Paths Crossed: Lizzie Simon

A writer—and my memoir-writing teacher—talks all things writing. And an online workshop for your consideration.

Lizzie Simon, courtesy of her daughter.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a constant photo taker. Holding my family close in frame somehow meant the world to the little me of the eighties, a visual diary always an effortless practice. But while writing has also been with me for as long as I can remember, I never much met it until recently. Buying a last-minute ticket to Lizzie Simon’s memoir-writing workshop at the start of 2024 is what finally kicked off my writing practice. And in fact, Paths Crossed came to me during that week in January, fervently flipping back on my hotel room light one night to grab the name on Substack with its “coming soon” placeholder.

Lizzie Simon has always been a writer. In addition to working as a journalist, editor, producer, and screenwriter, she published an acclaimed memoir titled Detour in her youth. Reading it let me time travel back to ride shotgun with 23-year-old Lizzie as she road tripped across America to understand her bipolar diagnosis, interviewing other successful people living with mental illness along the way. I was so taken with getting to know my now teacher and friend at that age—her voice precocious, whip-smart, and staggeringly wise.

That wisdom is on full display in our talk below. Here, we discuss what it means to be a writer, how it’s tied up in identity, and why the practice is a spiritual one. Lizzie, who also has a weekly Substack, will be teaching an online memoir-writing workshop that starts on April 23, and it’s not too late to sign up. We touch on what to expect in this class, as I wholeheartedly encourage any reader to consider this offering, whether you’ve written before or not. Learning something new about yourself in the process of playing with words might be wildly empowering, as much as a new ritual in this crazy world might be anchoring—which reminds me that in the course of our conversation, Lizzie throws out a description of what it is to be alive, one that I really love.

---

How would you introduce yourself?

I'm an author, an editor, and a producer. I have my own writing projects, and writers also hire me to help them with their writing projects. I also teach writing.

Many writers have a hard time calling themselves writers. How would you personally define your relationship with being a writer? Is it tied into identity?

I started writing when I was five years old in a journal. My friend Katie had a journal, and I wanted one; I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. There was a good chunk of my childhood, at least a decade, where I wrote every single day, but I did not think of myself as a writer. I went to college at Columbia, and I nearly failed the mandatory freshman essay-writing class called Logic and Rhetoric. I certainly did not think of myself as a writer then. I also tried to get into Dani Shapiro's fiction seminar and was rejected. So I had further proof that I was not a writer. And then one summer I took a creative non-fiction class; writing stories about my life just came out so easily, it felt like a joke. It didn't feel like work at all. And that teacher said to me, “You are a writer.” I just thought she was kind of nuts, because I didn't even think of that as legitimate writing.

Senior year, after my friends and I would get home at three in the morning, as college students do, I would write up funny stories from the night and slip them under their doors while they were sleeping. They would wake up and cackle while reading them. Still, I did not identify as a writer.

And then I wrote an entire book; it was published internationally, it was getting great reviews. But I thought that a book had just flown through me. I just didn't think that that meant I was a writer. It was a fluke in my mind, a one-off, like getting struck by lightning. It wasn't until I was writing for The Wall Street Journal that I thought, Well folks, I guess I’m a writer. At that point, there was really no denying it. I had two columns due every week—and sometimes a third article, a feature. I was constantly on deadline. I was producing constantly, getting published constantly. By that point, I was in my thirties.

That's quite interesting to me, that it wasn’t even when your book was published.

It's a funny thing about identity. You never see plumbers walking around being like, But am I a plumber? Like, Yeah, I do plumbing, but am I a plumber? It's really just writers and artists who have such a tricky time saying, “I am a writer.”

I honestly think it was during the workshop of yours that I attended in Sonoma County—not this past January’s one, but the first time I came in January 2024—that I decided I would try on the title and actively try to own it. I feel like it had to do with being around a community of writers, being witnessed by a room of respected peers, letting my writing breathe outside of me, seeing that my sentences could move another.

Yes, I make people say it. It just horrifies writers to do so. They feel like such imposters. Every email that I write to clients or to former and current students, I start, “Hi writers.” Because the thing is, if you're writing, you're a writer. And even if you're a writer who is blocked and not writing, you're still a writer. Some people just have a relationship to language and to putting sentences down on paper or on a computer. And that's what makes you a writer.

That’s true, it’s just in you. I’m now thinking about all you’ve just said and how I hadn’t legitimized it in myself—even though being in publishing meant that I was immersed in writing as part of my day-to-day job for 20 years; even though I’d had a few articles published; even if as a kid I was writing stories, making chapter books to pretend I was an author. Writers to me were the others, those who show up to it every day, authors as the living embodiment of it.

