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Every Day As a Writer, I Have To Tell Myself Not to be Afraid

No.fear from Flickr via Wylio
© 2008 Vincepal, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

Every day as a writer, I have to tell myself not to be afraid.

There are plenty of voices in my head trying to convince me to get a real job, one with medical benefits and a regular pay check. There is the voice that tells me nothing I’ve ever written has really been that great, and there’s no chance that anything I write in the future will be anything special either. There’s the voice reminding me of every bad review, every clients’ criticism of a first draft, every rejection.

Today I stared out my window and I thought about fear. What would my life look like if I gave into it? I’d work 9 to 5. I’d watch a lot of television (because watching television is such a great way for me to forget about everything I’m afraid of). I’d encourage my kids to stay inside, to not try anything new, to keep their expectations low.

I’d stare out a lot of windows.

I wouldn’t let anyone read anything that I wrote – I’d stop writing.

I’d never say hello to anyone, for fear they’d think I was stupid, or naive, or ugly, and wouldn’t say hello back to me.

Fear has a way of leading us in a concentric path that grows smaller and smaller until we are so far inside of ourselves that we are nothing more than a small point surrounded by an unfathomable darkness. There is no question of engagement, no question of opening up. And if we follow fear long enough, it will swallow us up.

Ironically, the best response to fear is not to be unafraid. The best response is to embrace it.

Try new things.

Write or paint or draw. Start a new business or make a new friend. Take a walk. Get outside of yourself.

This is how you move through fear – by moving and by expanding your circle of movement.

Every morning as a writer, I have to tell myself not to be afraid, and then I have to do something about it. So I open a new page and I start typing.

My newest confrontation with fear involves starting a Kickstarter campaign to fund a novel I wrote over the last fifteen months. And I have to admit – I’m terrified…that it’s no good, that no one will like it, that people will snicker about me behind their backs. But I know it’s time to stop being afraid.

You’ll be able to support the launch and publication of this novel starting on Monday, October 20th, so stay tuned for more on that.

What are you afraid of?

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These Painful Renovations (Or, Our New Life in the City)

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We are slowly, slowly finding our rhythm here in the city. The mornings are quiet and cool now, and the traffic creeps past on James Street. Our neighbor Paul sits quietly on his porch doing a crossword puzzle, watching people walk by, sometimes taking a nap. To the other side, our neighbors are renovating the old, neglected row house, filling up dumpster after dumpster with plaster and lathe and old counters and rotten floorboards. Broken sinks and chipped tiles. It is a complete emptying so that they can begin new, from the foundation of each room.

Maile schools the kids in the morning and then the afternoons are filled with activities: co-op and art class and Latin. Nearly every evening, we walk the couple hundred yards to the local Y. The kids play, Maile goes to exercise classes, I swim. We walk back through evenings that are increasingly dark, under bright city street lights and past the neighbor two doors down who is giving his front porch a facelift.

I get my hair cut across the street. There’s a tattoo parlor on the corner and an egg roll place across the street. The kids love it when, previously unannounced, we say, “Let’s go to Souvlaki Boys!”, the Greek restaurant on the corner of Queen and James. We walk for ice cream or to the park. My aunt lives a few blocks away, and she walks up to babysit or to join us for dinner.

On Sunday we walk to church, to St. James which is so different from any church we’ve ever gone to. It’s an Episcopal church, so for this boy who grew up in the Evangelical circles, it’s different. But our kids love the children’s program, they love taking communion every week (as do I), and they love the walk. Those Sunday morning walks are quiet. Few cars cruise the streets. Few people sit on their porches, but those who do look up at our passing crowd, seven now, with Sam usually riding on top of the stroller and Cade and Lucy up ahead, chatting.

“Good morning,” we all say.

“Good morning,” they say back to us.

And there is something holy about that, your family passing by a stranger on a quiet Sunday morning in the city, saying hello, and being spoken to.

And it seems to me that even in the midst of this beautiful new routine, there have been hard weeks: when our car was hit-and-run; when I was hospitalized or diagnosed with Crohn’s a few weeks later; when we decided to find a new home for our dog. These things are difficult. But then I hear, through the walls, the renovations going on next door, and I’m reminded that the best transformations always begin with a complete stripping away of the old.

Enlighten the darkness of my heart, I pray along with St. Francis, and a layer of plaster is pulled away. Sunlight shines through the empty space, filtering through the dust. These renovations are painful ones, but the transformation to come will be breathtaking.

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When the Church Creates, Not Little Christs, But Little Accountants

St. Francis of Assisi from Flickr via Wylio
© 2007 Randy OHC, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

My four oldest children and I walk slowly along the sidewalk on our way to church, the morning sun just beginning to rise above the buildings that line Queen Street. Maile is feeding Leo and they will walk to church later. The city is quiet on Sunday mornings, like the silence after a long sigh. Nights here are busy, cars always moving, people coming and going from one streetlight to the next. But on Sunday morning you could just about walk down the middle of the street and no one would notice.

