I'm not a writer. Not a good one, at least. That’s been my belief and the story I tell myself.
I take a long time to do it. I second-guess and rewrite almost every line and I think about what I’ll write for days before I start. Real writers don’t do that, it’s easy for them. So I come up with excuses not to do it. And then sidestepping it gives me instant relief. So then sidestepping becomes a habit, and then I’m in full-blown procrastination mode.
Similarly, people come to our painting retreats and proclaim they are not creative. This is a story they tell themselves, and it’s simply not true.
I know what’s really at play here is fear. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of making a mistake. And the biggest one of all, fear of judgment (that one's a real buzzkill). So instead, we seek perfection – we either do it perfectly or not at all. Then of course, we don’t do it at all.
One of my all-time favourite quotes is, “If you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time.” So, as I set out on this retreat recipe book project, I made sure to create a timeline with deadlines brightly highlighted. This would help me stay on target, for sure. But as the weeks slipped by, I stopped progressing, excuses crept in, and deadlines got moved or misplaced altogether.
I let my inner critic have her way with me – she’s a powerful beast of a thing and fear is her favourite weapon. Not really realizing it, I became afraid of the bigness of it all... of not knowing what the heck I’m doing… of not meeting people's expectations or worse, not meeting mine. “Who am I to be writing a recipe book? I’m not a chef and I’m not a writer!”
Recognizing this old pattern of mine, a close friend suggested I take a week away to completely dedicate myself to the project. I could spend it at her beautiful Gulf Island home, where I’d be free from the day-to-day lists and convenient excuses, and could completely immerse myself in the process of writing.
So, I did it. I packed up, left a list of all the things that needed tending and feeding, and headed to the island. I set up my computer on the dining table overlooking the ocean and lavender. Just me and the honey bees, working madly on our deadlines. It felt amazing. I got my head down and I WROTE. A lot. I told my inner critic to ‘bugger off – I was a writer and I had work to do’. I had the time and space to do it and my unique process was not her concern.
My breaks were forest walks and cold saltwater swims. We met up in the evening, prepared meals out of the recipe book and chatted about the things that we needed help lifting or shifting or celebrating. Pete even popped over for dinner one night then left in the morning, not wanting to interrupt the flow.
In that dedicated space, I felt the layers of all the “what if,” “what should be,” “could be,” and “if only” melt away and I started to feel assured, supported and hella-capable. And the critic fell silent.
So, I’ve decided I’m a writer, maybe even a recipe book writer.
Love,
Laura. xo
P.S. If you have people around you that sing backup for your inner critic, find some new people.
P.P.S. Thank you, my dear friends and family for creating every opportunity for me to fly, no matter how crazy and long the flightpath.
