One day in second grade, while reading a Weekly Reader — a mini newspaper for students that featured articles about interesting people, places and things – I came across a short article about a 6-year-old girl who had published a book of poetry. Because she didn’t know how, literally, to write, she dictated the poems to her mother and, voila, she became an author.

Although I don’t remember the girl’s name, I do remember thinking, “Oh no! I’m seven and I still haven’t published!” Embarrassingly, I continued to utter those words well into my 20s, when I began publishing steadily. Even today, I utter a variation of them: “Oh no! I’m entering my middle years and still haven’t published my most important work!”

I’m willing to bet that similar words have slipped into your conversations with others or even with yourself. Such words belong to the universal language of writers. Share them as we may, however, they don’t necessarily give us strength. Ultimately, all writers stand – and sit – alone.

Sitting down to write is key; it is your only means for quieting the negative Muzak playing in your mind. I know this as fact, just as I know that to quiet is not to rid. My publish or perish fears will always be part of my life. I’m learning, still with difficulty, to accept the inevitable. And so I sit. … and sit … and sit.

Ideas are a shot of adrenaline; they engage our minds, make our spirits soar.

An idea travels at the speed of sound. It comes to us in a flash, unfolds just as quickly. It takes us right to the punch line, delivering a vision of our finished work in all its glory — something that shimmers, sparkles, shines, and changes lives.

Ideas are all these things and more. Ultimately, however, ideas are, well, just ideas. If we are to write — a book, an article, whatever — they must become more. They must move from the ephemeral to the actual.

They must be acted upon.

NOTE: I wrote this piece years ago, when my daughter was a babe and I was syndicating “Sunshine,” my parenting column. Ah, the memories it revives — eeek!!

I’m a mom who works at home. For those who think I’m being redundant — what mom doesn’t work at home? — let me be specific: I work for a living in my living room.

It’s not exactly an executive suite. There are blocks and rattles where leather chairs and oak filing cabinets should be. But it’s mine, at least a small corner of it, from which I write pieces like this one and others on parenting issues.

Working at home has its advantages. The dress is informal. It’s an easy commute, and there’s an eating establishment right around the corner (unfortunately). But it also has its drawbacks, especially if you have an infant around, as I do.

My daughter, as much as she loves me, has little respect for my work. For while she devours what I write — when I can’t get it out of her mouth — she’d rather I spend my time on other, more important things, namely her.

To be able to spend time with her is why I decided to work at home in the first place. Before she was born, I envisioned myself floating effortlessly from writing table to changing table, producing wonderful tracts on motherhood while producing a wonderful child. I would work as she slept, or so the plan went. It never occurred to me that I would give birth to an insomniac, or that I’d be trading a 9-5 job for one that began at 6 a.m. and ended at midnight.

To work at home, I quickly discovered, is to work in snatches of time and to pray that you can pick up something as quickly as you’ve put it down.

To work at home — as a writer at least — is to be foolhardy. You’re always chancing that the legislator or educator you’ve called for a quote won’t call back at an inopportune moment (e.g., when you kid’s pretending her cereal is hair mousse or when she’s looking for just the right light socket to stick her finger into.)

But inevitably, the phone does ring.

For example, one evening several months ago, I was wrapping presents on the living room floor when the physician I had been trying to reach called. Just as I picked up the receiver, I heard a loud gurgle coming from my daughter’s diaper. She had let loose a mudslide on the rug.

What to do? Hang up? Scream out that I’d call back later?

Unfortunately, if the doctor and I didn’t talk then, we couldn’t talk until after my deadline. So I went ahead with the interview, taking notes with one hand, while wrapping my daughter’s backside in wrapping paper and tape with the other.

Luckily, things like this don’t happen often. Neither my rug nor I could take it. But that’s not to say that most other workdays pass uneventfully or efficiently. Not when I’m playing working mom one moment and just plain mom the next.

Slowly, however, I’m getting used to feeling that I’ve got a split personality. And I’m getting used to the interruptions. I’ve even come to welcome them. After all, one of the greatest pleasures of work is goofing off from work. And what better way to goof off than to have a willing accomplice, one who can’t snitch because she can’t yet talk.

