left or write
I'm just going to dive into it. The other day I was graciously asked to talk with publishers from a very small company over the potential...to write a book. They read my blog and asked me to send in samples. I did. They read those samples and now wanted to talk about putting ink on paper between paperback covers.
Something I've wanted to do forever. Since I was a little girl with a notepad. I've had my title picked out since 2011, if you can believe it. I once thought I'd forego university, be a struggling writer in Europe, then live out the true bohemian dream. Instead, I settled for a nose ring and a couple of not-so-thought-out tattoos. Getting the offer to be a published author is the dream, right?
I should have felt that spark. Like your man putting his hand on the small of your back. Something about the deal should have made me feel giddy. Instead, I had this visceral reaction to the entire discussion.
They liked my writing, my voice, but they wanted me to share the stories not told on the blog. Something new for people to read. There is so much that doesn't get put on this space, but that's because those bits are mine. They belong to me. The sheer idea of writing a book about me and my silly little life made me feel vulnerable. I felt like what they wanted from me, the true blue details, meant exposing myself in a way I'm not ready for yet. I want to hold more of the deck closer to my chest.
I realize how ridiculous it all is. A girl who writes a small blog full of her personal thoughts and feelings, feeling overexposed when finally being asked to put those same thoughts and feelings on the pages of a book. There is something so concrete about a book. You write it and the ink is on the page.
My fear is that they want is a girl who wants to write another book about traveling the world, meeting men along the way, reflecting on her successes and missteps in love. I don't want to regurgitate 'Eat, Pray, Love' or 'What I Was Doing While You Were Breeding.' My experiences have been like neither of those two brilliant women.
I don't know what I want to write about. Or, perhaps, the list of things I want to write is so long and I'm not sure where to start. I don't know what it would look like or how I'd start and finish writing about all the memories that spiral around my over-analytical brain. I want to write about my untold travel stories. My un-shared personal experiences. The journeys across five continents that have shaped who I am, in all realms of my life. But maybe I don't have the emotional bandwidth for any of it right this moment.
Another factor is timing. I think about a book as some kind of finished product. Something you publish when you aren't in the trenches seeing how things play out. Writing about something as you are living it is so different than writing about something after all the dust has settled. I want to share in my own time. In my own words. In my own way. Not just for the hell of it because an opportunity presented itself.
If I do write the book, I want it to be real fucking honest.
Whether anyone reads it or anyone publishes it. But that also means that every honest feeling I've kept to myself is breathed out into the open. And that scares the absolute shit outta me. There's no more hiding anything. All untold stories get told. All unshared moments get shared. My most real emotions that I keep an iron wall up around, published.
I have a decision to make. To go left or write. I've been in similar situations before, so I know. I know that the fact that I'm even contemplating this means I've already made my decision though, aye?