Preemptive Retaliation

About half way into October, I met Mike for a coffee. I brought my green notebook that I had been using to write my story ideas in for the past few years, and I put upon him the massive responsibility of saving my book. He didn’t quite know that at the time, not really.

There was an article that he shared with me years ago about writing. I can’t remember who wrote it or where, but the jist of it was being embarrassed at calling yourself a writer, sticking that label on yourself. The author had a day job somewhere but loved writing so much that he went on a writers retreat. While there he was taken aback about how candidly other people spoke about their art, as if it meant something. This wasn’t a dig at their pretentiousness. It was more about the surprise that people weren’t embarrassed at calling themselves writers. They accepted their hobby or craft or life as they did.

It’s something that resonated with me deeply when I first read it and I think about it often. When meeting someone new I tend to tell them my job and what I do there and how much I like it and everything, and then maybe, at some point, if it comes up, I might mention that I write stories. Maybe, just maybe, if the conversation persists, I might tell them that I’ve written a book. God, if they really press me, they’ll be lucky if they get the title, which is always accompanied by “but don’t worry, it’s terrible,” as a preemptive apology.

My book and my writing is something I keep squirreled away inside of me. It’s hidden away. Maybe I’m protecting myself from people judging me, from thinking I’m a cringey wannabe writer, and maybe I’m worried that I’m not all that good and I don’t want anyone to find that out. I don’t want to put myself out on the line like that, to be so exposed and open.

Which has led to me working on the same story for years now and on the verge of hating it because for some reason I can’t get it to work. I couldn’t have that though. The story needed to breathe, it needed someone else to hear it. And either they could help lift it up or put it out of its misery.

And so I went to Mike. It wasn’t the first time I had tried to do it either. We had met for coffee three or four times already in the preceding weeks, and each time I bottled out of it. I had my notebook in my bag or on the table, and I was ready to tell him everything that was wrong with it so he could talk me through it, but anxiety always got the better of me and I left it hidden. But not this time. This time I lead in with it. I jumped right in and told him that we were going to talk about this, and I was shaking and sweating and was speaking so quickly that I wasn’t making much sense, but we were talking about it.

And we talked and talked and talked, and I wrote a dozen post-its that are stuck to the pages of that green notebook, and I went home that night and wrote a few hundred words focusing on this new direction. Between now and then I have written twenty thousand words.

And this has nothing to do with NaNo. I decided not to attempt it this year, and so the twenty thousand I wrote are twenty thousand good words, solid words. Earlier this year I told myself that I wasn’t going to finish my book before my birthday though I always kept a secret hope that I would. I now know I definitely won’t be finishing by my birthday, but, thanks to Mike, I have a book that I will finish.

It feels good to be a writer. It feels good to say that out loud, and it feels good to talk about it with friends. But, mainly, it feels good to actually fucking do it.