When I was growing up, my favorite gifts were books. My parents were happy to oblige, so I could count on finding a fresh supply of new reading material under the tree each Christmas morning. My idea of a perfect winter break was staying in my pajamas all day, curled on the sofa, reading book after delicious book. Actually, this is still my idea of a perfect vacation.

My brothers preferred video games and so we got plenty of those each Christmas too. To this day, there are Nintendo soundtracks that are inextricably linked in my mind with certain books. I can’t hear Dr. Mario music (not that anyone ever hears that anymore) without thinking of Stephen King’s Firestarter. One year, I read the entire novel with Dr. Mario at full volume in the background. The two shouldn’t fit together at all— a dark story about a girl who has the power to set things on fire with her mind against the backdrop of the plucky, cheerful sound of a pill-themed Nintendo game—but to me, they are a perfect match.

As an adult, the question, what will I read? is still a major part of my holiday planning (along with its siblings, what will I eat? and how late can I sleep in?) It still doesn’t feel like Christmas without a stack of new books.
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If the banana is nature’s perfect food (and the banana farmers promise us it is!) then a story is Santa’s perfect present. It’s the ideal way to travel to distant lands and have swashbuckling adventures or thrilling romances all in one convenient package. No packing and no jet lag.

So, go buy books for the people you love this Christmas. Especially if you’re shopping for me.

Publishing is hard. Life is hard. But sometimes in all of our commiserating about the challenging parts, we don’t take enough time to celebrate the wonder and the magic. To hold our delicate, fragile blessings in our hands and marvel at their beauty.

The playwright Thornton Wilder once said, “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”

So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, in the spirt of being alive, I am counting all of the many things I am grateful for this month. Many of them are too personal to share in this format. But at least one of the things on my list might inspire you to think of the things you would put on yours.

My first year of high school, I was on our school dance team. I’m not sure why I tried out. Maybe because several of my friends were doing it and it seemed like a good way to spend time together. Maybe because my mom had always hoped I’d be a cheerleader and dance team seemed like the next best thing. Or maybe because my boyfriend played football and I liked the idea of performing at his games. I don’t really remember my rationale. Only that at some point I made the decision and there I was—waking up at 5 a.m. every morning for practices, dancing in competitions, being fitted for adorable little outfits that cost a fortune.

One day, after I’d been on the team for about a year, one of the senior girls decided to give us a motivational pep talk in the locker room after practice. She ended her speech with something to the effect of, “C’mon, girls, we’re all here for one reason—because we love to dance.”

I remember that moment with sharp clarity. I remember thinking, is that why these other girls are here? Because, actually I don’t love to dance.

It was a pivotal insight for me. I realized it was pointless to spend time and effort on things I only tolerated when I could be doing things I loved.
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I quit the team and joined the newspaper staff.

Writing didn’t come with cute costumes. It certainly didn’t come with any discernible increase in popularity (quite the opposite, actually.) But it came with the deep satisfaction of truly loving something.

Some of my happiest memories of high school are of the newspaper lab with all of my friends doing our best to put out quality content each month. To write meaningful columns. To cover stories in brave ways even when it got us in hot water with the administration.

I had experienced the high that came with performing in front of a big crowd, but it didn’t come close to matching the high of the late nights at school, blue pencil in hand, pasting up copy that I’d written, edited or helped design. The smell of the wax machine in the air. The palpable buzz of excitement as we raced against a deadline.

Several years later, I became Senior Editor of the newspaper and one day had the occasion for a pep talk of my own. I spoke the words, “we’re all here because we love to write.” I saw a freshman in the back flinch. I saw the realization in his eyes that he wasn’t where he wanted to be. My heart went out to him. I hope he eventually found something he was passionate about. And whatever it was, I hope he never let it go.

I’m so lucky to know what I love to do. I’m so grateful I found it at such a young age. And even though it took a while to get published, and even though the publishing part could vanish at any moment, I still know that I love to write, that writing makes me happier than almost any other activity. And no matter what else happens, that’s a gift that I’m grateful for every day.

My poor sad face. This is obviously near the end of the season when all my hope had bled away.

I was twelve when I announced that I wanted to play basketball. It was music to my dad’s ears. Especially since the closest I’d come to a sport at that point was running away screaming while my cousins chased me with baby lizards. (Though I could run very fast in that situation.) My dad got even more excited when he handed me a basketball and found out that my shot wasn’t half bad.

He signed up to coach my team.

We were an awkward collection of girls—most of us short and inexperienced, but we also had a few girls who had hit their growth spurt and were suddenly composed of mostly gangling arms and legs with very little torso. Still, my dad was optimistic. His daughter could shoot. And he was going to turn me into a youth basketball superstar.

The day of the first game arrived. Our team got the jump ball and then, a couple of good passes later, the ball was in my hands. I did what I’d been trained to do. I took the shot. And it was all net.

I’m not sure I’d ever seen my dad so proud.

But his joy was short-lived, because that was the last shot I ever made in a game. It was the only shot I ever took. Because there was one thing that I had not factored into my love of basketball: the other team. Being nose to armpit with a sweaty opponent. Having a hand shoved in my face every time I tried to move. I hated that part. I hated it so much that the other stuff wasn’t worth it.

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I told my dad that I’d be happy to unfold my arms if the huge, mean girl who was guarding me would just get out of my personal space. (Personal space, I was yet to discover, is not a thing in any sport except golf.)

My illustrious basketball career was a short and entirely unsuccessful one. I still love to watch basketball.  And my shot is still decent—I have at least a fighting chance of winning a friendly game of horse. But I wasn’t any good at basketball because I couldn’t handle the opposition.

I think our success in any endeavor comes down to that one question. Can you take the heat? Is this thing you want–whatever it is–worth the hand in your face that will shut you down and tell you no? Life is not The Princess Bride–there is no “only the good parts” version. Adorable babies come with sleepless nights, endless diapers and projectile vomit. Piano concertos come with hours of practice, aching hands, butterflies in your stomach. A medical degree comes with 80 hour work weeks and very little free time for a decade or more. The question is, are the good parts so good that you can tolerate the times your nose will be pressed against a sweaty armpit?  Does the exhilaration of watching the ball sail from your fingers to the basket compensate for all the rest?

My answer to those questions for basketball was a resounding no. But my answer when it came to writing was yes. Yes, and yes and yes again. There are a lot of smelly armpit parts of writing—waiting and rejection and crippling self-doubt. But nothing quite matches the joy of creating. Of being in the zone and having the whole world disappear for a few hours.

So what is worth it for you? Music? Art? Business? Find your thing and then ignore that hand in your face and take your shot.

It’s totally worth it.