The Year I Stopped Asking for Permission to be a Writer.

This was the year I married my craft. After a wildfire swept through Los Angeles in January, I knew there were two things I could not live without: the people I love, and stories.

I sat my muse down, and said, “Come and go as you please, but I am staying. It’s you and me. And we are going to work this out. I vow to give you my life, my heart, my time.”

I let go of several companies. I let go of all my projects. I let go.

Here are five things I learned in the process.

Not immediately. First, there was a terrifying desert with no oasis in sight. That little monster whispered: How will you make money? Are you a writer, or an Instagram figurehead, pretending to be one?

But I kept writing.

Six months later, I signed the biggest book deal of my life. I got the confirmation as the wheels of the plane were lifting off and laughed until I cried, then cried until I laughed. I heard a voice:

You chose your art, and your art chose you back.

What we are validated for becomes our kryptonite.

I’ve been validated mostly for love, grief and heartbreak poems—waters I no longer fear to tread. My best friend said, “At least don’t censor yourself in your own house. Write what you’re afraid to write. Write what you feel you have no right to write.”

When I did, a thousand weights lifted from my chest. I stopped echoing myself. I started writing work I loved, work that required courage.

This comes from the book The Emotional Craft of Fiction by Donald Maass. Humans rarely feel one emotion at a time. On average, we feel three.

In the opening scene to the second Legends of Lemuria, Zia is trying to bond with a dragon. What is she feeling? First, terror. She’s falling through the sky. Second, anger. She’s a perfectionist who hates feeling out of control. Third, grief. She has spent her life being devastatingly competent, and her heart longs for rest.

I wrote from the third layer, instead of the first. And edited the rest of the book that way. It changed everything.

I moved through a lot of insecurity this year. That’s normal when your pen is gaining stretch marks.

Someone told me that my writing is too simple. Too obvious. Not complex enough. For a while, I tried complexity. How smart am I, mincing metaphors? Ha ha ha!

Until one day, I asked myself: Who the fuck are you writing for?

Certainly not them.

I’m not writing prove how clever I am. I am writing to tell the truth. And I will never sacrifice truth for complexity. Writing can be gravitational and simple at the same time.

There are no wrong answers, but it will change the way you write.

Are you writing for yourself? Your partner? Your child? Your parent? The entirety of the social media soup?

When I reflect on my poetry book, so much of it traces the journey of womanhood. My prayer is that these poems are a permission slip for women to stop rehearsing perfection.

When I write fantasy, I imagine my future daughter reading it. What do I want to leave behind for her?

That question changes the tone. It gives the writing gravity.

This was the year my writing became my way of tending to the world—of loving the world. It is both a duty and honor to be a steward of stories.

May your pen takes you on the most marvelous adventures, and bring you peace.

That’s all, folks!

Xx,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Scribe.