There is a man sitting on his front stoop, newspaper in hand. He looks up at us through defeated eyes. I say hello. He nods and looks back down at his paper. Abra runs ahead of us, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk. Sam reaches up and holds my hand. So does Lucy. Cade tells old stories about our family, stories that have become a kind of folklore.

There is the story about when Rosy the Rabbit tried to eat Sam alive. There is the story about how Abra found the hidden stash of 4,652 chicken eggs under the log pile. They talk about the house where we lived on Belmont Street, how Abra fell and hit her head on the bus during our cross-country trip, how I was the only one to see the bear at Yellowstone.

Story after story, and I realize something: every time these stories are retold, they reinforce our family identity. They strengthen the foundation of acceptance and love that these children feel in our home. I laugh and ask more questions.

“Do you remember the time…”

* * * * *

We arrive at St. James and I drop them off for children’s choir practice, then wander into one of the neighboring buildings. There’s a class being held on St. Francis, so I slip in and listen. Father David hands me a card. On one side is a beautiful image of a crucifix surrounded by images of prayer. On the other side this is written:

Prayer of St. Francis
Before the Crucifix

Most high, glorious God,
Enlighten the darkness
of my heart
and give me true faith,
certain hope
and perfect charity,
sense and knowledge, Lord,
that I may carry out
Your Holy and
true command.

* * * * *

“The evidence of our Christianity,” Father David says during the sermon, “is not found primarily in the financial gifts we give to this church. The evidence of our Christianity is found in our coming together and offering of our selves, our talents, and our time to one another and to the world.”

I think he is right. The primary act of Christ on this earth was not the giving of financial resources, but the giving of himself. I think the American church, in spending so much time asking for money and so little time asking that each Christian give themselves, is missing the mark and creating, not little Christs, but little accountants.

* * * * *

We walk home and Leo starts to cry a little because he is hungry. The sun is a bright light behind us now, high in the sky, hot for a late September day in Lancaster. Sammy runs towards a trash can to throw away his water bottle, and he trips and falls, scuffing his hands. He cries, I pick him up, and the rest of the kids circle around him.

“Are you okay, Sammy?” one of them asks.

“Did you hurt yourself?” another one inquires.

He is okay, and we continue our walk. When we get close to the house we see my parents sitting on the porch, waiting to eat lunch.

* * * * *

Late that night I take out the dog (yes, we have a dog – that’s another story), and listen to the city at night: trucks rumbling through, sirens screaming from the hospital, someone shouting to someone else out on James Street. And I think about one line from that prayer on the card Father David handed to me:

that I may carry out
Your Holy and
true command.

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This God Who Can’t Wait to Punish Us

Men walking away on the beach from Flickr via Wylio
© 2011 Valentin Janiaut, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

We are at liberty to be real, or to be unreal. We may be true or false, the choice is ours. We may wear now one mask and now another, and never, if we so desire, appear with our own true face. But we cannot make these choices with impunity. Causes have effects, and if we lie to ourselves and to others, then we cannot expect to find truth and reality whenever we happen to want them. If we have chosen the way of falsity we must not be surprised that truth eludes us when we finally come to need it!

-Thomas Merton, “New Seeds of Contemplation”

When I was a senior in college, I decided not to play soccer, which doesn’t sound like a major decision, except I had self-identified as a soccer play for fifteen years. One of the most difficult aspects of quitting was letting go of what other people would think about me – I wasn’t a soccer player anymore. What would everyone else identify me as? It felt like a vacuum had formed, a space of nothing, and I didn’t know what to fill it with.

Sometimes we identify not with what we do but with what we have or own. Maybe your identity has been wrapped up in owning a business or having a particular kind of vehicle. What would happen if you lost the major things that you have? How would that affect you?

One of the greatest temptations we will ever face is to be who we think everyone else wants us to be instead of being who we are. Our identity becomes what everyone else thinks about us. We worry…what if everyone realized I’m not as conservative or as liberal as I’d like them to think that I am? What if my friends realized I have doubts about my religion (or my non-religion)? What if people don’t take me seriously?

Henri Nouwen says that most of us go through life finding our identity in what we have, what we do, and what other people say about us. The problem with that is each of these will someday fail us – we will lose everything we have, we will stop doing what we are known for doing, and other people will inevitably say bad things about us from time to time. What then?

Nouwen suggests that we find our identity as “The Beloved.” One loved by God. This can be difficult though, when we’ve been taught for so long that God’s love is conditional on our behavior, that he is ready to zap us at our next mistake.