For someone who has a way with words, I can never find the words to describe to friends what writing means to me.

I try to tell them that it’s sort of like hearing voices, only I hear stories. Only I don’t really hear them or see them. I sense them, the way animals sense a storm approaching.

The stories may be in the distance somewhere, but they’re also in front of me, around me; inside of me. Sometimes they’re not stories at all. They’re just something I pick up with my Sixth Sense. They’re a “knowingness.”

Some days I seem to “know” everything. Every face, object, thought, emotion — all are stories waiting to be told. “Write me! Write me!” they scream.

Other days, my mind “reads” stories I’ve already written, even though I’ve never written them. For example, I sit on a bus and look around at faces, the plastic seats, advertisements and I recognize them as if they were out of a movie I’ve seen dozens of times.

And then there are days when I have what can only be described as “double vision.” I see (sense? hear?) things on two levels. For instance, I hear what someone says but also what they’re not saying. I see a pretty sunset but also see the water molecules in the clouds.

I try to tell my friends these things and they try to understand, or at least not get ticked off when my mind wanders or I dig into my purse for my notebook. But I know I’ll never succeed. Maybe because I myself don’t where the words come from. Heaven? Hell? A past life? A life to come?

I’m sitting in the Coffee Table, which is the absolute best coffee shop in the world. I don’t drink coffee, as you know. I hate the taste (which makes me wonder about your working at Starbucks … a subconscious, hostile act?). Anyway, I love this place because they all know me by name and even know what I like to drink and eat. That shouldn’t be too surprising because I order the same thing just about every time: iced tea and a toasted cinnamon bagel with plain cream cheese.

When I come here, I sit at a special table. It’s a two-seater in the corner. I like the privacy, but it also makes me feel less guilty. I am here for HOURS at a time, and I don’t want to take up too much space should there be a lunchtime rush. The owner tells me not to worry about it. I’m a regular. Still, I don’t want to overstay my visit.

I usually get here around 7:30 and have the place pretty much to myself. People come in to get coffees-to-go. Every once in a while someone comes in to read the paper, and then, of course, there are the moms who come in with their kids who make far too much noise and run all over the place. The shop has a small kids’ area with games like Candyland. When they play, the kids fight over cards and pieces, and they never clean up after themselves although their moms say things like “I’m not going to say it again, put away that game … I’m going to count to three … one, two, three … I’m not going to say it again … ” Ad infinitum. Kids — they should be outlawed from coffee shops where there are writers sipping iced tea and munching on bagels and trying to write the Great (or good-enough) American novel.

But I digress.

So I get here at 7:30 and there’s a guy camped out at my favorite table!!! He’s on a laptop and it is plugged into the outlet (my favorite outlet), which is not a good sign because it means he’s hunkering down. Plus he has his iPod surgically attached to his ears, and that means he doesn’t want distractions because he is in the “zone,” and anyone in the zone isn’t about to leave it. I should challenge him to a duel — his mouse against mine — but I can’t suggest this because he is too darn absorbed in his work.

When I went up to the counter to order my food, I jokingly mentioned to Linda that my space had been violated. She said she thought the same thing when he came in. She also said that I could call in advance (they open at 5:30 a.m.), and she would put a “reserved” sign on the table. Isn’t that wonderful?!

(Crap — there’s a little girl a few tables away. She’s got one of those pink plastic ponies with the Lady GaGa hair. She’s throwing it and her mother is saying, “I’m not going to say it again, pick up your pony … I’m going to count to three … “)

Oh no!!!! The guy’s wife just came in. They’re talking and talking and talking about his new job. She’s brought their toddler with her and the kid, of course, is making a mess of his chocolate cupcake, and she’s saying “I’m not going to say it again …” You won’t believe this — they’re now playing Candyland. I am NOT making this up.

Well, to heck with all that. I am going to stay here, until closing if need be. I am going to get my table back! Maybe I should go sit on the guy’s lap …