I think what's important is that writers have to write every day. And there are all kinds of things that can get in the way. But the thing of writing is, you show up, you write. And there are blocks that I’m able to unblock in people. I ask anyone in my workshops to write 30 minutes a day, because people can tolerate doing anything for 30 minutes. I ask that they focus on generating one complicated moment to the page in that time. And eventually, what tends to happen is it’s like a flint for the fire to start, and they get into the rhythm. I’ve thought about it—what is it that I’m doing? I think I’m sort of hypnotizing people into writing every day, and then they end up taking great pleasure in it.

You also made us pledge to ourselves that with all that we contend with in life, let us not be the ones who get in our own way. I’m certainly a work in progress there. But as someone who tends to think too big, I liked that your central prompt was simply to write for 30 minutes. Pick a moment; it can all connect later. I hadn’t brought my writing to the fore until very recently, had never even kept a journal. For years I had a false narrative that if I was a writer it would be flowing out of me. But of course, like anything, it’s just showing up to the practice over and over and over.

I take such pleasure in writing. It still helps me feel like I'm safer in the world to spend some time every day writing things down, writing true things. Once writing becomes a spiritual act, a humble act of showing up and seeing what happens and letting go of the result, once writing becomes something that is generating positive vibrations that ripple through many parts of your life in a positive way, then you’re in flow. Then you can start telling your stories and using craft.

For anyone interested, your remote workshop is coming up, April 23–June 4, every Wednesday on Zoom for 7 weeks. For anyone who might want to try something new, I’ll say that signing on into a community, immersing myself in the subject matter, and hearing guest authors discuss their writing was a happy place. Ninety minutes a week to spark your mind. There’s time to read a bit of your writing too, but that’s voluntary; there’s no feedback. I’ve heard a lot of anecdotes, and you’ve noted too, that writers can be crippled for years after damaging feedback. Can you touch on that?

There are a lot of people who have been stymied by writing teachers. I can't tell you how many times clients have told me stories about getting into this writing class, you know, at Harvard, along the lines of: I was the only freshman, and I read a story of mine, and a senior guy ripped it apart, and I didn't write again for 30 years, and now here I am. That happens a lot. Giving feedback is a very complex and powerful exchange. Really really good editors and really really good directors just know how to talk to creative people and get them in and keep them in their own flow. Editing is not well understood—it's a mysterious, witchy art and form.

That’s true, I really like the way you put that. Do you also want to share what someone will get from your course since it’s coming up?

So they'll get into a writing rhythm. They're going to meet a lot of other supportive writers, which is a kind of paradise, frankly. The class has always attracted incredible people, so there's this aspect to it that nobody expects that ends up being really wonderful. I invite other acclaimed authors to come visit and have a conversation, so they're exposed to really great writing. And then I teach craft, go over various writing tools, and give some insights into publishing today. A more lasting effect is that some of those relationships with other classmates become really meaningful friendships. There are students from my class from the beginning of the pandemic that still meet every week to read each other's work. I know you've made friends too.

I have indeed, and I know some of them are reading this now. And luckily I came to your in-person workshop and met you due to catching a post my friend and colleague Nina shared, as you invited her to be one of the guest authors. I wanted to turn to your memoir, Detour, for a moment. It was published over 20 years ago, and it still stands. It had me laughing and crying at the same time, and I didn’t want to put it down. Though you thought that a book just flew through you, you did plan that road trip to write it, and I imagine so much alchemized along the way?

Yes, I was a very ambitious, driven 23 years old, and I really wanted to write a book that would destigmatize bipolar disorder and that would allow me the time and space to ask the big questions that I had about mental health and mental illness. So it wasn't that I accidentally wrote a book. I meant to write a book, and had such a crystal-clear vision of what I wanted to do.

I cannot believe you were 23 when you wrote this—the inherent wisdom you have is striking and fills the book. You even invoke this to yourself near the end: “You have all the wisdom you need. Just listen harder, look more closely. You are in charge. We trust you.” I was wondering if young Lizzie feels far away now, or what your relationship is to this 23 year old.

The wisdom that I tapped into then still feels wise to me, and is still what I'm learning and practicing. I was very precocious and talented as a 23 year old, and I think that the only real way that I could even imagine getting self-esteem at that time was to achieve. I was like anybody, I guess. You know, it's interesting—I'm volunteering with fourth and fifth graders right now, with my daughter’s class, helping them to resurrect their school newspaper. And there are ways that we change, and then there are ways that we do not [spontaneous laughter between us]. Am I ever gonna learn it all? [we giggle some more.] No. There are definitely things I've learned since writing that book, thank God. But when I reread it recently—somebody wanted to option it for feature film—I thought, Oh, okay, it's still good, it still works. It's funny. It's still making me laugh. It's still very insightful and wise. And yeah, there were a bunch of times that I was like, Yup, still learning that…still learning that.

