Come write with me

I need all the help I can get

Writing is such an odd undertaking. I’ve written all my life; even as a child I loved writing assignments in school. But I only started calling myself a writer in very recent years.

When I began blogging way back in the 1990s, it was sort of a way to keep in touch with friends and family. Very informal. It was a glorified “this is what I did today, here’s what I made for dinner.” Like Instagram without the pictures. Somehow that morphed into longer, essay-type writing by the 2020s when people were looking for more meaning and less drivel, and then I had the audacity to sign on with a book coach.

I told someone the other day that I could write essays all day long. Article-length pieces are my jam because you can see the beginning, middle, and a nice, neat ending all in one day. Edit the next and boom, you’re done.

Writing a book is a whole ‘nother can of worms. (Please don’t use that phrase. It’s the worst English.) I have a general plan for the controlling idea, but how to get there is still somewhat of a mystery. I’ve seen professionals lay out a book on index cards, with each story, quote, or point on a card, and then the cards laid out in chapters. That makes so much sense until I start actually writing, and what comes out is a little of this card and a bit of that one, until the whole thing is a jumbled mess and I have parts of stories in four different places and why is this so hard.

Typically the way I write is this: an idea hits me—seriously, it’s almost a physical sensation—and I run to get my computer. I open a blank Word document (Google docs is from the devil) and dive in. Once I get the first sentence or two down, the words gush out of me as fast as I can type, which used to be 65 words per minute when I was using an electric typewriter with actual paper in it. I might make a few changes right then, but when I’m done, I’m done. I close the computer and walk away.

But the writing process continues in my head.

The next day I open the document and read through, editing as I go. Usually I’ve had an idea or two since the previous day, and I do all the adding and subtracting and fixing. Once I’m satisfied with it, I copy/paste it in a new post in Substack. If there are photos, I upload those and add captions, then read through the final product one more time before scheduling its publication. I like that the start-to-finish process is a fairly quick experience.

*sigh*

A book is not like that.

I do have an outline, so I know what I want to include, mostly. But I’m struggling with a few things. Is it strictly memoir or content-driven? What is my book voice as opposed to my essay voice? The times I’ve done my best writing for the book have been when I’ve written emotionally, driven by what I feel almost desperate to say.

The problem with writing this way is that I’m only productive when the fever—or emotion—strikes. That makes it hard to write on schedule, which is what every book coach will tell you to do. Plan writing times. Put them on your calendar like a doctor appointment. It’s okay if you stare at a blinking cursor; just put your behind in the chair. Show up and eventually it will happen.

It has not been happening.

So today I did the exact opposite of putting my behind in the chair. I ran away and went to the woods. The sunshine was calling me and I just knew I had to get out. My brain was stuck and it needed to be shaken loose. I know there are words in there, but the faucet is clogged.

I walked a mile. Then two. Somewhere in the middle of the third mile, the mental block began to break up and I took out my phone and started writing in a note:

Alone with my thoughts
What are they?
Left them all behind
Weight is lifted
Breeze blowing angst away
Washing my soul
Freeing imprisoned words

Can you tell I’m not a poet? But those are the words that came out through my hands and I decided I would not just delete them like they’d never existed. When you unclog a pipe, you have to let the muck out before the water can flow. Welcome to my muck.

I began walking again and saw this:

That may not look like a heart-shaped rock to you, but I am 100% sure it was a gift from God. One little piece of stone among millions, and there it was, at my feet. It was him saying, “Keep going. The struggle is worth it. Someone needs your words.” I hope it wasn’t the bad poem you needed.

One foot in front of the other. Keep walking. Keep moving forward. Oh, there’s that little pain in the left hip. Don’t stop. More steps. Up this hill. Do you hear that little bird? There’s that callous on your foot rubbing again. Never mind that; keep going. There’s the gentle rustling of long-dead leaves still clinging to their branches. Feel the timid warmth of the weak winter sun filtering through barren trees? There’s another thought, another sentence to stop and type.

This is how a book is written. It’s not all sitting at a desk.

Some days it is fingers flying over the keyboard trying to keep up with the ideas that run over like a waterfall.

Some days it’s trudging up and down hills in the woods, begging for a single word and writing down every one, even the “stupid” ones.

I wondered today while I was walking why I am trying to write my story in book form. Why do I feel the need to write it all out in one place and share it?

I do not tell my story because I am an expert on trauma or healing or therapy or any of the other treatments I’ve tried. There are plenty of books on those.

I don’t tell it because I am trying to hurt anyone or call them out.

I tell my story because I am the only one who can. I am the only one who knows firsthand what I’ve been through, how I’ve felt, how I’ve suffered, my desperation to find a way out of the deep pit I found myself in.

I tell my story so you can understand there is no shame in struggling, and certainly no shame in seeking help.

I tell my story so you will know you’re not alone.