Long Distance Love Bombs

Kendra asked me that gentle checkmate question, and it’s honestly the only reason I finished my book.

I immediately pondered a way out.

“Give... myself... an advance? I’ve... never heard of that. Did you just make that up? I don’t...”

She stared at me and kicked my ego when it was down in the details, “Yeah. How much time do you need to finish your book? And what would it cost if that’s all you did?”

Bet on yourself, I dare you.

That’s what she was saying.

I wanted to puke.

For a long time, my go-to excuses were, “Well, I’m not making any money writing this book, so I need to focus on other projects,” or “Writing the book doesn’t pay the bills and I’ve got a kid now...” which, of course, made it very easy for me to avoid the challenging, lonely work of, you know, actually writing a book.

I was procrastinating in a version of the truth.

Kendra’s question reminded me there were other flavors to consider.

I could use our savings to finance my writing time. I could stop recording the podcast. I could pause coaching work.

If I really wanted to, I could find a way to make the time.

Bluff called, I spent three months head down (or banging against a wall) until I found a new procrastination path: Misplaced empathy.

What would my parents think of this book? I didn’t want them to be upset.

Anne Lamott said, “The inner critic is telling you not to write. Believe me, no one in your family is glad to hear you’re working on a memoir.”

I’ve spent five years working on this book, and there were far too many long stretches where quitting felt like relief and finishing felt like the terror of being permanently and unintentionally misunderstood by everyone you care about.

I finished the book anyway.

Tomorrow, I’ll share the cover. Pre-sale is coming soon.

STORY TIME; Five years ago, while the whole world was hoarding toilet paper and learning about virus architecture, I sat down on an uncomfortable chair to meditate.

Relaxation. Deep breaths. And then suddenly, a download arrived: a book cover with a giraffe on it and a whispered knowing - “Share your story.”

I immediately got to writing.

Just kidding.

I freaked out and procrastinated for months, trying to talk myself out of feeling truth.

When that failed, I begrudgingly surrendered to the unshakeable next step, took myself on a solo retreat, and spent a few days outlining, brainstorming, and scheming.

Over two years, this side project grew into a brain dump of more than 100,000 words.

Tales of woe. Shame purges. Childhood pain. Breakup regret. Icky stuff.

I kept going.

I’d get motivated and focused for a few weeks, but then I wouldn’t look at it for several months. Life got in the way. I got in the way, too. I had bills to pay, and nobody was paying me to badly write a memoir, you know?

Sometimes, I hated the stories. Or I hated the whole idea. Or I hated that I wasted a day writing garbage.

Some days, nothing worked. I stumbled blindly along, smacking my nose on a bar I had set too high.

I kept going.

I hired the best writing coach around ().

Slowly, painfully, awkwardly, things started falling into place. The book got fit, found a reasonable shape.

One of the most talented and resilient people I’ve ever met offered to do the cover and a few drawings inside ().

I hired a world-class designer to help with the inside.

A dream come true.

All because a meditation invited me to share the things I spent decades avoiding and hiding.

The Swamp Monster.

The running, the drinking, the drugs. My life as a performance piece.

The boy who learned disappearance was safer than feeling seen.

Or feeling anything.

Five years later, it’s a book.

This is the month it finally becomes real.

THOUGHTS - The nostalgia of now. Anyone else feel this?