I think there's just wisdom out there. And we’re just fearful people running around, and those of us who are seekers are tapping into wisdom and forgetting, tapping into wisdom and forgetting. And I think that's a description of being alive.

I love that. Is there a story you're dying to tell now?

Not at all. I have a Substack called Refreshments. I am there to entertain every week. I'm there to hopefully make people laugh, bring some earned little nugget of wisdom to the table to make people feel more alive and more willing to participate in the big experiment of all of our lives together on this earth. As a writer I have ongoing writing projects. I love them all. Honestly, there's a lot of surviving I'm doing these days. I'll just say life is fully in session, to quote a friend of mine.

I hear that. I really enjoy your Substack. You’re very funny, just deadpan in your observations, in aspects of being a mom too. Like about kids being amazing but gross little monsters. That’s my own paraphrasing. But it’s the same thing that struck me when I read Detour, your empathy intertwined with honest, sometimes hilarious—perhaps sadly hilarious—observations about interacting with people who struggle with mental illness. And I wanted to be sure to tell you that the book matters; I had a mom who had similar diagnoses, and so destigmatizing mental illness, even in all its heartbreaking, maddening horror at times, is something very close to my heart.

Thank you, Rachel. I'm so pleased that it’s still in print. People are still reading it. People are still laughing and crying. I absolutely love that. I mean, what a miracle.

Does being a mom change your relationship to writing at all?

I got to a place where with having kids, I definitely don't disclose. Everybody's different with this. But there's so much that's off the table for me as a topic because I don't want to saddle my kids with a TMI mother, with my most personal vulnerabilities. I'm dealing with those issues in spiritual fellowship and in therapy, not in my writing.

That said, when I'm on a writing project, when I'm working with clients on their books, or when I'm screenwriting, writing fiction, I am constantly alchemizing the experience, the struggle, the angst, the howling of my soul. And it's satisfying to me. It's not like, Oh, I really wish I could expose myself on the page, but I can't because I have kids. It doesn't feel that way. But when I'm on a project and some piece of my suffering can be helpful, I'm like, HALLELUJAH! Here it comes! Finally useful!

I love it. You touched on certain eras of our lives perhaps being more geared toward achievement as self-esteem. I am curious what's lighting you up and driving you these days. As we get older, it seems to me that it becomes more and more obvious, more cliched but true, that the contentment keys are held internally over externally.

You know, it never used to make sense to me, the thing about service. Oprah would be like, The greatest joy in life is helping others. And I'd be like, really? [more laughter.] And now I get it. It’s like, until you're there, you're not there. But I’m there now. It's hard to describe, but true happiness really is in service to other people.

What's grounding you right now? Do you have any rituals or routines? Because I know as a highly intelligent person, you're feeling it too, living and navigating in today’s batshit world.

I'm going to tell you—like a little influencer. I have a practice every morning. And this is not a writerly thing, this is just a human-being-coping-in-the-world thing. I ask myself, How are you doing? And I answer that question on the page. And then I have to write 10 things I'm grateful for; 10 affirmations; 10 boundaries; and 10 mantras. It takes me an hour.

I was going to say, that’s a lot.

Yes, because I wake up in fear most days, and so I’m reorienting my brain. And after that hour, I can focus on work. I can be organized. I can be courteous to everyone around me. I can be a loving presence. So I'll do it until I don't need to do it anymore, but I absolutely need to do it.

Is there a place that's really generative for your writing? A set space? Or can you be flexible with where you do your writing?

I go to a place called the Writers Room; it's a nonprofit downtown. I think it's very important for mothers to have a place outside of the home to write. At the Writers Room, it's always clean, and I'm not responsible for anything except writing.

And in terms of the act of writing as transformative in and of itself, do you have a story that comes to mind? Have you started somewhere and ended up somewhere totally unexpected or illuminating?

It's every single time I write now. More and more as I'm older, I think of writing as being one part me and one part something else—the universe. At the risk of sounding woo-woo, writing has become much more spirit-infused because I recognize it deeply as such. So I'm going to get in and I'm going to start, but stuff is going to fly onto the page, through my head, through my fingers, that I did not predict, that I did not intend, that I did not plan for. And that's the true thrill of being in the zone, having all this stuff you didn't expect come out of you. It's certainly my happy place.

Beautiful. Every writer seems to express that in their own way. That something channels in, some source energy. I have looked back at times on something I wrote and thought, I wrote that? That was me? How did I do that? One final question. What are you most proud of right now?

You know what I’m proud of? I still love life. That is what I am most proud of today. I. Still. Love. Life.