KaraMaeK

In The Year of Yes Shonda Rhimes describes writing as a five-mile-long hallway lined with brownies and cupcakes and Game of Thrones and Idris Elba with a door at the end. The door is closed and locked. She must run as fast as she can, passing each item along the way. She must run every mile to that door and unlock it where she will find the really good stuff. When she is interrupted, she must do it again.

For me, it’s not a file mile long hallway. There is a door right in front of me. The door is always there, always in reach. Always telling me to open it and get to work. Sitting comfortably inside the door is noise and fear and piles of books and Instagram. If I can shove passed all of them, I find mental fatigue waiting to wrap me in a warm hug and tuck me into the couch with sleepy tea. Mental Fatigue is standing next to a guy named Pressure That Does Not Exist. He is asking me what will I do with my creative outputs, who will ever read them, and what is the point to all of this?

When I do get passed all of this, I find a fresh notebook, the best pens, and a shelf full of ideas.

I just can’t always close the door behind me before in rush mental fatigue, noise, and pressure. They grab my pen. They crumple my paper. They tell me to lay down on the comfy sofa. They unplug my mental laptop and hand me a book or my phone and tell me these are better ways to spend my time.

Pressure That Does Not Exist, also known as Self Doubt, will whisper in my ear “Who will ever read this? Why would you ever want to publish this? You really are not that good.”

I let panic set in. I pick up my phone or my book or both. I let the comfy sofa pull me in. I allow the noise to take over.

I don’t say “Please may I have a little quite time alone?”

And I don’t say “It doesn’t matter if I am the only person who reads this. I like the way it feels to pull this out of my head and that is what matters.”

I let myself be afraid.

Afraid of what exactly? I guess I am afraid of

Not being good enough

People judging me

Being thought of as selfish for taking the time to be alone and just write regularly

It is all silly really.

No one will think I am selfish.

I am better than many books I have read when I am not lazy.

I can do this.

And if I write a book and get it published, maybe, just maybe I could make that my primary job.

Wouldn’t that be great?

Visualization is important.

I see myself writing for a few hours every morning then creating experiences for the rest of the day. I see myself working part time jobs, volunteering, doing research, and talking to people.

I can see myself spending a couple weeks in a small walkable town where I just explore, meet people, eat good food, see new things, and write.

This feels very right. I am in the room. The paper is crisp, and the pen is perfect.

All the obstacles Pressure That Does Not Exist is shouting are right outside the door. I can hear the voice, but it is faint.

I will do what it takes to push those sounds, voices, fears away because I have a book in me, a few books really, and they want out. It is time to let them be heard.