Another day, another week, another thought (or a million) about my book.
A few years back, when the mere idea of writing hadn’t crossed my mind, I was consumed by reading. There were numerous nights spent with a novel and not with sleep. The characters, plots, wonderful stories occupied my head. But the love has progressed into producing my own book. Writing is the first thing in my life that has taken me hostage and is still holding on firmly. It is a sizzling passion that I don’t see letting go.
It was a fall afternoon with colourful leaves enjoying the power of gravity and wind, swaying to the ground. Staring into the bookshelf over my desk, I grabbed a pen and a notebook, let go of fear and literally put pen to paper. By the end of the first sentence, there were stars and sparkles dancing around the page and in front of my eyes. I knew I discovered my true calling. I knew I found myself.
Every letter. Every word. A single paragraph. The entire fast-paced chapter holds a piece of my soul. It has made me develop Stockholm syndrome. I feel as if I were taken hostage, but the constraints are made of silky clouds. I could be set free but I don’t want to be.
The process of writing itself was serene and joyful. The self-publishing has been tumultuous. I feel as though I’m submersed under water, grasping for air, and the moments when I come above water are phenomenally sensational, making the struggle worthwhile and meaningful. Why, you might ask? It might not make sense. But the idea of people reading a book – something that contains pieces of me – makes me feel exposed. The transitional process from the start to the desired finish line is long. Too long. And yet the notion of me failing to make this into a dream career is burning my spirit and soul.
I am thrilled. Elated. As if walking on rainbows surrounded with roses, lilies and orchids. But every once in a while those glorious flowers turn black. The cloud disperses. Simply because I let doubts, fears and insecurities creep into my head.
What is one supposed to do? The answer is cliché and as simple as they get. Ignore the menacing voice in your head telling you you’re not good enough. Welcome the realisation and conviction that the book, or anything else you’ve produced, is good enough, great even. And that something that terrifies you to the core and yet you can’t let it go, is worthwhile and meant to be. We should allow that trembling, numbing terror to inspire us and push us forward.