Happy New Year, friends. I hope you enjoyed the holidays.

Christmas for me was busy, as it always is, but it was full of good cheer and lots of family. Then over New Year’s we spent five days at my mom’s cabin in Northern Minnesota. It was cold up there, but sunny. Each day I clicked into my cross-country skis and headed out into the woods or onto to the lake, where I glided through the snow, accompanied by the swish of my skis and occasional calling of birds. I could have spent all day outside in that quiet cold.

Stella and Zoë skied with me a little, but they were more drawn to the ice rink that D cleared on the lake. Stella spent hours zipping around and around, practicing her hockey stops. I don’t venture onto the rink—it wouldn’t be pretty—but I love to watch the girls crisscrossing that patch of ice, their joy so palpable that you can almost see it steaming off their bundled figures.

Now that we’re back, I’m trying to settle into a rhythm of writing again. I haven’t written much at all this past year, and I feel a gaping hole in my life because of it. It’s odd that though I have one book out and another on its way into the world, I feel less like a writer than I have in many years. Not good. When I’m not writing, a coil of discontent begins to unwind into the rest of my life.

Clearly I need to make some changes.

That’s why I spent several hours cleaning my tiny pantry office yesterday. I uncovered piles, sorted and tossed. It was liberating. When I was done, I had filled three grocery bags with paper—drafts of the memoir, random teaching notes, old magazines. I shredded old receipts and filed away bills.

Now I can once again see the pale wood of my desk. The to-be-read and reviewed books are neatly stacked and lined up. The copies of Poets & Writers and The Writer’s Chronicle and Brain, Child are standing at attention, ready when I am.

I’m ready. Ready to put words down on the page, ready to feel like a writer again. Ready to take a deep breath and dive back into my novel.

What are you ready for?