A good friend of mine looked at me over a cup of coffee and held me with her soft, reflective honey-colored eyes, eyes that sparkle like spring’s first fireflies when she is excited, and said, “You know what I really wish, Yokosuk? I wish that you’d have as much confidence in your writing as you do in your hair.”
I looked down, uncomfortable, and quipped, “Well, when my writing has as much success as my hair, I will.” However, she wasn’t going to let me self-depreciate myself off the hook.
“Save your quick bullsh*t for someone else, woman. I am not here for it.”
She had me…and, she knew it.
After all, one of the main reasons that we, two competitive, alpha-females, who love the sound of our own voices, have been able to maintain such a solid friendship is that we don’t let the other get away with surface-level nonsense. We demand a deeper, truer reach and because of that we have a relationship built on mutual respect and admiration.
I had no choice. I had to mull over what she had said.
At the onset, I was indignant, haughty. I rolled my eyes and told myself that she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. I know that I tell a decent story.
But, am I confident in my writing?
What I came up with was: Nah, not really.
And, the reason for that is simple. In my mind I will not be successful, a true writer, until I have published a book. I need people who don’t know me and don’t care about me to tell me that I am good…not those who love me the most.
When I dilute the bravado that I have used to survive, I have to admit that I am scared to the point of dry-heaving to write a book. Well, not to write it…I’ve already started on that, but to have it rejected. This feeling leads to apathetic laziness.
If I don’t try, if I sell myself short, if I act like I don’t care, if I make jokes about my little hobby then I don’t have to worry about being the kid that no one wants. But, in return by doing that I fall back into being the bitter, small, scared, unenthusiastic person that I was before I started exposing my true, vulnerable, enthusiastic self through my writing. It is a migraine-inducing paradox.
It’s time for it to change. It’s time for me to realize (again) that when I started doing this it was simply a way to heal and to let others know that perhaps by being open, we could walk each other out of the dark.
I am so glad that my friend cast her light for me by reminding me that she loves what is under my skull so much more than what is on top of it.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