Who am I?

These days, I find my identity as a writer, but even that feels like a slippery place. What if I have an off day, write poorly…does that mean I’m not a good person? What if people don’t like something that I write…does that mean they don’t like me as a person? As long as I find my identity in what I do, that identity has a weak foundation, one that can crumble at any moment.

Where do you find your identity?

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What I’m Waiting For

Frederick Eleganza Yarns Floor from Flickr via Wylio
© 2009 Mr.TinDC, Flickr | CC-BY-ND | via Wylio

After two weeks I ease back into this rhythm. I hear the kids playing in another part of the house, their distant echoes comforting. I hear the traffic going by on James Street. I hear Leo begin to cry, and I hear Maile’s footsteps pass along the creaky floorboards in the hall, and then Leo stops crying. The tree in the back yard makes a shushing sound as autumn arrives.

There is always too much to write, and there is never enough. The words are easy to come by, and they elude me.

Today someone asked me what I do for a living. The answer comes quickly now, and without even thinking I say, “I’m a writer. I co-write and ghost-write books for people.” But what does that mean, actually? I know, I know, I’m over-thinking things.

Right?

But that still doesn’t seem like enough, even though it’s what I wanted for so many years. It still feels like I’m waiting for something else, something new.

* * * * *

We are, all of us, waiting for something. I’m waiting to hear back from various people regarding a book proposal I sent out. My kids are waiting for their school day to be over. My parents are waiting to sell their house. I have friends waiting for a baby to arrive, waiting for a relationship to work out, waiting to hear back regarding a job. In winter, the tree waits for spring.

In my experience, waiting can be harmless. It can be something that lies in the background of life, something I know is there but pay little attention to.

But it can also easily paralyze me. Life can become about the waiting, and if I’m not careful everything besides what I’m waiting for falls to the side. While waiting to hear back regarding this book proposal, my life can easily devolve into a series of meaningless activities, all of which feed the waiting: checking email, checking Facebook, re-reading the manuscript, etc etc etc. And even if I escape these activities that surround the waiting, my mind can still turn over and over on itself, wearing a rut difficult to escape from.

What are you waiting for?

* * * * *

I take a deep breath. I sit in silence for five minutes, just five minutes because that’s all it takes to jump the rut of waiting. That’s all it takes to find a new rhythm, slower breathing, a form of peace that doesn’t always make sense. Five minutes sitting on the floor with my back against the door frame, and in the silence I remember the things that are beautiful in my life: the sound of feet creaking floorboards, the sound of children’s voices, the sound of autumn arriving. These are things here and now, things I don’t have to wait for.

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The Man Who Wouldn’t Shave His Beard

Arizona State Fair 2008 - Vivitar Ultra Wide & Slim XPRO from Flickr via Wylio
© 2008 Kevin Dooley, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

The man walks up to the counter of our stand at the fair and I know he will be a talker. I don’t know how I know this, but after years of waiting on people, I know. It is like a sixth sense. Perhaps it is something in the eyes, something lost or weary. Perhaps it is something in the shoulders, something heavy.

“You know,” he says, rubbing his beard like a sage, “I’ve been out of work now for 18 months. I’ve seen a tough stretch. A tough stretch indeed.”

He pauses. I wait.

“You sure you don’t have any pumpkin pie?” he asks, a sidetrack, a rabbit trail.

“No, sorry about that,” I say. “We don’t have enough space to carry refrigerated pies.”

“Oh, I’d just need one,” he says. I don’t say anything, because I know he doesn’t want to talk about pies.

“I love a good pumpkin pie. So anyway,” he says. “It’s been a tough stretch. I called up to York fair and they said the carnies hired people on a temporary basis, you know, to help set up the rides and run the food stands. So I showed up and applied and worked for two days.”

“Did you enjoy it?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“It was work,” he says. “It was money. But after two days, that woman comes to me and says I can’t work for her and keep my beard on.”

He laughs.

“Can’t keep my beard on! Well, I’m not shaving, not my beard, and I told her so, so she told me to take a hike. I called down here to Frederick Fair and applied to work down here for the week.”

“So you’ll be here this week?” I ask.

He nods.

“And they’ll let you keep your beard?”

“Yep, I’m running a fryer, just making french fries and corn dogs. That sort of thing. I done it before and I suppose I’ll do it again.”

He rubs his beard.

“Said I could keep my beard, you know. I have to wear a hat though. Can’t stand wearing hats, but I suppose I can respect her, wear the hat. I could use the money.”

He walks away. I can tell that, for this man, walking away from a conversation is like peeling off a scab. But I also know I’ll see him again. It’s something in the way he walks away, the slow movement of his gaze, or the way he shifts his hat nervously.