sake, I earn about $2,000 per year from this Substack publication, and I’m entirely grateful to those who upgrade to paid subscribers and support my work. But no one ever became a writer for the money.)

Clearly, if popularity or money were the goal, I would have been better served by staying in my old acting job. But I write because I feel compelled to write. An invisible force constantly draws me back to the page when it would be much easier to binge Love is Blind. (Madison and Joe really need to work on their communication skills.)

Every time I write here, I’m not doing it to impress you or improve you. I simply find it to be a meaningful way to connect.

So, I did something kinda scary. I opened up comments on my posts.

I’m not expecting tons of comments, but I want us to be able to connect in a more reciprocal way. It’s like the good parts of social media without the ick. (And if anyone brings the ick, I’ll just delete it.) So hop in if you want to say hello or respond to anything you read here.

I want to have open comments because of an experience I had in Toronto last week. I was honored to be the keynote speaker at the Inkwell Literary Festival where I read a story from my first book and remembered the power of live storytelling. The energy of it was electric.

I spoke with other folks who have towering stacks of old journals, whose deep love of books got them through complicated childhoods. I even went on the CTV morning show to gush about my love of writing. You can watch that interview here.

After my keynote, a woman came up to speak to me. She was older, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. She had tears in her eyes as she put both her hands on each side of my face.

“You were telling my story — when you told your story. It was my story, of growing up in Baghdad.”

Baghdad??

What the hell did the 1990s Hollywood have to do with life in Iraq in the 1960s?

But of course, because humans find connection, she found the similarities. She told me about her life, and soon I was in tears, too.

This is why we do it. This is why we put words on the page and summon the courage to share it out loud, even when our voice shakes. We do it for that beautiful moment — with our face in the hands of a stranger — connecting over time and space.

That’s my missing fire. It felt great to find it again.

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What else has been going on:

What I’ve been reading

What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama

“Here is a novel about the bone-deep thrill of things working out.” - NY Times review.

This book is pure comfort. It’s the book version of someone absentmindedly playing with your hair.

I’m also reading

Stay True by Hua Hsu. I really wanted to like this one. It’s a memoir about the death of the author’s best friend when they were in college, right around the same age that I lost one of my dearest friends. The story meanders in a way I found unsatisfying, but the ‘90s California alt-rock nostalgia and the discussions of the wider social context of friendship saved it a bit.

What I’ve been watching

I liked The Diplomat, and then they brought in Allison Janny, and it hit a new level. There are also brief moments when they let Keri Russell be funny, and it’s glorious.

Thanks for reading, Friends. Don’t forget to say hi in the comments section.

Much love,

~Lisa