Telling yourself you’ll do it tomorrow is how dreams die – Shane Parrish
That line from my Brain Food newsletter by Shane Parrish, this morning made me stop mid-coffee. Not because it was profound, but because it was true. I’ve been telling myself I’ll become a “real” writer tomorrow for… how long now?
But wait. Let me reframe this entirely.
What exactly have I been waiting to become? When I think “writer,” my brain automatically goes to: published author, book deals, someone whose work people pay to read. But here’s the thing: I write constantly. Strategic reports, emails that move people to action and change outcomes. People read my work, respond to it, make decisions based on it. If a writer is simply someone who writes things that others read… then I’m already a writer.
So what’s really been holding me back? I think I’ve been clinging to my high school writing style – dark, lyrical, poetic, stream-of-consciousness. The kind of work that got me praised by English teachers. But honestly? That doesn’t suit me anymore, and trying to force it has kept me stuck.
The story I want to tell was written in my mid twenties, my Tropical Island Paradise years. It was a wild, messy, formative time in my mid-twenties when everything felt both limitless and terrifying. I think it’s a story that will read best as a summer read – nothing heavy, just fun. Maybe even the kind of book someone devours on vacation and texts their friends about – not because it’s profound, but because (I hope) it’s relatable and fun.
I used to think that that carefree style of writing would somehow diminish me as a writer (but if I’ve never written a novel, how can I diminish myself by writing that way?).
But if I look deeper, there’s another barrier generating this resistance – an ingrained instinct to keep things quiet, to not air the messy, imperfect, very human parts of life. I’ve never told my mom or sister any of these stories. Is it weird that the thought of telling the world – but not them – is what’s holding me back? My mom always seemed drawn to drama and gossip about others, maybe as a way to keep focus off herself. I’ve always resisted feeding into that, but somehow writing this story feels like I’d be exposing myself in the exact way I’ve spent years avoiding.
The crazy thing? The story burning inside me isn’t even that salacious. But it’s real and honest – and maybe that’s exactly what I’ve been afraid to be. Time to stop keeping quiet and start writing like I mean it.