On Becoming Real

What is a "real" writer, anyway?

Note: I am slowly moving some of my Flodesk emails over to this space. A version of this story appeared in my December 2021 newsletter, so apologies for any déjà vu if you’ve already read it ❤️ Thanks for your grace and patience as I prepare to consolidate in 2023.

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My three-year-old daughter is “helping” me unload groceries, slowly removing each item from the paper bags I’ve just set down inside the front door. She carefully lifts a bottle of coffee creamer, a bag of apples, then a box of crackers, placing each product in a curved line, creating a snake-like trail of treasures along the floor. Once the bags are empty, she looks at me and shouts, ta-da!

“Wow, Pres!” I say, “You are such a good helper.”

Her eyes light up as she realizes she agrees with my assessment. A huge grin stretches across her face.

“I AM a good helper!!” she declares.

Just like that, she takes the compliment and accepts it as truth.

Here’s my truth: I never thought I would write a book.

For a long, long time, I told myself I was perfectly content writing online (I am), and that the Internet is a perfectly acceptable place for one to write (it is).

Underneath that logic lurked something else, though: I didn’t think I could write a book. As in, I did not believe I was humanly capable of doing so. I mean, come on, 60,000 words? That kind of word count is a feat for “real” writers.

Even once things set in motion and the dominoes started toppling over—the idea, the proposal, the agent, the publishers, the contract—I still questioned, doubted, and resisted. Me? A book? God, I think you've got the wrong girl for this job.

I once heard Jess Connolly say, “You gotta block out the haters. And sometimes, the biggest hater is you.” 

Turns out she was right. Who needs to worry about Internet trolls when I live with one inside my brain? For the past two years, I have convinced myself over and over again that this book is going to be a total flop, an embarrassment to my publisher, my family, my team. I have created entire stories in my head about what people really think of me doing this. I have called myself a fraud, a fake, an imposter, and worse names than those.

Meanwhile, plenty of others have stepped forward with their counterarguments. My mastermind group. My husband. My agent. Complete strangers on the Internet. I'm embarrassed to tell you how many times I've had to hear it—that I'm halfway decent at this writing thing—how long it's taken me to follow in my daughter's footsteps and declare the truth back to myself. 

I’m a writer. A real writer. 

I used to think becoming a “real” writer was out of reach for me. Real writers have national credibility, published essays in The Atlantic, book titles on The New York Times bestseller list. Real writers make real money, enough to support their families with their craft. Real writers don’t doubt themselves constantly, or feel insecure or paralyzed every time they sit down to write. 

… or, do they? 

I don’t know. But what I do know is this: for the past two years, I’ve sat at a desk every morning next to a burning candle wrestling words onto a blank page. I have been inspired, and I have been empty. I have cried and laughed and prayed and melodramatically ripped index cards off the wall. I have been a lighthouse—filled with wonder and hope. I have also been a tornado, shedding angst from room to room.

That all really happened. While 60,000 words didn’t make the final cut, I actually wrote that much—and then some.

Today I opened a white cardboard box filled with packing peanuts and three copies of my book. It has a real cover, a real title, and my name is really on it.

I’m reminded of a quote from The Velveteen Rabbit: “Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.”

This experience has not been easy—writing a book through a global pandemic, through lockdown and distance learning, through my husband changing jobs (twice), through a positive pregnancy test, and, shortly thereafter, a miscarriage.

But/and. Through it all, I have been tightly held, like a beloved stuffed animal tucked under the arm of a sleeping child. And really, in its simplest form, that is how I feel today, finally holding my book in my hands. I feel loved. Loose in the joints. Very shabby. 

I feel like a Writer who has, in a teeny tiny way, finally realized she was real all along.

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It is with a flurry of butterflies in my stomach that I tell you Create Anyway is available for pre-order! Thank you so much for supporting my work, here and elsewhere. I wouldn’t be here without the overwhelming kindness and encouragement of so many. ❤️

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