“What if I’m not good enough?”
“Who am I to think I have something important to say?”
“Why would anyone want to read a book by me?”
Ever have any of these thoughts? Of course you have. You’re human. (And, if not, you’re either incredibly confident—congrats!—or a raving narcissist—bummer. But if you are a narcissist, you wouldn’t know it, so congrats anyway.)
I’m in the blessed position to work with many talented writers at one time, and one of the gifts of that is I get to see trends, or norms. I learned a long time ago that 99% of people become neurotic messes when sending their art out into the big, wide world of publishing—what with all those agents and editors and big-titled somebody’s holding their future in their hands.
This last part stops many a talented writer in his or her tracks—the idea that some person has veto power over their creativity. They’d rather play it safe and hide or slow their work, not realizing they’re stuck.
Perhaps this unrelated story of stuckness from my not-too-distant past offers some food for thought…
Just over a decade ago, my family and I had to move back to Los Angeles for work from the forest of New Mexico, where we’d lived off the grid on 365 acres for five years. Trouble was, we’d collected a PACK of animals in the great wilds—six, to be exact (four dogs and two cats), and had no idea how the heck we were going to get away with illegally harboring so many four-legged critters.
I hatched a plan: find an absentee landlord, someone for whom money, not city ordinances or potential pet damage, would be the sole motivator. Bingo. We found him. He owned a tiny shack of a house in Eagle Rock, a suburb of L.A., and when he gave us the tour of the 400-square feet that would become our home—all in four minutes—I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. The yard was large for the animals, thank God. But the “house,” if you could call it that, was horrid. Cramped. Weathered. Beaten down by years of neglect. Our best friends lived down the street, however, and a terrific school for our son was within walking distance. Oh, and the rent was ridiculous. So I jumped. We got to work, fixed it up, built a huge garden out back, and called the place home. We were happy there. Mostly. Well, not totally, but happy in the life-doesn’t-suck-and-I have-lots-of-other-blessings kind of happy.
After a year, however, my contentment muscles began to seriously twitch. The walls were closing in and the charm of our romantic shack had worn about as thin as our threadbare carpet. I ached to expand my closet and shower space, as well as my vision for my life. I mean, what was I doing playing small, anyway? How long was I going to be okay not shooting for what I really wanted, which at least included a two-car garage.
As if hearing my prayers, the old-lady owner of the gorgeous house next door asked if we wanted to buy her home at a large discount—WITHOUT realtors or “hassles.” She had owned the joint outright for forever, and “loved” us. “I want to give you a break,” she said. “Just because I can.” The place was nearly perfect—my dream. The only thing missing was the garage. Oh well. This fairy godmother, who happened to swear like a truck driver, gamble, and smoke Marlboros, was about to give me another gift I never saw coming.
Alone for an hour on the evening of our move in, I found myself crying in gratitude to God and my deceased mother, thanking them for making this happen. The relief of finally living with an abundance of space and beauty for the first time in over a year brought me to my knees. I literally kissed the new floor, and went to sleep with a full heart and a smile on my face.
When I woke up the next morning, however, I had an overwhelming desire to move back to the shack! No kidding. The pull was physical and undeniable. No matter what I did throughout the day, I couldn’t shake the urge to take my stuff and shove it back through every door and window next door, in a mad dash before anyone could catch my sorry, crazy ass.
What the heck was wrong with me? Was I nuts?
I don’t think so. I think it’s called being human.
Even though our shack was cramped, it was cozy, comfortable, dependable. It wasn’t abundant and it wasn’t fulfilling, but it felt so beautifully familiar. It didn’t ask me to expand or grow or risk or live in the unknown. In fact, it asked hardly anything of me. I’d made great casseroles in that house. Played tennis and baseball and football in the street in front of that house. Stayed up late reading adventurous books with my son in that house. We’d shared loving holidays there with friends and family. I knew who I was in that place. I knew how to be. Life made sense in our shack. Cramped sense. But sense.
In this new home, with its iron gates and glistening hardwood floors and Jacuzzi tub and skylights, I had no friggin idea who I’d have to become to live here. I’d never cooked a meal here, entertained friends, or made a memory. There was no emotional bank account from which to draw from. And, how would I pay the big mortgage? Was I really worthy of staying here year after year? And, what if it didn’t work out? What if I’d bitten off more than I could chew? (Oh, this is what they mean by the term “buyer’s remorse.”) What if I had been too hasty, daring to hope this new life, this new Linda, was in fact real? What. If. It. Wasn’t. Real?
I got over myself. Quickly. Within two days, my new big house felt like second skin. I was elated. And, it wasn’t long before I wanted an even bigger closet, and started dreaming about that garage…
Two years later, I sold the house for a large profit and bought a bigger, prettier home in a gated community with a garage door that opens with the push of a button. I’ve been here six years now, and my muscles are starting to twitch for a new garage, one large enough to hold a golf cart. Go figure…
Moral?
None of it’s comfortable.
None of it.
But it’s worth it.
All of it.
I won’t be as dramatic as to say publish or perish.
That’s just hogwash fear talk from the hallowed halls of academia.
But trust in your desires, your heart, and yourself.
Each time I sign with a bigger editor at a bigger publishing house for more money, I’m reminded of my shack.
Get your art out there, okay?
I’m here to help if you need me.
Yours,
Linda
xo
