I have begun writing a book. Not a short story, not a blog post – a book. A novel. Something fictitious. And quite frankly, I’m terrified. A novel is longer than anything I’ve ever written and I so desperately want it to be good. But you know what has to be done before it can be good? It has to be written.
Surprising to no one, I am writing about strong women, inspired by all the strong and powerful and compassionate women that I know and love. I’ve known since third grade that I wanted to be an author. I would spend hours and hours reading and writing in my bedroom. I envisioned myself as the heroines in each and every story. They were my role models. I wanted to have the brilliance Hermione had; her stick-to-your-guns attitude; her punch-Malfoy-in-the-mouth bravery. I admired Katniss because she was tough and hard and volunteered for her sister without even thinking about what that meant for her. I appreciated Tris’ honesty to herself for defecting from Abnegation and choosing Dauntless, even though she had been raised to be meek and mild. These women, in my mind, were brave in spite of their fear; they were bold and stood up for the truth. And in the end, they were the heads of rebellion to a system that was broken. I idolized them. In a time when I felt weak, they made me feel strong. There came a point in time when I could (and often did) read a 600+ page book in a day. I was a voracious reader and I dreamed that someday, there would be someone who read what I wrote with the same vigor. Even thinking about it now evokes great emotion from me.
I am afraid. And for a long time, a very long time, I said I wanted to be an author, but knew deep down that I had no real plans to write a book. It was something I wanted to do, but I didn’t believe in what I was saying. I didn’t feel like I could lock myself away like Hemingway or Woolf or Plath or Kerouac and write. I didn’t have a great idea for a book come to me in a dream; no vision fell into my lap.
I made every single excuse I could possibly think of. I majored in English, with a focus in Creative Writing. All of my professors told me that I could make it; that I had the talent. I ate up the praise and considered it sufficient. They were published, I reasoned, which mean that was good enough. What did I have to prove?
Everything.
I have everything to prove. But not to anyone else. Not to my family or friends or teachers or professors. No matter how highly I value their opinions, this has nothing to do with them or anyone else. It has everything to do with me.
Whether I realized it or not, I made a promise to myself. I allowed my fear of failure to overshadow the excitement of pure creation. I let my fear stunt me before I ever put words on a page.
I am writing this now as a way to say, “Fuck you, fear. Fuck you, doubt. You can’t hold me back anymore.”
I am a creative person. I must create. I must write. This is my medium. And one day, in the hopefully not-too-distant future, I will be a published author with a story I’m proud to have told. And regardless of sales, accolades, or recognition, this book will be my pride and joy. Not because of what other people thought; not because of what they liked or didn’t like, but because I kept this promise to myself. Because I didn’t give up, even if I took several detours. For too long, I have allowed the fear of other people’s opinions prevent me from living MY Life. It’s time I cared most about what I think.
This is a public proclamation. This is a social contract. Please hold me accountable.
SIOUX-DONYM 