Malcolm Gladwell talks about how you have to do something for 10,000 hours before you get good at it. I’m definitely not a strict rule follower, but I can’t argue with the fact that you’re often not good at something when you first start out. When a kid says they’re bad at something they’ve never done before, my response is “Great! You’re supposed to be bad in the beginning.” 

Simple logic to share with a kiddo. Harder to accept as an adult doing something new and vulnerable. And terrifying. 

But here’s what I know is true. 

I want to write. 

Cue the nausea, shame-spiral, and “just kidding!!” following up. 

Part of me is utterly shocked by these thoughts. Blindsided by this discovery. Another part (who happens to be a bit more connected to the reality of the past few years) is unphased by this “revelation”.

The unsurprised part reminds me of my 33rd birthday. I was in the throes of a divorce from my favorite person. My world flipped upside down. And I was the one “wrecking” it. 

I knew it was going to be a tough year ahead. Formerly a pretty intense dissociator, I wasn’t confident I would remember much of anything. And I wanted to. Even the terrible stuff. I wanted to remember my life. So I decided I would write every day for one year. 

April 3, 2020 -April 3, 2021 

I committed to myself that I would journal every single day. 

And I did. Although, to be fair, there were a few entries that resembled a reluctant 10th grader sarcastically turning in an assignment.

• September 13, 2020: This is my journal entry for the day. There, I did it. I wrote for the day. Are you happy now?

In the midst of my year of journaling, I experienced the greatest loss and upheaval my life had seen. A dark night of the soul turned spiritual awakening. And each day was captured on paper. 

• Reality questioning, letters, existential ponderings, mushroom wisdom, quotes, daily accounts, and a dash of gratitude at times. 

It was all there on the pages. I was committed to remember it all. I passed the year mark and kept writing. Not always as consistent. But often.

Then, I found myself at a writing retreat. (That’s odd, how did I get here?) In my grief I had connected deeply with an author’s story and she was going to be teaching at this retreat. So I signed up. And took a ferry ride to the San Juan Islands of Washington state. I was surrounded by real writers for five days. And I stuck to my introduction script the entire time. 

• “Oh, I’m not a writer. I’m a therapist. I’m just here to meet Claire.”

That was the story I needed to believe. And it definitely felt true when everyone else spoke in literary shorthand and I had to secretly google the word “prose” so I could pretend to track the conversations. 

But I did meet Claire. And she offered an exercise for finding your writing voice. Specifically, she had us write the same story in First Person, Second Person, and Third Person. Since I had no preconceived notions of how this would go, I can’t say I was surprised by the results. But there was definitely a clear “winner”. I discovered it was WAY easier for me to write in Second Person. 

Then, over the next four months, I wrote a book.

I convinced myself it was okay to write the book because I gave myself permission to never share it with anyone. I needed the “book” structure to help me process the grief and trauma differently than journaling. The Second Person structure gave me the distance I needed and space for my self-deprecating part to shine. 

Mission Accomplished. On July 24, 2022, I finished the last page of the book and promptly put it aside. I told myself I wouldn’t even look at it for a few months. 

Life happened. And then, happened again. And again. 

My writing started to look different. Less writing about my life and more about a new therapeutic model I’d been creating. The writing itself evolved and my relationship with writing deepened. I could feel myself being pulled. I wanted more. But it didn’t (doesn’t) make logical sense. 

And I’m okay with that. 

Because I want to write.  I want to be a writer. 

So, I’m allowing myself to be bad. Reminding myself I’m SUPPOSED to be bad. I’m a beginner. 

I’m embracing my Bad Writer Era. 

With Curiosity, 

Emily