I am 28 years, 2 months and 5 days old.
By the time I’m 30 I want to have my memoir in the hands of a publisher (maybe not published, but just with the promise that it’s going to happen) and I want to be living in my very own built-with-my-own-hands-drenched-in-my-own-sweat house.
I have one year, 9 months and 25 days to figure out how to pull that off.
Here’s the thing: I have wanted to write a memoir for the past 6 years. I have said I’m starting it for the past 5 years. I have started a wee tiny bit of writing just ONE time in the past 8 months. Then I freaked out and quit.
I’m not moving so fast.
I’m pretty busy these days. Pretty busy procrastinating and drawing up blue-prints for my tiny house. (I’ve got my eye on a 16-foot flatbed trailer that I’m going to turn into a foundation and at least four walls where a little weird woman with a writing habit can hole away with some strong coffee and her very own staircase.)
And the tiny house is moving along faster than the memoir. I already have some emails out to some Craigslist suppliers of windows and siding and insulation. The tiny house is going to take hard work and dedication and a level. And I’m okay with that. I’m sturdy, I’m strong, I can charm my way into some help from more sturdy, strong people. I can build a house. It’s only a matter of time and money.
But a memoir? That takes courage. The kind I’m not sure I have. It takes emotional energy. It takes digging into your own soul and then putting it out there for OTHER PEOPLE to read.
I’m not so sure about that.
Maybe I need to reassess my goals. Maybe I have one year, 9 months and 25 days to build a tiny house and write about building it instead of writing about all the people and places that built me. Maybe I have the strength to build but not the courage to write.
Maybe this is the pounding headache and screaming sinuses talking. Maybe it’s the fever dreams.
Maybe I’ll take a moment to scream. Because sometimes screaming helps.