About That Book

Last January I set out to write a book. I was living a writer's dream, a book deal (I was commissioned to write) and a head full of ideas. Then Chup took the kids to Idaho for a week so I could also have a quiet house. All conditions were seemingly perfect. I was going to pen a memoir of my life so far, include my greatest stories of triumph and failure, I was going to allow myself to be vulnerable and real, I was going to start from the beginning and be completely honest about it all.
But I couldn't write.
I didn't answer my door, turned down social engagements, focused on the task of book writing but nothing I did (or didn't do) created any force inside of me. I was very seriously impaired by some force. I thought it was the Dark Side (as The Chief calls it) knowing me and my capabilities, not wanting me to write something that could prove useful to someone else.
So I prayed for more help.
January turned into February and the year's second month didn't produce any more words than January did.
For Valentine's Day I set out to write my Five Loves, this installment came so easy for me. I wrote almost effortlessly. How frustrating, I thought, I can write like this for my blog but not my book.
When March came I started wonder if I really wasn't supposed to write this book.
I pooled together people I trusted and asked their input on my predicament. From my little brother to an experienced book agent in New York, and everyone said the same thing,
"Do what feels right."
So these past few weeks I've dedicated myself to finding out what feels right. I walked, I read, I sat in silence. And I cried. I cried a lot.
But I came to a place of knowing and it freed me of the heavy stress I had felt for three months.
I am a blogger. This is my genre. I like to write using this medium with its capacity to change and edit and revise so simply. I like my blogging space, it's where I feel at home. Here I've created me. This is me. Blogging allows me to have a living organism of words and photographs, hyperlinks and comments. Books, with their classic adventures, smells and something-in-the-hand-ness will always be something to esteem. But these months helped me realize (and I am so grateful) that I am not a book writer, I am a blog writer.
And yes, I suppose I could do both, but I am not supposed to, right now.
But I intend to write all that I set out to write, (all those things my readers asked of me) all the stories of my life in their entirety on this blog and I intend to start next week. I want to write for my children, for my sisters, for my nieces, for all the women in my life (and men too, why not?) and I want to write for my readers, my good, kind readers. And I need to write for me, to free me from the haunting stories and remind me of the worth of souls, my soul. But first I need to do some blog maintenance to make sure this space is just right to begin.
And second, I need to find some extra courage.

Hallelujah! I feel good again.