I have felt conflicted for a long time about the fact that I like to write a lot of different things and equally as conflicted about that fact that I feel, at times, I have two voices in my writing. To the point of the former—sometimes I like to write about cosmos and beauty, sunlight and air. In those moments, I feel there’s a voice that’s ethereal, quiet, true, innocent in a way. To the point of the latter, there are times I like to write about the most mundane and absurd situations, with deep irreverence. And I forgot to mention I love, along with non fiction, to write fiction, children’s stories, poetry and more.
And there’s been this deeprooted fear that if I were to own all of that—if I were to say hey I do all these things and hey I think there’s two people inside of me, each taking turns at the mic—well, I feel like You wouldn’t make sense of me and You’d be disoriented. My voice wouldn’t be cohesive, my brand fractured, my bookshelf dizzying and no one would understand Me.
And I’m very tired about worrying about it.
I must call a few things out at this point.
1) Nobody—literally nobody—has ever given me any reason to think this. No one once has ever said, “Sara. I’m confused. Over here, you’re talking like Cindy Luhu about the clouds, rain and birds, and over here, you’re talking like a truck driver about losing your mind waiting in line at the post office. Does not compute.” This is a big story that I dreamt up some time long ago and decided to let burden my heart and my path.
What I’ve realized is this—I’m not giving you enough credit and I’m sure as hell not giving me enough credit either. We don’t begrudge our favorite actors—their definitions of themselves a mile long “actor, singer, dancer, producer, writer, oboeist, orchid farmer”—for this, nor do we begrudge our crazy uncle who cooks bread, gardens, grows fruit trees, works in insurance takes photos (read: actually that’s my dad). When you meet someone at a dinner party (remember those?) and they say “I really like to read, but I also like to skydive” you don’t say “No. Sorry, you get one thing.” But that’s what I’ve been thinking! I only get “one thing” so I better figure it out and cast the rest out.
So here’s my commitment to giving you more credit. Here’s my commitment to releasing the fear that you can’t handle it, this phenomenon that Elizabeth Gilbert describes in such a playful way in her book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear:
“I think we can all hold two mutually contradictory ideas at the same time without our heads exploding.”
2) The idea that I’m responsible for, or can change, what people think of my writing is actually hilarious. This is hubris to the core. It’s also a completely unnecessary worry. While we all want Cousin Sue to love the gift we gave her for Christmas, once we pick it out, wrap it and lovingly hand it over, our work is done. There is no more responsibility and there can be no convincing Cousin Sue that “Really! I can see your face, you look skeptical, but you’re going to LOVE this tank of newts!” if she doesn’t like the tank of newts you got her. The writer’s responsibility is to make the work, release it and move on. Carl Richards wrote about this with precision a few years ago in an article for the NYTimes. Releasing yourself from worrying about both whether your readers like it OR they hate it with fire—releasing yourself from that fear is freedom.
3) I’ve done a lot of hiding over the years with my writing, which is, at the core, who I am. I’ve done a LOT of writing in my closet, slithering around like Gollum and only showing a part of thatwritingakame outward. That is also very tiresome. It’s like living in a house made of all windows but trying to only let the world see you in your party dress. No one sleeps in their party dress! No one makes tomato sauce in their party dress! This too, feels like an antiquated practice, that must be released and discarded. To extend the metaphor, this is the part where I declare: Along with my party dress, I like to wear a big cowboy hat and boots with spurs; on Tuesdays I wear boas and pleather and tube tops. And now you know everything.
4) Lastly—you find your people. Life just has a way. Some people’s heads MIGHT explode when you say you like to sail and you also like to make small soldier figurines. They’re not your people and that’s ok. You find your people the way water molecules are attracted to one another; you recognize them and suddenly you’re moving towards one another. There is room for everyone.
So, this epistle is my permission slip for writing what I want and being who I am, absolving myself from worrying about that, and trusting my lovely readers and humans can handle it. Those who can’t are still lovely humans and I’m just not their cup of tea.
I’ve been carrying this hilarious worry around like a big boulder that, even when I set it down for a brief moment, I plunked it squarely in my path to where I’m trying to go. Have you ever carried something like that, and then set it down for good? Then released it and you are so light you’ve grown wings? That’s what we’re doing here, people. Marianne Williamson said it well: As we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. (Read the whole beautiful thing here, and walk on air the rest of the day).
This is my permission slip to stop worrying about all of it and just sit down, write and share.
It can be your permission slip too.
xoxo
Additional Resources:
I loved this interview with Joanne Penn and Wendy H. Jones, the latter writes both detective books and children’s books. And she really doesn’t worry about it! She’s like “No sweat, ya’ll, I’m a multifaceted human.”