Welcoming the Light
Growing up in Montana—miles from potential playdates, beyond the ambition of the cable company—books were my closest friends. They offered insight into worlds far away, shocked my imagination, and inspired my mind. Plus, my parents, who were not indulgent with toys, were very generous with books: I could order from the Scholastic catalog when it circulated at school, so long as I had read everything they bought me. I benefited greatly from this largesse, teaching myself to read quickly, voraciously, and, if I’m honest, often beyond my comprehension. (I think I was 10 or 11 when I read Clan of the Cave Bear. Ahem.)
I idolized authors and writers and ultimately majored in English, so I could write about writers. Interestingly, I felt too ashamed or timid to claim to be a writer. After graduating from college, I became an editor instead, writing short pieces here and there, but otherwise helping others share their stories and their expertise. In my mid-20’s I started ghostwriting for extra cash. This became my contact high with publishing: I’ve co-written 12 books over the years in almost as many categories. Several years ago, when she was papering one of these deals, my agent asked me when I would write my own book. It had honestly never occurred to me: I don’t say this with false modesty, either. I didn’t think of myself as a writer, as being interesting, or worthy enough…on my own.
“I don’t think I have a book in me,” I demurred.
“I beg to differ,” she replied.
She was not relentless, but she was consistent. Every six months or so, at the tail-end of conversations about other projects, just a question: “Have you started your proposal yet?” That yet, a foregone conclusion, a statement of faith. I would write a book. I let that “yet” lodge in my mind like a piton and started to contemplate what core question I’d want to spend years of my life attempting to answer.
As soon as I opened my mind to the possibility, the question arrived—but, in many ways, allowing the question was the easiest part. Emailing my agent: “Okay, I’m ready,” was much harder. While examining the Seven Deadly Sins—the organizing principle for my upcoming book, On Our Best Behavior, I was called to stare down one of the sins that’s been a personal thorn in my side: Pride. For a long time, I’ve been scared to be seen, believing that calling attention to myself is unseemly, at best. At worst, it’s dangerous.
I have been doing a lot of work on this particular sin for the past few years. While I can’t profess to be over it completely, a recent comment from my friend Jakki Leonardini, an energy medicine practitioner, offered a helpful reframe. I told her recently that I was feeling anxiety about announcing my book and drawing additional eyes to my work—that increased exposure felt scary and unsafe. With a certain simplicity, she said that I had it backward, a common mistake. She offered that while we think about attention as a spotlight, singling us out on a stage, putting our work out into the world is the opposite: It acts as a lighthouse and becomes an opportunity for others to gather and share their light as well. “The more light you allow, the more you attract the light of others, and the safer you are,” she added. “It’s much safer than staying in the shadows.”
I’ve been noodling this over in my mind for weeks, how much sense this makes and yet how counter it runs to the programming that most of us have heard all our lives. And I’ve been wondering what the world might look like if everyone stopped dimming their own light.