Non-Stop: Why I Write Like I’m Running Out of Time

“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” —Lin-Manuel Miranda, Hamilton

My husband has an embarrassing habit of breaking into song during the most inopportune moments. And the opportune ones. Basically, any chance he gets. It’s a good thing he has a beautiful voice; otherwise my children and I might have disowned him by now.

Our oldest son has followed in his footsteps. And like his dad, he has a gorgeous voice. I don’t think it would make my husband anything short of proud for me to say that our son’s voice is even better than his.

So how does any of this relate to Alexander Hamilton?

Hold on, I’m getting there.

A few weeks ago, our family of five flew across the country to attend a wedding. Actually, my husband was the officiant. The theme of the wedding was “upstage the couple.” Our outfits involved wigs, sparkles, sequins, feathers, and more rhinestones than should be legal. And still, we had the most boring looks in the crowd. The wedding deserves its own post, but for now I’ll just say the whole occasion, and the trip, was joyous.

On the day we flew home, we landed in a city that was three and a half hours from our house. And it was late. We were tired, maybe even a little grumpy despite the happy week behind us, and we were ready for a quiet ride home.

But my oldest had other plans.

He volunteered to drive and needed to stay awake. Music is his go-to. He’s a true music lover, and his taste knows no boundaries. He listens to and loves everything from Radiohead to Sinatra to Tyler, the Creator. That night, he went back to a family classic: Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton.

Long before our youngest was born, back when the big kids were little we were obsessed with Hamilton. My oldest knew every word. Literally every single one. At the height of its popularity, we planned a whole winter break around seeing a live performance on Broadway. I cried through the entire show.

It had been years since we listened to the album. Many years, actually. But for whatever reason, that night, it’s what my oldest chose.

And he didn’t just listen. He sang every word. Loudly. Beautifully.

I sat quietly in the passenger seat. I was tired, but there was no way I was going to sleep. I stayed awake just to soak in every minute of that boy’s talent.

What I wasn’t prepared for was how long the listening session would stay with us. The songs are catchy. We all ended up with earworms. Even my six-year-old seems to have absorbed most of the lyrics to “Washington on Your Side.”

But it’s my husband who can’t seem to stop. Weeks later, he’s still singing one particular line over and over.

“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?”

Only he’s not just singing it around me. He’s singing it to me. He’s singing it at me. He’s asking me.

Maybe he’s a little perplexed. Because lately, whenever I’m not seeing patients or writing notes or spending time with family and friends, I’m writing. I’m sleeping less because I stay up well past my usual bedtime to get words down. I’m waking up early and reaching for my laptop instead of heading straight out for a run. I’ve stopped watching Netflix. I’ve let my jigsaw puzzles collect dust. Even my long texting chains have taken a back seat.

I write every moment I can.

When a potential agent read my book proposal, she highlighted a section and wrote in the margin, “theme: writing as therapy.”

She was right. I hadn’t fully seen it until she said it.

Somehow, on the page, I can be honest in a way I can’t always manage out loud. I find it surprisingly difficult to lie or perform when I’m writing for myself. Surprising because, in many ways, I lied to myself for decades. But even more than that, writing lets me catch feelings in real time, feelings that might otherwise slip past me. Feelings are fleeting. That’s both a blessing and a curse. But writing slows them down just enough for me to notice them. Name them. Understand them. Return to them.

I didn’t set out to make writing my therapy. I just knew I needed to do it. And when I started, I felt a quiet unburdening. I couldn’t name it at first, but my body could feel it. Then, when I began reading my writing to my therapist, the quiet unburdening became loud. Powerful. It nourished me.

After I finished my manuscript, I felt something close to empty. I thought I had poured it all onto the page and didn’t know how to fill the space. And then came Substack. I joined it to build a “platform” that might impress future agents and publishers. But I got something else instead.

I got connection. Growth. Internal relief. I could feel my healthy Self leading more and more. And that is a gift I didn’t expect.

And that is why, dear Husband, I write like I’m running out of time.