Reader,

Mom loved to cook with mushrooms. She didn't include them in every meal, thank God, but they showed up often enough that dinner was a time of trepidation. They were typically canned mushrooms, which are somehow both spongy and rubbery at the same time.

We were a "clean your plate" family. Digging all of the mushrooms out and leaving them by the side was not an option. Do that, and you'd have to suffer the fate of eating them all by themselves. (I shudder and choke just thinking about it.)

Over the years I developed impressive serving skills, learning how to maneuver the ladle to avoid the largest of my edible enemies. I had to be both nonchalant and quick as I filled my plate. If Mom realized what I was up to, she'd tell me to knock it off and just take whatever came up when I plunged the spoon into the dish.

When mushrooms inevitably showed up on my plate, I always tackled them first. Not, of course, by themselves. No, the way to do it was to bury them in a large spoonful of rice or whatever else was on the menu. The goal was to chew as little as possible, masticating just enough that I could consume everything in a giant swallow of water. It was an art, and I wasn't always successful. Even now, I can taste the bitter tang that polluted my mouth every time I chomped too hard and bit a button mushroom in two.

As I grew older, I also grew more daring. I learned how to accidentally drop my spoon on the floor, somehow in the very moment it cradled a solitary mushroom. I found ways to surreptitiously sneak the offenders into my napkin and then rush it to the garbage can at the end of dinner before anyone was the wiser. At the height of my powers, I was able to pilfer the items off my plate and drop them on the floor, where our greedy Rottweiler would gratefully devour them as we were leaving the table. That move required careful timing, lest someone hear the plop and reveal my devious elusion.

When I was younger, people would say, "You'll develop a taste for them as you grow older." Well, that never happened. Was it just never meant to be? Or is it because I'm a stubborn soul who loves to prove people wrong? That's not for me to judge. Suffice to say, it's been years—maybe even decades—since I've had to consume that foul fungus.

You likely have your own culinary scars. Maybe you've always liked mushrooms but can't stand tomatoes, green beans, zucchini, or okra. Maybe your food foe is something else entirely. Whatever it is, it's likely something grown in God's green earth since processed food is designed to be palatable and addictive. It's why parents are always exasperated by the challenge of getting their kids to eat their vegetables.

The act of writing comes with its own set of metaphorical vegetables. You know, the things we're supposed to write before we get to the parts we really want to put into words. I can't tell you how many times I've abandoned a personal project because I got bogged down in tedious context and narration, all because I thought I needed to get those boring words out before I could dig into the exciting scene that captured my attention in the first place.

Here's what I've learned: you and I do not need to eat our writing vegetables.

Writing works when we follow our energy and plunge into our topic recklessly. Without making sure we've crossed all our t's and dotted all the i's. Without setting the scene perfectly. Without answering all those objections Mrs. Lipschitz would have severely scribbled in the margins of our eleventh grade English essays.

There is a time and a place to pay attention to those things. Yes, to give even Mrs. Lipschitz her hour and acknowledge that she makes a good point or two. But that time is decidedly not when you're writing that first draft or when you're desperate to believe that writing is something you can do. Those metaphorical vegetables won't make you feel more like a writer. If anything, they'll make you burn your laptop and give up altogether.

Writing only works when we give it our energy, and to do that, we have to pay attention to where our energy is coming from. For the last few weeks, I've been trying to write another chapter of my book about why we can only be creative when we tap into our childishness. I love the theme, and I've even got some good lines to go with it. But you know what? Right now, that piece just isn't working. Try as I might, nothing feels right. I've resisted giving it up because I've talked about the essay and even committed to it on my outline. I've kept at it because I feel compelled to eat my vegetables.

Today, I decided enough was enough. I shoved it to the side of my plate and wrote this email instead. A choice I don't regret one bit.

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank Ewert
Writer, Editor, Book Coach, and Resolute Mushroom Hater
Author of Embrace Your Writer's Block and Blue Ice​

I coach, edit, and write with authors: see how we can work together.