The book that needs to come out, will
this and other realities of me being my own book coach
I tell this to my clients, and grimace when I say it to myself while away on a writing retreat to launch into content on my two writing projects. I’ll do the text for the writing craftbook, first, I told myself.
Nope, said the writing guides, you’ll do this…
from my memoir-in-progress…
Some time close to when I crawled into my 50s I ached to belong somewhere. I crawled and I ached because I could feel the aging coming, sure, but it was more because I no longer had the strength to fight the battle, to brave-face-it to all those questions about what I wanted next, where I was going to live, what my dream was, and why the heck wasn’t I being forceful about getting it, life is short after all.
I had no sense of place, no attachment, and no feeling of home. I didn’t have a bucket list, an Amazon wishlist, or a Christmas list. I had what I had. I was doing okay. I had been through crisised years and I had way worse to compare my disquiet too. I knew how to be thankful for calm. Until someone asked me. And someone always asked me because my clients are among the savviest coaches in the world, and their job is to pick at that gummy sticker that never quite comes off the mirror you bought.
I’d done conventional things in my adulthood, and expected to arrive at a blissed out sensation of being nested, like an eternal hygge. Yet no mountain of faux fur blankets, or pillows made of recovered antique quilts was going to soothe the beast within. There was a yearning, sometimes, that I was able to closet up in order to get shit done. My life had made me a marshmallow rather than demanding. I could put my own needs behind anyone else’s, the nation’s if need be. The deflection of my desires, wishes and selfhood had been a survival skill—do for others so they will never leave you, be invisible so the anger won’t be directed at you, be generous and they won’t notice that you are too afraid to be yourself. That it was safer to not want for more was a truth I could feel in my bones. Safety meant I could patrol the perimeter of my life, and evade heartbreak, disappointment, and criticism. The absence of dreaming still wielded more clout than the other tools in my belt.
How it showed up for me, in that canniest of ways, was in not knowing where I wanted to live. I had sold my house to free myself from that responsibility. I banked some cash and stepped into the what next with absolutely no plan, and the global pandemic hit. We locked down five or more times in central Canada, and secretly I felt like the limitations on movement were a gift to my indecisiveness. I didn’t have to figure out where to live or travel, I couldn’t go anywhere.
Renting was a boon to my work and my desire to stay in the grey fog of avoidance. I wouldn’t obsess over making the place feel cozy by unpacking or arranging the things I loved. It wasn’t mine to decorate, and the owners could pull the stability plug at any point so I wouldn’t consider getting attached. I didn’t hang a picture for two years. Rooting in place would mean investing. Investing in the location, neighbourhood or house made no sense since I was a renter. It was a great excuse to live like a guest in my space. Self-fulfilling prophecies are quite comforting, it turns out. I can’t, shouldn’t, needn’t, and won’t were the answers I opted for instead of I can, must, need and will. Like the seal that basks in the comfort of the sun too long and has to haul her awkward self back to the surf before nightfall, I floundered over my next move.
Where to next?
