Fearful.

I think part of the reason I had a hard time truly starting this book project was the fear of what was inside me. I could rarely sit in the silence, preferring to constantly have music, podcasts, or children stimulating my mind. I was afraid to hear my own thoughts. I was afraid of how deeply angry or resentful I might unknowingly be. I was afraid if I started to seriously write, those strong feelings would come out on paper. I didn’t want to satisfy my need to write while hurting someone else with my words, or admitting to myself things I hoped to ignore. So I simply didn’t. I pulled a Jonah, and figuratively ran away. I distracted my mind, I kept myself busy, and I ignored every small reminder of the task that had been set before me. Until I finally ran into the Big Whale.

After a very rough summer and finally embracing some emotional healing, I found myself driving alone in the car without reaching for the radio. I watched the road, prayed, and allowed my mind to wander. The silence wasn’t so scary anymore. With it however, brought winks of ideas that needed to be explored. Long forgotten stories of childhood, metaphors, and understanding to responses I had in years past. Sitting in the silence finally allowed me to hear all the Holy Spirit had for me.

So eventually I opened my computer, and finally began.
However, even with ideas in mind, I often found myself sitting in front of a blank screen:
“God, there is so much swirling in my head, and I have no idea how to get it out.”

“Jesus, you told me to write this book, but this is gonna have to be a complete you thing. If any words getting typed today, it’s only because of you. I’ve got nothing.”

“Ugh. This makes no sense!”

“How do I make sure people understand my heart? This sounds so self-centered.”

“God! I really need you to write this book. I can’t do this.”

Over and over again I sat. Watching the clock eat away at the precious alone time I had available to me. Sometimes, sentences were typed. Sometimes, I slowly sank into further discouragement. But line by line, as it all came together, I realized this book wasn’t angry. It wasn’t resentful, and it wasn’t blaming. It was simply trying to explain the feelings of a young girl and how and why she perceived her circumstances the way she did. My fear of throwing someone else under the bus gradually ebbed, as I sank into a painful cycle of my own: Terrified to write on a topic, not knowing how it was going to be read to others. Staring at a blank screen. Desperate prayer. Stare some more. Write sentences, and quickly delete them. Eventually the sentences weren’t all erased. Relief. Second guessing the entire thing. Convinced it didn’t make sense or would be offensive to someone. Tirelessly waiting for feedback. Finally getting some. Deep sigh. They don’t hate it. It’s gonna be ok. Tweaks are needed, but it’s a good first draft. REPEAT. So in short, the physical writing process was difficult. But that wasn’t unexpected.

What surprised me was the emotional toil the entire process was taking on me. I had undeniable conviction that God had asked me to write this book, however it was hard! It felt lonely, and isolating. It was hard to find anyone to workshop ideas and concepts with. It was hard to get others to read my chapters and offer comments or feedback. It was hard to not let the enemy creep in with doubts that had plagued me for years.
“This isn’t really that important.”
“Likely no one will read it anyway.”
“It’s such a small niche of people this would even apply to.”
“What’s the chances it would even get published?”

The fear turned from my book sounding too “Woe is Me”, hurting feelings, or coming off bitter into, “Can I really do this?” If I do, and am somehow able to finish and God willing, publish, can I be this person? There is so much more to writing a book than just writing it. Am I capable of all that comes with it? Do I want to do that part? Can I put myself out there in such a vulnerable way? I’m cart six miles before the horse on this one, but as I’m reaching the next phase of this project, I’m realizing there may be more to this than the actual writing. It’s that ‘more’ that I’m currently terrified of. But just as terrified of that part, I’m also scared I’ll go through this whole process and the book will never be published, or never be seen.

Then all the vulnerability, all the painstaking over words, and details, and phrases, and metaphors will all be for seemingly nothing.

Alright, well this was a very rambling post. Clearly, I haven’t figured this all out in my head yet. All I know is this book scares me.
It used to scare me in one way, and now it scares me in another.