Field notes on tender beginnings

Collect calls from your future self, high-pitched critics, and a summer fling

It’s been a month since I started writing my first fiction book.

When I sat down to write, palms sweaty, an old, familiar, high-pitched voice appeared. Don’t bother, there are better writers than you out there, leave it to them. You should be building your business.

I told my friend Paul about the voice, how I thought I had dealt with it. I shared what it said, biting my lip. His answer surprised me. Even though it’s something I tell my clients, I couldn’t see it for myself.

“That’s great. Hearing that voice again is a sign that you’re growing, doing the new, uncomfortable, important thing.”

There’s nothing like having a friend who’s also a coach give you a much-needed reframe.

This insecurity, the voice telling us not to bother comes when we leave the comfort of what we know, and enter a bigger space.

It’s trying to keep us safe and sheltered in the known, under a solid roof in case the sky opens up. The brave thing is to keep creating even when it feels shit.

The feeling that I’m right where I am supposed to be gets me through it all.

When I’m unsure of where I am going, wtf I’m doing, or how it’s going to turn out, I tap into that gut feeling. The more we tune into our intuitive hits, the louder and clearer they come through.

When that voice has me by the throat like a villain in a movie, legs dangling in the air, I ask myself, what would happen if I didn’t write it? What if I didn’t do the thing I’m being called to do? Not trying, not shooting the shot, would feel like defeat, like a tulip bud that never opens.

To paraphrase what coach Dan Sullivan said, the definition of hell is dying and meeting the person we could have become. That future self pulls us toward what she needs to materialize. Her finger points in a general direction — that way.

But moving in that direction, especially when the world isn’t cheering us on, is hard. We don’t get external validation because there is nothing to validate yet.

I’ve had to double down and focus. Triple down. Because the beginning is the most tender phase. It’s when your creativity needs to be treated softly, delicately, like you’ve just started dating. You never ghost it. You keep showing up. You protect it. Not everyone, actually, the fewer the better, needs to know the nascent shape of what you’re creating.

Recently, at a dinner party, someone asked what the book is about. For a moment, I was tempted to answer. I should be able to articulate this clearly. I paused, felt the weight of her expectant stare, and said it was too early to share. I exhaled deeply.

You show your commitment. You love it as it is, knowing it will change. Above all else, you don’t judge it. That voice will come up again, and that’s how you know you’re there, you’re becoming. Because what you’re creating is also creating you.

This summer, I’m romancing my book, without knowing what will come of it. I trust the space has been cleared for me to do exactly what I’m doing.

I could get anxious in the wide open, catastrophize about clients, money, and my business, or I can accept the gift, rip it open, and use it. When anxiety visits, and the doubtful voice reappears, it’s signaling I’m in the thick of it.

And what would I be doing if not this? This hard, but meaningful, sometimes quenching, creative practice is where I want to be. And that feeling keeps me here.

Before I wrote Welcome to the Creative Club, I never imagined I could write a book. After sixteen months, I showed myself I could. It opened the door to write this fiction book, which felt impossible two years ago. This is how we create bigger, braver work.

We accept the collect call from our future self. Even when it’s scary, even when the outcome is unknown, we do the thing we never thought we could do. We surprise ourselves.

It starts with what’s pulling at your sleeves, visiting you at night, in your dreams, messages in Instagram posts, or conversations. We have to listen to ourselves, put our ear to our inner shell, and follow the muffled directions.

We’re all called to create something. The call is universal, but answering it is up to each one of us. It takes courage to pick up.

I’ve come to realize the creative birthing process needs doulas and community. Even though it may feel like solitary work, it doesn’t have to be.

Whether you’re building, nurturing, or Lamaze breathing, know I’m here with you.

Keep creating,