Be brave

Out of the blue, he gave me a book of poems. His self-published poems. Pages full of his musings and perspective on life.

We had hit it off straight away when we first met six months earlier, both of us taking on whatever work we could find, to stay afloat during the pandemic. But now our contracts were up and it was time say: “See ya later!”

He said: “Not everyone is getting one of these, but I think that you will appreciate the words”.

I was fascinated … I took it back to my office and started reading.

It is hard to describe what it was like. Each page was like unwrapping this person, one layer at a time. The outer layer was familiar … the guy with the dry sense of humour and obscure observations. The next was less familiar, but helped to confirm some of the things he would light-heartedly mention, about his need to distance himself from the toxic and the hopeless.

Each page revealed more about this person who had put himself out there in good faith, wasn’t always lucky in his endeavours, but would get up again and keep at it anyway.

Kind of an ordinary life, I suppose you could say. But extraordinary in another sense because, through his poems, he was documenting his emotions, reactions and sometimes loathing for life.

Whatever his reason for sharing his poems with me, he probably never expected that he would inspire me to think: “Surely, I can do it too?” If I could muster the courage to share my words with others, instead of constantly over-analysing and ripping every poem and short story to shreds, maybe I could also be an inspiration?

At home, once I had shipped, my seven-year-old, Lucy off to bed, I gingerly lifted the black Moleskine notebook out of my desk drawer. It was a few years old, but still looked new on the outside. The inside was another story.

Torn out pages and crossed out words; pages where attempts at creativity had been interrupted by “To do” lists; Lucy’s scribbles and smiling stick figures scattered throughout. It occurred to me that this notebook was like an inanimate version of me, neat and tidy on the outside, but a jumble of frustration, interruptions and self-doubt on the inside.

The notebook itself was nothing fancy, but the way it felt in my hands and the way the pen glided over the pages made it a valued possession. This time, I was determined I was going to use it to create a piece of writing that would not remain hidden within its covers, but that I would finally share by entering a writing competition.

I sat down with pen in hand and focussed on subduing my tendency to overthink EVERYTHING. The words began to flow.

Over the next week, in between juggling work, kids and chores, I managed to carve out an hour or two each day to work on it. All the while drowning out my inner critique’s constant dialogue ... Don’t be so ridiculous and just keep this to yourself. What’s the point of embarrassing yourself. You don’t need to do this. No one will relate to what you have to say.

Why do humans go to war with themselves like this? It must be so much easier to be a narcissist … to have this unwavering belief that you are the best at everything you do, even if you’re not. Instead, how many hundreds of thousands of people are out there, who could have found solutions for all the big problems in the world, just by overcoming self-doubt?

I was hardly rocking the world by pushing through my self-doubt to enter a writing competition, but considering how many times I had tried before, this was big deal in my little world.

I finished the last paragraph on a Saturday while watching the sun set over the lake near my house. It wasn’t cathartic, but as I closed my faithful black notebook and stared out across the lake at the ducks gliding along leaving silver trails of light behind them, I felt exhilarated and excited … not that I had finished the story, but that I had finally managed conquer my fears.

Back home, I began typing up the story, regularly having to peer at my scribbles in order to decipher the words. Finally, it was done and I when I was satisfied that I had found all the typos and grammar errors, submitted the story.

I smiled as I closed the Moleskine notebook and popped it back in the drawer. Finally, it had helped me do what I had bought it for in the first place.

I was in the running now … and while $20,000 would be great, the journey to this moment was priceless.