Most days, I’m am author. The odd day, like today, I’m a speaker who tells people how I came to be an author in hopes of inspiring them to make space for their passions.
But lately, I’ve felt unjustified in calling myself either.
My current manuscript has me totally stumped. My last speaking engagement was, for external reasons I promise you can’t come close to guessing, a disaster (a story for another post, if not an SNL skit). All in all, I’ve been in one of those I suck at all of this, there’s no future in any of this slumps I know is temporary yet worry anyway might be permanent.
Several weeks ago, pre-slump, I was invited to give this morning’s talk for a large group (by my standards at least). Someone from a previous talk recommended me; I didn’t know whom. I was unfamiliar with the organizer, the attendees, the venue, the vibe. I wouldn’t know a single person there. None of this would usually rattle me, but like I said: slump.
And so, as today drew closer, I kinda did not want to go anymore?
(To be clear, I was never for a second not going. A quitter this girl is not.)
Still, I haven’t felt this bottom-of-my-game since crossing the 150 rejection mark with my first book. I’m supposed to tell a roomful of strangers to dream big, defy odds, take a chance on themselves while my inner voice is shouting I’m out of practice, underprepared, hardly qualified! Nothing of value to add! I’m not sure I’ve framed my message appropriately for this group. I doubt whether anyone in the room will connect with it.
And then, behold, the algorithm works in my favour for once.
I happen upon this exquisite clip in which Maya Angelou explains how to show love to oneself when embarking on a challenge (around 11:55 to 13:25) by summoning everyone who has loved you—dead or alive, near or far—and bringing them into that room with you.
Do not walk in alone. Bring everybody with you who has loved you. -Maya Angelou
This morning, as I apply makeup, I make like Maya and try it.
One by one, I summon my people. All who have shown me love and kindness along this journey. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins in heaven. My family, chosen family, and writing sisters here on earth.
Come on guys, come for a ride with me. Let’s go do a talk.
Moments later, I’m driving an empty car that is full to bursting. I’ve got my hype songs on repeat at full volume (if you don’t already have yours at the ready, might I suggest this, this, and this one to start). My only wish is that I’d opted for waterproof mascara.
I arrive, park, earn a sideways glance from the guy sitting in the car next to mine with his window open and realize I’m still talking to my invisible people. Whatever. By this point, I’m near-delirious with joy at hanging out with them all.
The talk goes just fine. I sell a few books, meet some wonderful folks. I’m invited to another author talk and possibly two more.
And you can bet I won’t be going into any of them alone.
If you’re reading this and you’ve shown me love, thanks for being in my car today. Know that tomorrow morning, when I sit down in front of that unnervingly empty next page, I’ll be bringing you and Maya with me again.
Don’t go in alone.
Bring your people with you.
They’ve got you.
You’ve got this.
(This post is part of an ongoing series for writers/creatives called The Launch Diaries, available now on Substack.)
Rachel Stone 