4. I’m writing a book
In mid-October, I flew to LA to attend a writing workshop hosted by Jedidiah Jenkins & Ruthie Lindsey.
They are two writers and spiritually-conscious leaders I have followed for some time, and I had been wanting to attend one of Jed’s writing workshops to hone my craft. Finally the timing aligned. I booked my tickets and anticipated a much-needed solo trip.
“Why are you here?”
We stood in a large, 150-person circle that bordered the walls of the concert venue-turned daytime writers workshop. We had gone through a group ice breaker where we revealed unique parts of our identities, like “I’m a small business owner,” or “I’m queer with a religious background,” to “I’ve lost my mother”. One by one as each individual at the mic shared a piece of their identity, we watched other people step into the circle with us, showing us all we weren’t alone. We shared the same experiences, the same struggles, the same pain.
As we returned to our seats, our first written exercise was to answer the question, why are you here?
After eagerly anticipating this weekend alone to write, I stared at the notebook in my lap for a solid minute.
I couldn’t get any words out.
As someone who struggles to “hobby” well, doing anything half way or part time is difficult for me. Putting time, money, and intention behind this hobby of mine felt like a long time coming.
Why am I here, I asked myself.
I realized the wordlessness was restraining what I really wanted to write.
I’m here, because I want to publish a memoir.
That’s why I was at the conference. I already knew this, but I didn’t realize I was afraid to write it down.
I have been ‘writing a book’ since I was 23. Back then it was a compilation of spiritual beliefs and ethereal thinking without a lot of grounding in the here and now. It was just a lot of writing. It lacked cohesion, a plot… a lot of things, so I told myself that I needed to do something that was *worth* writing about.
Now, a decade later, I am afraid to say what I really want, as if stating it makes me presumptuous.
As if I deserve to tell my story.
As if we have to earn others’ approval to use our voices.
I feel it in my bones: I am afraid.
I am afraid. I am afraid.
Of so many things.
I am afraid to pretend like my story is worth public consumption. I am afraid of public consumption – of being eaten alive by critics and people I wouldn’t suspect to turn on me.
Jedidah reminded us of our baffling human history – the majority of us hate speaking in public, because it was dangerous when the tribe turned to look at you. It likely meant that the tribe was turning on you. To cast you out.
All eyes on me, programmed into our biology, is a threat.
I am afraid to say confidently that I want to publish a book, because – what if I never do it!
Well. As the basketball poster in my little brother’s childhood bedroom proclaimed,
You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.
- Wayne Gretsky
So I’m shooting my shot here, and I’m sharing my story of writing. I’m choosing to invite my friends and strangers in to my journey of facing my fears of being publicly consumed, and just doing it.
All the sports analogies.
I keep returning to a central question,
that we all ask ourselves at crucial stages of our lives –
Who Am I?
Who was I as a child? How have I lost her?
Who am I after the pandemic,
after broken relationships,
and in rebuilding?
I think that if I can answer that question, Who Am I, through writing, then maybe I will be less afraid.
That maybe, I won’t be compelled to hide over and over again. That maybe if I can know who I am, then I could face myself, in all of the light and shadows, without having to cower away.
And maybe, if I stop hiding, someone else can find the light, too.