was willing to say what I real y thought even if
it meant the loss of everything I believed I needed to survive,
even if it meant pissing people off, even if abandonment was to
follow. That was the day I let the razor hit my scalp. The day I
made a first step in letting go of the idea that everybody needed
to like me all the time. The day I stopped making nice and ac-
cepted that the Steves of the world might never like me, and that
I would survive without their approval.
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T h e o P a u l i n e N e s t o r
As it turns out, I was, in fact, a grown person who didn’t
require the approval of my mother or anyone else to survive, but
without writing, I learned, part of me would never have a chance
to come to life. The story that I began to write that day was my
own version of my life, the story we each have a right to tel , if
only to ourselves. But it’s a right we must take; most likely no
one will ever hand it to us.
Like diving into cold water, writing requires some letting go.
Writing requires trust: trust that words will find you, that the
unknown will become known, that the mystery will be solved,
that the story will find its arc, that you will find your story and your voice, that your voice will be heard, that you will be understood. But most of al , writing requires you to trust yourself, the source of the voice inside you that supplies the next word, the
next line, the next idea. And until you can access some of this
trust, you won’t be able to write the stories you want to write the way you want to write them.
For some of us, the road to finding our own voice is a long one,
because we’re not ready for the truth of the fact that the only way out is through. We don’t feel ready to see ourselves reflected back to us, to sit through a million competing thoughts—the static we
must often endure before we final y find the station where our
own voice comes through singular and clear, before we can write
with abandon on a semi-routine basis, before we can press our
vision past the block, past the half-finished story, past the rewrite, until final y we arrive at a finished piece of writing that is, in fact, a manifestation of our vision and that does, in fact, tell our story the way we want to tell it. So much encouragement and faith is
required to write like a child and revise like a grown-up.
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W r i t i n g i s M y D r i n k
But it can be found; even if you have to stumble forward in
blind faith, you can start down the path. You can sit through all
the bad first drafts, revisions, and doubt. You can face all the
places you’re sure you fall short and keep going. You can push
past the doubt, the fear, and the part of you that’s afraid of wanting something this much.
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T h e o P a u l i n e N e s t o r
Try This
1. As fast as you can, make a list of times when you could not ac-
cess trust in yourself. Hint: Here’s what not accessing the trust
looks like. You had a hunch and you didn’t follow it. You knew
the relationship would fail but you started in on it. Your inner
voice said, “Do it,” but you didn’t. Your inner voice said, “Run,”
and you stayed. You watched TV instead of going to the party.
You were ashamed. You said you “couldn’t” when in fact you
just “wouldn’t.” You passed on the free plane tickets. When you
had an idea, you batted it away. When you wanted something,
you told yourself it was too much to hope for. The novel in the
drawer. The unmade phone cal . The made bed. The unsung
song. The words you didn’t say. The class you didn’t take. The
questions that burned inside you but you wouldn’t ask.
2. Write for five minutes without stopping about one of these
times.
3. As fast as you can, make a list of times when you were able to
access trust. You