Having just finished the second draft of my memoir and having been freshly rejected for a columnist position at a local paper, I was feeling oddly secure and confident. For no apparent reason. In the last 3 months, I have fiendishly read the memoirs of other writers, a pleasure I didn't allow myself early in my book writing process. For two reasons. The first one being intimidation. The second, I didn't want to inadvertently copy anyone else's style. Or content. Or be intimidated by it.
This weekend I thought I was finally far along enough in my own book that I was ready to read the book I've purposely been putting off. Unfortunately, I was completely wrong.
When we got back from Morocco, I couldn't wait to start writing Rock The Kasbah the book. But, since it was summer and the kids were home and I was still overwhelmed and crying every time I went to the store, it was probably for the best that I waited a couple months until the kids were back in school. Craig kept reassuring me that I didn't need to rush, that only I could write my own book. Though I appreciated his beautiful and delusional sentiment, it didn't slow me down at all.
Did I mention I have no idea how to write a book? And that writing one brings up all kinds of emotions I didn't expect. Like, do I seem like a pompous douche bag? What if it's crap? Like it truly sucks. And people tell me it's good out of pity? Will I be mocked if I inadvertently use "they're" instead of "their"? Ok, I know the answer to that one is "yes". Suffice it to say, writing puts you in this weird, vulnerable place where you question everything like the narcissist you truly are.
Which is why I put in this really vulnerable place a pic of me first thing in the morning with a zit. I actually have 2 more on my chin, but they're a bit camera shy. To prove to you that I'm not a narcissist. Unless it just proves I am.
Infrequently and temporarily though, I'll be in a good place in my head. That's where I was when I picked up Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson. Aka: The Bloggess. Blogger turned published author and New York Times Bestseller. I was so mentally prepared. Or so I thought.
I started at the Introduction. Where she starts with a story of her falling out of a moving car as a kid. Wait a freakin' minute people. This is MY STORY! Except I was 6 and she was 9. My mom was driving and her dad was at the wheel. Neither one believed we fell out or stopped for us. Of course, this story is also included in my book and now I look like a huge big fat liar and copycat. Even though I have a big family who can vouch it's absolutely a true story. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Which is why I'm posting this picture.
Because I'm feeling completely insecure and intimidated right now. And because I'm going to guess the Bloggess can't do this. But, I'm not going to read the next chapter right now to find out.