This question keeps coming to my mind every time I sit down to write. I live on a farm, yet I can’t think of any farm stories to tell. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve written everything there is to write about farm life. I know this can’t be true, but it feels like it. I look out the window and am surrounded by fields, yet I worry I have no more stories to tell.
Last week, standing in a room with over 135 women in agriculture, I told my sister-in-law, “I don’t know why I do this to myself.” This being: organizing and planning a conference when I can easily be overstimulated and overwhelmed in big crowds. But there I stood, surrounded by women who paid to attend this event, which I co-founded and put on with four other women. I’m naturally a shy person; I’m not always great at making conversation. I’m awkward at times. Over the years, I’ve shared vulnerable stories about motherhood and myself online, but when talking to people in person, I’m sometimes at a loss for words. I worry people will meet me and be disappointed.
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Over the years, I’ve attempted to befriend other writers online. Writing is often a lonely endeavor; sometimes, the rejections make me wonder why I keep going. I’ve made friendships, to be sure, but often, I feel like that awkward girl at the party, the one nobody is sure who invited her, and she’s trying to talk to the cool kids. The cool kids sometimes say hello, but then they go back to talking to the other cool kids. I don’t want to try too hard, but if I don’t put myself out there, how will they even know who I am? Then I wonder, am I a fraud? Am I trying to make friends with them for the right reasons?
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I don’t share any political leanings online—even though I have them. Mostly because I don’t think anyone needs another opinion, and (IMO) sharing your beliefs won’t make someone else change theirs. But then I wonder, if I’m not willing to shout from the rooftops what I think, do I believe them if I’m not willing to stand up for them?1 But given how this political season is shaping up and how I often see people sharing in their stories, “I can’t respect anyone who voted differently than me.” I can’t help but wonder if those people would still be friends with me if they knew that I was that person, that person who voted differently than them.
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For years, I hoped to receive an invite to a certain group. If I were included, I thought it would mean something about me—that I could take my hobby seriously. I assumed because I wasn’t asked, I wasn’t good enough, and not just good enough for them, but for anyone. Despite other accomplishments and opportunities I've earned, I still haven’t thoroughly shaken this feeling. I don’t know why I let it be bigger than it should have been.
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Last January, I started writing a book proposal. My second one, actually. The first obviously didn’t go anywhere. I worked on it on and off for months before getting brave enough to send it out this summer. At the end of August, an agent asked to have a Zoom call with me. I said yes. I thought the call went well, and she said she would get back to me the next day with a yes or no on offering me representation. I told myself not to, but I let my hopes get up. I pictured signing a contract; I pictured my book on the shelf. I let myself dream. The following day, she asked to see more sample chapters, which I sent to her. I never heard from her again.
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Next week, I’m stepping into a new role, which is also an old role. Before getting married, I was a school counselor. But I had to quit my job to move across the state when I married. Which I happily did. A couple of months ago, the principal of my kids’ school asked if I would fill in for the school counselor this winter while she’s on maternity leave. I said yes. I know I’m qualified for the job (the diploma on my wall says so), but I haven’t done it in over 11 years. I worry that I’ll look like a grown-up, pretending to be someone who knows what they’re doing. I wonder how long it will take the kids to notice.
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But tomorrow morning, I’ll get up in the dark and write in my journal, as I do most days. And next week, I’ll put on (real) pants and walk into the school.
I’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I’m grateful for in-real-life friends to have these conversations because I believe they never go well online.
I relate to all of this, Stacy. I'm excited for you and this new (old) path you're creating for yourself. Writing will support you and most likely strengthen because of this next phase. At least, that's what I experienced.
Failure and rejection are really sucky parts of this passion. And it is a passion - yours is not a hobby. I've known you as a writer for 10 years. That's no hobby. I had one huge failure last week in fact, and it'll be a long time before I bounce back from it. But I will bounce back. Because I'm a writer. I have to.
Finally, one of the places I work is a place where I know my colleagues - who I consider friends - voted differently than I did. If I knew them on social media, I know I wouldn't call them friends. There's no nuance in social media. There are only mic drops. I think about this all the time - how I would've missed out on a handful of friendships had I determined what kind of people they are based solely on who they voted for. And I bet they'd say the same thing about me.
With you in so much of this:
Looking for a new job after 10+ years out of the game…it’s terrifying.
Wishing for ____ to happen with my writing and it just…not.
And, being an American and living with such political division is super hard. I think Callie’s right about the nuance. I also think people from all political leanings need to open their circles. I vote differently than my parents and several close friends. While I don’t always understand their “why,” I do love them and cherish our relationships.
Thanks for always being so vulnerable with your words. Can’t wait for that book some day, friend. 💛