#3: A Secret Writer
A series of eight blogs about my process of publishing every grain of sand.
I devoured books as a child, reading absolutely everything I could get my hands on. I have visceral memories of crouching in bookstores, libraries, and stoop sales surrounded by the intoxicating smells of vintage and brand-new books. Starting as early as I can remember, I dreamed about writing a book of my own and took every opportunity to creatively express myself through words.
From the Preface of every grain of sand:
…I wrote my first-grade class play, an adaptation of a children’s book about a Mexican volcano. In third grade, I worked for months on an episodic story about a boy who turned everything he touched into chocolate—a delicious, cautionary, Midas-inspired morality tale. Not long after, I saw a children’s theater production of Cinderella and ran home to my mother’s electric typewriter to render my own modern interpretation of the script…
At around 28 or 29 years old, astrologers say your “Saturn returns.” This cosmic rite of passage is supposed to bring greater vision to your life. I found myself meditating on Saturn during that time in my life, in a longer-than-usual period between freelance gigs. I had another Broadway stage managing job coming up in a few months and had saved up enough money to float for a short while, so instead of reaching out to previous employers and scrambling for odd jobs, I made a grand commitment to myself to Be a Writer for three whole months. I would do morning pages. I would read books by famous writers about the craft of writing. I would be rigorous and above-all, prolific.
Instead? I watched a lot of television. I cooked and baked. I hung out with friends. I traveled to visit family—because when else was I going to see them with my busy career? I got called for odd jobs and because I love jumping in to help people out, I gladly accepted them. At the beginning, I did actually read a few books about how imperative it is for professional writers to have discipline, but I definitely did not adhere to a structure that allowed any writerly productivity to take root. And halfway through my experiment, I deemed it an utter failure. I had written nothing of value and I was evidently Not a Writer.
There is one poem I wrote while Saturn was returning that made its way into every grain of sand and it speaks directly to where my head was during that period: “who are you? who now? / impatiently stepping off / another high ledge? / caught floating between / frozen, numbing apathy / and passionate winds?”
I didn’t share this disappointing trial period with anyone and promptly stopped considering myself a writer. I didn’t have room in my life, or maybe the timing wasn’t right, or maybe I didn’t have the discipline, and besides, I needed to focus on my work stage managing and producing theatre. Whatever stories I told myself, those fearful excuses were powerful enough to bury my dream.
And yet, over time, my creative dream nudged me from beyond. I felt stories and characters bubbling inside me. I found small ways to continue writing for fun, incremental steps like jotting down ideas on subway rides, completing The Artist’s Way slowly over the course of a year, taking a few incredible poetry and playwriting courses at NYU, the New School, and Primary Stages… And a big shift happened somewhere along the way. Without even noticing it, the view I held of myself evolved. I became softer and more understanding. I allowed myself to write when I was inspired and become okay with not always writing. I gave myself the gift of imperfection and vulnerability.
And now, here I am, weeks away from becoming a Published Author. The work I’ve been hiding for decades will be out there, available to anyone, and people I’ve worked with as a stage manager and producer and college professor will discover I’ve been a secret writer all along. And in that way, it really is like coming out of the closet again. I’m feeling that familiar trepidation and a low-humming question: will-anyone-ever-love-me?
I know that I am a writer and have always been a writer—and having a book doesn’t actually make me more of a writer—but I also know that something inside me will fundamentally change. I'm not sure how that will look, but by finally honoring a long-gestating dream that was denied and withheld and almost forgotten, something great will inevitably come my way.
Of course he chose his favorite “Oreo” shirt for Kindergarten photo day.
