Writing my first book took four years. Four years of trial and error, self-discovery, and conquering the terrifyingly real fear of putting myself out there for the world to see. And being judged for it. I always say it’s the equivalent of giving a speech butt naked in front of a crowded room. Emotionally naked. Vulnerable. And there’s nothing more satisfying than accomplishing, overcoming, triumphing, and holding my own creation … a book … my book … in my hands.
Tangible fruition of a dream.
Little did I know big dream one (writing a book, or three) would spontaneously birth big dream two (traveling the world).
“When the locals ask “But…why are you here”? You know you’ve strayed from the road most travelled. ‘Here’ was Saltilo, Mississippi and indeed why was I here? I hadn’t planned to be here but on this 64 day, solo road trip from New York to San Francisco. I hadn’t done much planning at all, particularly for anything west of Nashville, and as someone who loves a good plan but is also an exceptional procrastinator, my route plotting experience spurned an ongoing inner conflict between the fastidious side of me and the side that just wants to watch TV.”
“As I was driving up towards Asheville, I was just listening to music and thinking. Dwelling on how stupid I was for making that call, and just angry in general with myself for still being so upset about a breakup six months later. It was at that point I decided that that was it. I was going to take control.”
“Hey, don’t you live in LA?”
Each time, a little reminder; each time a little stab. As I explained my situation time and time again, a second question joined the mix.
“Hey, when are you moving to England?”
These two questions rang in my ears day and night, reminding me that my life didn’t seem to be moving forward in any way. Instead, it sat just kind of stalled here in Toronto, a city I’d given 10 years of my life to and was no longer in love with.