My First Book


open-faced blank journal atop stack of notebooks and magazines / potted pepper plant on windowsill blurry in background
Photo Cred: Fang-Wei Lin / Unpslash

Three years ago, I hit one of my biggest crash-and-burns yet. I was overworking on a million different pursuits that had nothing to do with what I’ve wanted my whole life.

Everything in me stopped.


I couldn’t edit another fucking video. Write another blog post. Send out one more email. My soul called me out and made me painfully aware of what all this was: Distraction.


From the thing I’ve always been meant to do, supported in and called toward.


Writing books.

 

Fast forward three years. I’ve written 20 chapters in my first book. It’s the best work I’ve ever done in my life. And I’ve avoided, abandoned and distracted myself from it at every turn. I got a part-time J.O.B., busied myself with marketing my copyediting services, created a shit-ton of work in regard to every other thing in my life than the 1 thing I’ve always wanted.


And then . . .


Everything in me stopped.


I couldn't edit another fucking video. Write another social media post. Have one more month go by where I send out the same ol’ email newsletter.


I realized I was moving in the direct opposite direction of my dream, again. Fuck! Again. Again with this weird roundabout avoidance bullshit.


Before I even saw my own pattern, I audio-messaged a friend:

I just can’t move forward! I’m missing something I

can’t put my finger on . . . something that would

make all these details come together, easier.

Every time I sit down to start a task,

everything inside me just STOPS. Any ideas?

Lemme know if anything comes to ya.

Thanks. Bye.


I woke up the next morning with the same cosmically constipated feeling. I was in the worst mood I’d been in for as long as I could remember and it was sticking. I couldn’t shake it! Everything was pissing me off. I was dropping stuff, tripping over things . . . I’d walk to a place to grab something, and completely forget why I was there. Then a gigantic black carpenter bee kept dive-bombing me while I was watering my garden. Just when I thought it was gone and I let myself take a deep breath, while standing next to the outdoor cat who meets me in the morning for treats, it swooped in again! I flailed my arms and shot backward, scaring off my furry friend.


"Uurrrraarrrrrgggghhhhh!" I stormed around, PO-ed, frustrated and packed with angst, literally walking in circles, without a single clue how to proceed.


I checked my phone.


My friend had messaged me about a dream she had right before waking up.

You told me you wouldn’t be reachable for a while.

I asked you—“How long? Can I talk to you?”

You looked me straight in the eye and said:

“No. I’ll be at a writing retreat for 14 days.

I’m going to finish my book.”


Huh.


So here we are.


The circle leads me back to the beginning.


What now?

 

I’m going to do what I did three years ago when I stopped everything, stepped away from my business, and into my life. Last time, it was for one month that turned into two. I started writing my first book, by far the best endeavor I’ve ever embarked on.


This time, it’s 14 days and I’m going to finish it.


The rest is YTBD. Yet to be determined.

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