A Day in the Life of Shuly Xóchitl Cawood

Sleep eludes me some nights, but I have come to see that extra time as more rather than less: more hours for writing or painting or scrubbing the pots in the sink. One of my dogs rises with me, no matter the time. This is a kind of loyalty that sometimes feels too good to be true, yet there she is, downward dogging it and yawning but always following me. (Writing has also been that for me—ever there, ever waiting even when I have neglected to give it enough attention.)

Darkness is a good place to start a day anyway, when the world is quiet on my street, when the day is still blank. It’s my best time to write, which I do each morning with a cup of decaf and a piece (or two, or three) of dark chocolate. I have always believed that no one has to write every day to be a good writer (and for years I did not write every day), but then I began writing every morning, and now my day doesn’t feel complete without it. I’ve found that by writing every day, what I really want to write about (which I am not conscious of) comes more quickly and falls onto the page more easily.

I also spend morning time, sometimes a lot, reading poems all over the internet and going down rabbit holes looking for a really great piece. I teach a weekly prompt-writing class in which we read and discuss a poem. I prefer narrative and accessible poems (especially because not all my participants are poets, but also because I prefer accessible poems), and I am always looking to see if the piece has a strong ending. Sometimes I’ll even skim to the end to see if the poem is going to land well before I spend time reading the whole thing. Yes, I do. A poem can be great, but if it has a weak ending, I’ll pass on it. Endings matter more to me than beginnings.

Then I walk for 2–3 miles, alone or with my husband and our two party poodles. I like it best when it’s cold out: the cold on my face makes me feel more alive. Walking has long been my way of coping with the world and its chaos.

The rest of my day is a mix of any of these things: writing, editing, emailing, cooking, reading, painting, researching lit mags, prepping for teaching, reviewing Prime Number magazine submissions, walking again, running errands. My least favorite: cooking. My favorite: painting. A few years ago I decided I needed to try something new to push my creativity, and I took a mini-class on drawing, something I had always said I had zero skills in doing. The class made everything simple, and from there I started what I still call doodling, even when it’s on canvas and involves layers of paint and takes me weeks. Art has pushed me to care less about perfection and to focus most on what’s fun.

Art has taught me, too, about writing: how to create balance, the importance of texture and variation, how to better make something stand out and other things recede and provide foundation.

By the end of my day, my brain is done with creating and working, and I watch an episode of a series with good writing. This, too, has taught me more about storytelling and creating emotion and developing character.

And then the day ends and I read—The Sun Magazine is a staple on my nightstand—and if I am lucky, my insomnia only begins with a great idea. I’m okay waking up because of that.

Read more from Issue No. 40 or share on X.