Dear Diary, I Want to Write

My book and I are in the early stages of a whirlwind romance. We’re sprawled at a resort in Cabo right now, drinking virgin margaritas. But a tiny part of me still hesitates to throw myself all the way in, even though it feels right.

I’ve begun the slow process of re-orienting my life around this writing dream. Some months ago, I quit my steady corporate job. I’m currently not working a 9-5 to rediscover balance and focus all my energy on my writing with minimal distractions. I tell myself that it’s all right that I’m not working full-time or even part-time right now. There’s no need to feel guilty about it—if I can operate in this lifestyle for now, relish it and thank God that I’m not burdened by a corporate job that encompasses my physical, spiritual, mental, and emotional selves entirely. Because that used to be me. I worshipped work, which was a grave mistake. So when I left my old job, the relief positively made me giddy.

Few feelings in the world absorb you the way that relief does—it’s like the first gulp of sweet, effervescent Coca-Cola on a boiling hot day. Or wearing cozy socks and kneading your feet in your blanket before bedtime. I confessed my deep feelings to myself and whispered, “I’m going to do something that I really want to do for once.” I fell headfirst into this newfound devotion to writing. Previously, I had denied myself the freedom to cross that line and pursue it, even though I’d wanted to do it ever since I wrote a middle school personal essay about ballet lessons.

In college, I majored in English and thought that my career would be in food writing or journalism. But my creative writing courses had always intrigued me the most. It felt natural to write about a memory, a family member, or even an everyday event, and root around for truth and my voice. My middle school self had latched onto it early on without knowing what it meant. Even then, I wondered if there was potential to make this my life—to write about these types of things. My college classes further encouraged me to take a deeper look at writing personal essays and memoirs.

There is a time for everything, however. The writing idea was wispy at best. Too early, and I hadn’t experienced enough life yet. I had just started writing personal essays in my junior and senior years of college. I had no clue how people made a living doing this. After I graduated, I dabbled in podcasting and spent some time working in church ministry. I moved to be with my husband while he finished medical school, but instead of writing, I needed to take responsibility as the breadwinner for a time. So that is what I did. I put on a headset and adopted the corporate language of “Let’s circle back” and “Are we aligned?”

Now I’m here, in the last year of my twenties, and I want to finish my book—a memoir—before I turn thirty. Yes, I am aware that some people think that anyone under thirty shouldn’t write a memoir. I am also aware of the fact that I haven’t written for a living before as a technical writer or copywriter or anything. I have little credentials or a reputation as a writer. Maybe this is going to splat. But what keeps me going is the satisfaction of trying. I don’t need to live with the “What if” anymore. But of course, I can’t just meander aimlessly. A rough outline, even a makeshift plan, will help me achieve my goals. To start, a 50,000-word first draft.

Word of mouth and Instagram are some of my favorite resources at the moment. I’m following authors on Instagram in the hopes that I can build a community of mutual support and learning. A friend told me about Writing Pad classes, so I’ve taken a couple of their memoir writing classes. It feels anchoring to have expert help and teaching. Just one step at a time. When in doubt about what to do next, I can take Memoir 3, hopefully with a first draft ready to edit. My favorite podcast is “The Shit No One Tells You About Writing,” which I found on Instagram. It’s punchy, educational, and no frills. I’m reading more memoirs and books on craft. There’s a stack of them growing quite nicely on my desk. My heart wants to hang out at the romance novel buffet, but I feel like I’m on a whole foods diet now and only consuming anything organic to my work, starting with Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking and The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr. And of course, I’m writing almost every day. I treat it like a job and a passion at the same time. Sometimes the only words that end up on the page are literally “I don’t know what to write.” On other days, I grin at my latest shitty first draft and highlight two sentences that I love.

I recently joined a Zoom call where hundreds of writers tuned in to discuss how to publish and get their books into people’s hands. It astounded me just how many people are just like me, trying to make it. We’re all in the same pond, like ducks paddling madly for crumbs of bread tossed to us from the bank. It’s reassuring and also daunting, knowing that I am just a speck and this might be the hardest thing I have ever done. But also, I have to remember that I am not alone.

I suppose this is my writing diary like many writers have. I don’t expect anyone to read this, but I want a place for my thoughts to land. The musings, insecurities, victories, and messiness await. My book and I are on the knife’s edge of obliterating into a million pieces or proving that true love prevails. I have no clue what will happen. So let’s find out, shall we?