I want to write a book. Lots of books, actually. I want to be an author.
There I said it. That was mildly terrifying. Why? Because there’s a voice in the back of my head screaming at me and telling me that I’m not good enough. That scoffs at the idea that anyone would be interested in what I have to say, to write. Telling me to give up. The shame gremlins are screaming "it can't be done!" But today, I say no. I’m going to write.
Since the time I could articulate enough words to dictate, I have been a story-teller. As a child, I used my mom as a scribe before I could write myself, detailing stories to her as fast as she could jot them down for me. As soon as I was old enough, I was writing and illustrating my first books on construction paper. I specifically remember drawing princesses with triangular dresses and those big, pointy hats.
Over the years I changed mediums, maturing with technology to go from that construction paper to the letters of a keyboard that I know like the back of my own hand. The first book I ever wrote on a computer was some thirty-six pages, written in middle school about a group of popular kids called “The Peanut Butter and Jellies.” I wish I had saved the floppy disk that classic was stored on.
I spent hours monopolizing the family computer, drawing in Microsoft paint and writing my first book I titled "Peanut Butter and Jellies."
High school was the first time I ever really let people (besides my mother turned constant-editor) read my writing.
I was incredibly blessed to place out of Honors English and into a Harvard extension school class, a writing workshop. In a tiny room in Sever Hall on that historic campus I sat among adults, actual writers and shared my life stories. As a high schooler, my memoirs at the time were unsurprisingly sophomoric. Filled with the details of my teenage romance and the angst I felt applying to college. I remain forever grateful to those adults in that room, because they treated me as a peer, read every page I sent their way, and became my greatest cheering section. This group of adults told me something I hadn’t heard before: that my writing was worth reading. For a girl with low-self esteem, this was everything. I could write.
An antique look at Sever Hall from the Harvard Archives. ( Source: Harvard.edu)
That is when Sarah Lawrence College came in. A writing-intensive school who claims literary giants such as Ann Patchett and Alice Walker as alumni, I was originally drawn to it because my idol, Barbara Walters had gone there. It helped that the faculty included freelancers for The New York Times and that the school slogan of “You Are Different, So Are We,” appealed to the martyrdom I felt by the spring of my senior year of High School.
I’d be lying if I said Sarah Lawrence was my first choice. Like the good Asian student my parents raised me to be, I would have literally died to get into Harvard (there’s a lot more to that, a story for another time.) But it was meant to be.
Rejected form Harvard, Brown and Wellesley, Sarah Lawrence became my first choice. The week leading up to decision day I would only eat green food in an effort to compel the Gods to fulfill my destiny. Since I hate vegetables, there was a lot of pesto involved.
Part of the beauty of a Sarah Lawrence education is its conference system, a teaching model that includes one-on-one advising for students. Completely by chance, I ended up with one of the best academic advisors on campus. Herself a literary mastermind, I distinctly remember an early conversation where she asked me what I planned to do with my life. My vague answer of “writing,” hung in the air as we sat there in her tiny office on the picturesque campus.
“What do you want to write about?” she prodded helpfully, “you need topics to write about.”
I spent my four years at Sarah Lawrence developing my answer to that question. Learning what made me tick, what I loved to study, explore and of course, write about. I stopped writing my teenage memoirs and started focusing on real-world subjects that applied to a broader audience.
Graduation day at Sarah Lawrence College. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I graduated with an offer to join The White House Correspondence Office.
Writing moved from a form of catharsis to a craft and that craft opened doors for me, from the Boston Mayor’s Campaign to The White House Correspondence Office. I found that when I had the right topic, I could write my own ticket.
Writing is like breathing for me and I was fortunate to build a career on it. The issue was, it was never my writing. I’ve written for juggernauts and published bylines read across the
country, but for the most part I stopped writing about myself. Or for myself for that matter.
I so busied myself telling other people’s stories that I lost myself behind the pages. Thankfully, life has a way of reminding you and when my life began to fall apart, I found my way back to writing. It was writing that got me through my first in-patient treatment for alcoholism and writing that has helped me make sense of the three plus years I’ve spent struggling to develop a sober life. Writing has helped me to finally address my trauma, discover who I am and set myself free.
For years I’ve been writing little bits and pieces and storing them away in my email drafts or stashing them in journals. This space is about giving all those words a place to live.
I’m pretty amped with how this has gone so far and remain eternally grateful for the support I’ve gotten since putting my writing out there. It’s been such a formative experience for me and I look forward to writing like I look forward to catching up with good old friends.
It helps me process, gives me perspective and allows me to feel connected, opposed to isolated, which is huge for an alcoholic. Writing has always given me life and in this form its taken on a special new meaning. I’ve always wanted to be a writer and I feel like now, for the first time in my life, I’m not only doing it, but in doing so, I’m becoming the person I was meant to be. Which is why it feels great to be honest about what I want to do and admit my goals as an author.
Do I know what I’m doing? Absolutely not. Which is why I thought it was a good idea to add some structure to my writing. I’m thrilled to have recently joined an online community of writers, my first writing club since the Harvard days!
After my experience with the incredible, thoughtful group I was a part of in my teenage years, I’m really looking forward to making the most out of this new group. Just over a week in and I’m already learning so much from it and loving how it pushes me to write nearly every day.
The biggest goal I created for myself when I was in treatment last fall was to write more, to start sharing my writing and pitching pieces. Check, Check and check. I also planned
to launch my website (check, though I’m still embarrassed by how long my “about” section went unpublished but we’ll try to move past that.) This site seemed like such an impossible summit for so long I still can’t believe it when I look at my New Year’s resolutions list, aka my “2021 is my bitch list,” and see “launch my own website,” checked off. It’s enough to show me that I can achieve what I put to mind to, including this next undertaking. If I’m being completely honest, my goal in joining this writing group is to write my first book.
There. I said it.
Now, I have to go do it.
I’m not sure what this looks like for me, but starting with a structured writing group that
encourages me to write every, single, day, has got to be a great start. And I’ve promised myself I’m going to jump in with both feet. I started that process last week when I asked my boss for permission to block off my calendar for the hour the group meets every day. With the exception of Tuesdays, when we meet as a staff (and often have birthday parties,) I’ll be able to prioritize making it to these writing meetings every other day.
That feels like a huge place to start. And by writing it down I feel like I’m honoring my promise to myself to jump in, while pushing myself to be accountable.
I also write this, because despite my constantly reminding myself that this blog is for me, I do try to keep a steady and reliable stream of content going. I don’t know how that’s going to align with this new writing group. I’ll be honest, I’ve found it hard to write both content for this blog and my book. In some cases I worry I may have already ruined future chapters by covering certain topics in a blog post, but all that is way too cart before the horse.
Basically, what I’m trying to say, is that I don’t want this blog to suffer because I’m working on my book, but I also know that while I’m committing to an hour a day of writing, I can’t be positive I’ll be blogging at the same rate. I want to be honest with myself about this and know that it is okay. In an effort to not completely neglect the blog, I’ll be posting regular updates on my writing, on the process and what the experience of actually writing a book is like.
So consider this the first update, where I confess my aspirations of becoming an author.
Where we go from here? Well that remains unwritten.