Over the last month I wrote roughly 18,000 words for my book. Yesterday, I took a good look at what I had written and realized what most of it is. It is a continuation of a years long habit, writing about writing my story rather than actually telling the story.

So, I did what all book writers know well, I scrapped most of it and started over. These pages of writing were not a waste, they were helping me work through my thoughts. I observe how I feel when I actually write about the things that happened. You might think it is fear; there is a portion of apprehension about not knowing when a memory will strike me down. But really, I find myself bored by writing the dry, cold facts.

I have done countless hours of therapy and “homework” centered around these events and their impact on me. This is a great time to write the book I’ve always wanted to write. I am capable now. Already I can see new insights being gleaned as I bravely turn back the pages of time and reconstruct my life. Boredom is a good place to be when visiting these memories. I know that it won’t last as I color in the emotions on this skeleton.

This has been an excellent way to force myself into being honest. I can no longer skirt around the issue at hand. It is time to dust off these journals that I have kept since I was eleven years old.

I can’t help but to continue questioning my motive. Not so much because I doubt myself, but because I am a woman who knows why she does what she does. I have become comfortable with uncertainty. I trust that the reasons will be revealed to me over time. I trust that this work needs to be written. And so I carry on.