This Sunday, I’m feeling inspired, open. Yesterday, I hosted the first session of my Saturday writing circle, a group for BIPOC women/femme/gnc people to write consistently and with accountability, support and encouragement. I’m still emotional thinking about our opening conversation where we shared what we’re working on, what we’re dreaming of, what obstacles we’re pushing through. I was so in awe of everyone’s stories, in awe of the work they’ve done and are doing — not just the writing itself, but the courage to push through imposter syndrome, fear, and self-doubt to get the writing done. It is not easy, oh.
For a long time I’ve been sitting on this novel, which is basically almost done. I’ve been hemming-and-hawing about sharing it with the world (or at the very least my literary agent) because I’m afraid that it is too “weird,” that it won’t “sell,” that it doesn’t make sense as a debut. Really I think my anxiety truly stems from a fear of revealing the parts of myself that I cannot (and do not really wish to) translate, the parts of myself that were never meant to fit and never will. Revealing that soft, sensitive underbelly of my imagination only to be professionally rejected, misunderstood, or maligned.
But I’ve landed at a new place this year, a place that became that more vibrant on Saturday as I listened to over a dozen fellow writers share their own fears: