I keep going back to places I promised myself I’d never go again. Writing this book, I’ve been trying to write it for more than 10 years. Only, and also, I haven’t tried at all, not earnestly.
I was telling Aaron this week how scared I am of this book. What if I get finished and then I hate it? Or the people who read it hate it? And he said: then you’ll write another one. Just like that.
What a simple expectation. How easy it was for him to believe in me. I might not be the next great writer and I might not make it to the shelves of a box-book-store … but I might find an honest circle of people who feel the same way. Who can respect my story and the raw brokenness it brings – and maybe that’s enough.
Maybe waking up every morning and drowning in these black and white Verdana emotions will be enough when I’ve written my last sentence and cried my final tears through this year of writing.