Weeding Myself Back IN
“You weeded YOURSELF out, G.”
Once upon a time, I worked under intense, daily newsroom deadlines and mastered the art of the following:
Panic 1/3 of the time
Research 1/3 of the time
Procrastinate 1/6 of the time
FINISH UNDER THE WIRE
During this time, thoughts often drifted to this mental chess “checkmate” zone of an existential crisis where I let these pesky punks get the best of me:
I'm really not cut out for this.
I'm never going to get this right.
Why did I choose this career path?
Maybe I should beg for my old desk jockey job back.
With enough practice, deadlines got easier to smash. I stopped being afraid of the mechanical side of journalism (think: fact-checking, word counts, deadlines) and began to use my spare time to smooth the pieces out better or to fit in words with more flair where appropriate. And with even more practice, I got pretty ok at it.
But journalism and authorship are two very different animals. They are barely of the same species. Forget cats and dogs—they’re more like lizards and polar bears. So, meet me at my desk in my studio for a sec. It's a tad cluttered, and I'm freaking out because of those things I mentioned earlier about mental chess and different species. I have this book deal, and the stage is set, but the panic, she hath set in.
An Account of Her Own is about a phenomenal group of women in Denver who started their own bank in the late 1970s. They did this because they were tired of banks overlooking them or requiring men to "vouch" for them so they could get banking services and access to credit. They wanted to create a successful business venture, and they wanted competent women to run it. And now, they have entrusted moi with the telling of this story.
Gulp!
A super long time ago, I attempted one semester at the community college back home in Michigan and failed at it spectacularly, including an English Comp 101 class, which was taught by this legendary prof. He was ceremoniously tough on students, and my spiritually fragile self boiled over one day when I decided to skip his class indefinitely rather than ask him how I could be better. A few months later, I was living my new life in New York and got to telling a few people I had attempted college but decided it “wasn’t for me” and blamed the comp prof for weeding me out. The guy I was dating at the time made me so mad when he pointed out the obvious, “you weeded YOURSELF out, G.”
As a potential Olympian in the sport of overthinking things, this self weeding out thing has haunted me over time. When I’m writing, it looks like this: procrastination, imposter syndrome, and my close and personal favorite--doubt.
Just the other day at my aforementioned desk, the thinking crept in: "what am I doing this for—who am I to take on feminist financial history? Also, I really can’t write narrative.”
This way of "tragical thinking" is the absolute worst. It translates into cluttered desks and minds, a lack of inspiration, overwhelm. It’s what led me to drop out that first semester long ago and nearly avoid academia entirely. Worst of all--it equates to no words on pages. So, rebooting and psyching myself in looks like so--three deep breaths in and then repeat:
I am not a historian, but I can consult with one if I need to;
I did not take women's studies, but I am resourceful, and I can figure this out;
If the women who inspire this book had overthought their process, they might have weeded themselves out, which means no bank, and no bank means no book.
I may never know why of all the people in the world, these folks chose lil ole me to write this thing, but what I can assure you of (one and all) is that I will do my utmost to live up to the potential of what they saw when they made that choice.
Anything else, and I've let my mental chess game checkmate me--and checkmate won't write a book, now will it?
Til next time
Xo, G