Where to begin. As if it has always been a question of starting. I actually have no problems with starting. I have started what feels like a million projects. A book. A dance team. Another book. A book club. A blog x 12. A company. Another company. A nonprofit.
We always start with the best intentions. We believe in ourselves for a fixed amount of time before the first roadblock rattles us. We get busy. Distracted. We start to believe that what we began maybe wasn't that important to begin with. We rationalize our quitting.
I have too often relied on and asked for signs. Send me a sign that I am on the right path, that what I'm doing is what I'm meant for. I used my promotion at HP as crutch. I said "Okay well if I love it, then it means I'm meant to follow my career at this company. But if I hate it, then I know I was supposed to do something else." I think deep down I already knew I would hate it. I took the job with one foot out the door and self-fulfilled the shit out of that idea. It ultimately wasn't the only reason I left, but I think if I had really listened to my intuition--I wouldn't have taken the job at all. But I didn't want the responsibility of deciding on my own.
Why? I started my company A Writing Box to help people tell their own stories. As a writer, there's a sense of fulfillment in helping clients find the right words for what they are trying to convey. But as this year has passed, I've realized that I have never fully and actually told my own story. And so the question became, how can I tell the stories of others if I have never told my own?
I am my own calling. I don't need some outside force to give me a sign of approval that it's time to do what I want to do. I don't need to wait for some sudden realization. I need nothing more than pure, unwavering desire. I need no one's approval. I need no one's permission.
So here's the big announcement. I'm writing a book. I've been writing a book. I've started and stopped it a thousand times since I was a teenager. But here and now is the official proclamation, to the world, the blogosphere, the 12 people that might read this. Here is where I have decided. A book. A memoir, if you will. I'm going to finish and publish it.
If you know me, you probably know the story, of my birth. My adoption. My struggle to figure out where I fit in a culture that I am constantly still learning about. My struggle to find acceptance with myself when my whole life was built on questions. And pieced together by stories that were told to me. Ultimately, the constant questioning, wondering, grappling with who I am--is the reason that I became a writer in the first place. Writing is the only way I know how to process, to feel, to exist in the world.
My story is my own. And those who fit into this puzzle are welcome to tell their versions. We all exist in our own truths. But I won't let that silence me.
Regardless of believing in signs, I think many of us are willing to accept that all things happen for a reason. But are we not also driven to find reason, therefore manifesting our own signs? Whether fate or my own design, I went looking for answers and I found it in someone who was a complete stranger as of two days ago.
But she told me, "You didn't go through what you went through to keep it to yourself."
And that, whether or not I needed it, was reason enough.
So stay tuned. It's just the beginning.