You Are Welcome

Just two of the twenty-odd volumes in which pieces of my baby are scattered.

You have just stepped into a sacred space: I am revealing a very deep, long-held desire herein. And I don’t know "for absolute certain” that I will be able to deliver. That’s why I’m bringing this to you, my sweet reader, to have and to hold.

I am writing a book.

Yes, a book. As in, one single book. I’ve committed myself to this work and I have a glorious support system surrounding me; You are a part of that energy by the sheer virtue that you are here. This is my promise and oath to myself and to my work. Work I’ve stuffed into the corners of my life, allowed only enough sustenance to survive. Barely.

What about my other ideas? My other book project ideas will hold on, they will wait for me in my notebooks just as this one has. More and more, every day, I am being guided so strongly to share this with the world first. Sure, it won’t be for everyone in the world… But it belongs to the world. I believe that with every fiber of my being.

It feels new and fresh and scary to announce this even though I’ve spoken about this book to loving family, close friends, passing acquaintances, and random strangers. Even though I know this message won’t reach hundreds. Even though I don’t have some of the traditional markers in place to gauge my progress. Even though, in the greater context of the world, the product may matter only to a very few.  I’ve come to the point, however, where I cannot NOT move forward, no matter what the outcome is. I’ll work on my fears as I go and I’ll celebrate whatever feels like success to me along the way.

Since “deadline” doesn’t suit me at all, I chose to refer instead to the lifeline of this project. As such, my fledgling book feels anthropomorphic and deserves a genered pronoun: her. My hope is that her date of birth will coincide with my 40th birthday this September. Her nascent form is what I’m pregnant and “expectant” with: a solid rough draft. Right now, I’m in full on archaeologist mode, excavating her bones from 20-odd notebooks, so I can sing over them, invoking La Loba in this hallowed portion of the journey. The Editor is on notice that her services will be needed. The Critic has been sent on a sabbatical. The Re-Writing Demon has been bound and sent packing. And here we are, and here we go, ever onward.

I hope you’ll join me – You have a big hug waiting for you whenever you’d care to claim it!