Exhaling, pushing, writing. Three things that are harder than you might think. Whenever I sit down to write, I notice that my shoulders tense up. They are hunched up toward my ears. That's the part of my brain that wants to come up with what's already been written. I want to be as great as all the greats before. Which is about as likely to happen as me forcing myself to look like Naomi Campbell. I can only be me.

Push, push, push took on a whole new meaning for me when I was numb from the waist down and pushing out 8 pounds, 10 ounces of baby boy. It felt just like working out to me. Hard, harder than anythhing. But good, too because I knew something right was happening. I caught the rhythm of how you're supposed to push. The doctor tries to explain it to you, but it can't really be explained -- you just have to get it. It's a cross between pooping and riding out a bubble. Weird and gross, I know, but true for me.

Writing is exhaling, pushing, overcoming, all of the hardest, best things for me. I create a huge junkpile of hopes, wishes, cliches, pains, hurts, fears, successes, failures, everything - and then I have to pick my way over them to come up with, well, this. It's hard but good, too, because I know something right is happening.