All night long. Yes.
Last weekend, I did a reading with some of my nearest and dearest. I told them how my tiny book, I Want To Remember This came about—and it brought back memories.
I got the inspiration to write while browsing the gifts section of Urban Outfitters. My eyes landed on the buttery-smooth, sepia-toned cover of The Art of Doing Nothing and I was dazzled.
I’d never seen a picture book for grownups before. I love picture books! People make these? Suddenly, making one myself was all I could think about.
The high lasted all night long.
The morning after, I showered, got in my Nissan Sentra, and drove across Lake Washington to my beige corporate office. As I poured myself coffee in the fluorescent-lit break room, I thought:
“Who do you think you are???”
That critical voice. I’ll bet you’ve got one, too. The one that reminds you to stay in your lane and HUSH. Well, it crashed the party and hard.
How hard? Enough to hide my writerly aspirations inside business text (aka emails that start with, “As per our previous discussion…” polished to a hilt). For two decades, I confined my creative writing to the insides of my brain.
But I never forgot about that night.
And eventually, I signed up for the Tiny Book Course to bring this dream to life.
***
Last Tuesday was my 51st birthday. On my hike, I passed a couple on the trail talking about a person known for being saintly, who’s now dead.
“But I don’t know if she’d say ‘I was there’,” one of them said.
There, as in present. In her own precious life.
I was reflecting on my writer’s journey at that moment. How slow it’s been. How the unforgettable pleasure of running my fingers along the spine of The Art of Doing Nothing has made it harder, not easier, to lean into making something like it.
It’s hard for me to trust feeling good. Feeling good feels bad somehow. I trust doing good more.
But friends, I do not want to die tomorrow and have you call me a do-gooder saint and wonder if “I was there.”
Please, no.
So for my birthday, I wish for a trusting relationship (BFFs 4 life!) with what feels good. I wish to give you yummy, loving reminders to honor your story, make space for what matters, and be IN your life as you create your future.
And writing this vocational love story—in all its groin-tingling glory—is my first step in that direction.
May my first step towards “I was there” inspire (and perspire!) yours.
