Today I decided to try it myself. I climbed over the railing and stood on the edge. “I was a kid once. I used to do back flips off diving boards twice this high.”
The kids cheered, “Jump Mom,” and “You can do it,” followed by, “Don’t be scared.”
And you know what? I didn’t jump. Why? Because I’m forty-two-freakin’ years old. I hung my head and took the walk-of-shame down the stairs. I complain all the time about wanting to have the exuberance of youth, yet when faced with an opportunity to feel the excitement, I held back.
It got me thinking. Where else in my life am I afraid?
I thought about my book. Because when you’re writing, everything pertains to the book, right? I thought about the never-ending editing cycle, the queries... the rejections. And I am afraid.
Here are examples of how I stopped being afraid and started jumping:
- I put my pad and paper in a baggie and rowed myself up a river in a canoe.
- I asked my kids to write the ending. Kids have magical insight.
- I wrote naked. I wrote while eating. I wrote while cooking.
- I took a road trip. Pen and paper in my lap.
- I set the alarm for 3 A.M. to write. I wrote some incoherent stuff about root beer and went back to bed.
Someone said my writing is rambling.
I considered, for a moment, that my chapter was rambling. Scary thought. I read that chapter over and over again. I forced friends to read it too. I read a book on writing skills. I know. I know. I’m rambling. Finally, I gave in. I rewrote that damn chapter and it’s glorious.
"You'll never publish a memoir unless your famous."
I submitted my memoir to ten more agents.
we don’t need anyone to talk us down.