Can I get a witness

Last weekend, my 2025 Seattle Public Library Writers’ Room Fellowship concluded with a public reading at downtown’s Central Library. I read a fresh essay titled “The Scholastic Book Thief,” a class critique couched in my shoplifting exploits as an 8-year-old.

When the reading date was set, I felt tempted at first to just quietly slip into town, read any random old ditty, and hustle my little tush on outta there. As a mega introvert and limelight avoider, part of me dies a squirmy little death when I share or talk about my work (ironic for a career marketer trained to make much ado about nothing!). Writing always feels so vulnerable, so I was itching to just get it over with.

Lately, though, I’ve been challenging the impulse to cower from vulnerability and instead dive headlong into it and—gasp—invite others to witness it. I’m practicing it like my artistic life depends on it (because it does). So, I polished up that essay and invited friends to come listen …and they all showed up. Even two old college friends (one of whom is a dad of two young children!!) turned up unannounced to support. The exposure therapy showed me that doing so was not a big deal even though it was a Big! Deal!

It can be easy to forget how many supporters you have in your corner when you’re toiling away—especially on an art form as solitary as writing. For my fellow writers, this is your reminder to toot your horn, bask in your glory, make it big, take up space. People are rooting for you. I am rooting for you! Be like a ripening pistachio and crack yourself open and show off all those fruits of your labor! (Google tells me pistachios are indeed a fruit).

Now go share,
Jamie

Write an account of everything in your life that you are proud of (accomplishments big and small, obscure skills developed, obstacles overcome, life experienced, identities shed and forged). Pretend like you are leaving a record to your future grandchildren and you want them to know who you are and what you've done. 

To submit your writing: reply to this email, comment on this post, or send to nowgowrite@substack.com by Saturday evening.

“Artists love to trot out the tired line, 'My work speaks for itself,' but the truth is, our work doesn’t speak for itself. Human beings want to know where things came from, how they were made, and who made them.” — Austin Kleon