the next day

such sweet and prompt response to my new venture.
thank-you.

a quick note to agents and publishing entitys.
(i heard the nervous undertones in your emails)
it’s not that i don’t want to “fucking write my book”, i do.

it’s that this is new for me.
and i get afraid of new things.
i think to much about them.
worry about my shortcomings.
make up a whole lot more of them than i actually have.
i lose faith in myself.
wonder why anyone else has any… faith.
and i stop doing the new thing.

i’m afraid for the same reasons any of us are.
it’s nothing unique.
fear of not being able to do the thing.
fear it will suck.
fear i’ll get laughed at.
fear it will just be to hard to accomplish.

so i distract.
i run errands, i organize closets, i diet, i exercise, i do anything to feel different.
and not start that new thing.

yesterday, after i outed myself,
to more than just a best friend or a sponsor,
by starting this blog,
i did some writing for my book.
for more than the half an hour i’d committed to.
it felt really good.

there’s something i heard in a recovery room years ago.
i’m paraphrasing but something like..
“where there is a commitment, god intervenes.”
be it commitment to recovery, to your husband, to your dream.

and i really do believe that with that intervention there is protection.
a nice cozy place to warm my fear.

again, thank-you for witnessing.

the beginning

i want to write a blog so i am accountable.
here’s the story…
end of last year i made a book deal.

based on my personal writings, that i happened to share with my manager, that ended up on Kirbys desk (literary agent), that he decided might make a book, that he promised me wouldn’t become a “celebrity tell all”.

so I said yes, ok, lets see if anyone might be interested.

the thing is, i actually can write.
at least, sometimes i think i can write.
i know i can write songs.
my amazing writer husband @sutterink agrees and encourages.
and he wouldn’t just do that.
not to make me feel good.

if anything, quite the opposite,

my husband protects.
he loves me, and would gently try to steer my ship another way.
because that’s how he is.

he approves.

so, we shopped my couple of essays that would be the tone of my book, if i were to write a book, and there was interest.

and offers.

and i said yes to the outfit that understood my approach.
i can’t write a book about celebrity.
i’m a bad one.
its not all that interesting to me.

my stories are my memories, my observations.
circumstances that amuse me.
what interests me is all i can write.
my behaviors in response to where i’ve come from interests me.
what has happened in spite of myself interests me.
and yes, some of what has happened to me involves my work.
so yes, a few famous faces are ruminated on.

but here’s the thing.

i have a book deal.
and i don’t want to fucking write the book.
i find myriad reasons why not to sit down.

the intention of this blog is to call myself out, people please my way into showing up for this commitment, embarrass myself if i don’t.

i’m not going to share book snippets here.
just the niggly, annoying voices in my head that keep me from jumping in.
at least that’s the beginning.

my commitment to myself is to write half hour a day.
seems manageable.
if i write for longer, well good for me.
if not, well, i did something to move me forward.

now I have to figure out how to blog this.
that could take a minute.