Finding my Place as a Writer

I’ve had a pretty beastly journey with anxiety. There have been times I’ve really struggled with anxiety so bad that I experienced agoraphobia. When simple things like leaving my apartment to take the trash just a few feet down the hall to the trash chute might trigger a panic attack. When going outside my building was unimaginable because the world just felt “too big.” Finding my place of comfort as a writer is harder when I have trouble finding my place of comfort in the physical world.

My battles with imposter syndrome are well-documented, too. The ginormous specter of imposter syndrome that looms over my writing week after week is a constant reminder of anxiety. It doesn’t matter how many stories I tell here, or how many pieces I’ve had accepted for publication elsewhere. 

Lilith’s “The New 40”

In spite of the imposter syndrome, near the end of 2021, when I saw Lilith Magazine’s announcement about their program “The New 40”, for new and emerging Jewish feminist writers over 40, I applied. And just about a year ago I received the rejection letter. This wasn’t actually a surprise, even with the “new and emerging” label, it really would have been a stretch for me at that point. It had only been a year since I’d returned to writing after a very long break. My storytelling skills were still pretty rusty at that point. Instead of being distraught by the rejection, I celebrated it because it meant I’d been able to take a big risk and break new ground as a writer.

I moved on quickly. Last winter was busy. We’d just launched 2 Rules of Writing in December, and I was dividing my time between writing and website stuff. February also brought us the debate about (and eventual passage of) Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” law, which kicked off a year of writing a lot of intensely emotional queer-themed stories. So I didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the rejection. Between writing for the website and learning how to maintain it, along with getting a few pieces together to submit to other places, this rejection, my first big rejection, just wasn’t something I had a lot of time to think about. It did cross my mind once in a while; I had my heart set on applying again if they announced a call for a second cohort.

Applying Again

I never saw an announcement. I assumed that there wasn’t going to be a second cohort or that I’d missed the announcement. In my usual fashion, I also decided that missing the announcement was my own fault. I did take a look just in case I hadn’t actually missed the announcement. As November approached, (last year’s deadline had been in mid-November,) I kept thinking of whatever deadline there might be and berating myself for being so irresponsible and missing out on an opportunity I really did want to try for, even if there was no possible way I could be qualified for it.

Honestly, I was a little disappointed, but there were other things to think about and other projects to work on so I just kept going.

And then one day early in November, my email alert dinged. I glanced at it and saw the subject line “An Invitation from Lilith (Time Sensitive).” I assumed it was about renewing my subscription. But I had other things to do, and so I didn’t bother reading it and went on with what I was doing.

Finding My Place in the New New 40 Cohort

When I finally did get around to reading it a few hours later I was speechless for a few minutes. The first paragraph made it clear why there hadn’t been any information about new applications. They were offering spots to a second cohort of writers who had submitted applications in 2021. And they were offering one of those spots to me! 

I’d barely finished reading the email before I sent my acceptance. It’s possible that I may have done that before I called Adam to tell him about it. While I may not remember which of those things happened first, I do remember reading aloud the part of the email that said: “Your strong application stood out to us last year, and we are writing to see if you’d be interested in participating in this second cohort, which will generally include writers with a bit more experience workshopping and being edited than our first selection did.”

Experience? Me? That just seemed impossible. It still seems impossible. But there it was. Right on my screen.

Sharing the News, and the Long Wait

We were asked not to share the news on social media until after they made their announcement. I shared the information privately with a few people because I was excited. And nervous. And proud too, I suppose.

But after the acceptance, there were the details. What the commitment actually involved. A bio and headshot. More specifics about what we would be doing. I was excited. Looking forward to the opportunity, and to meeting some other writers.

All of those positive feelings fell apart late in December, when an email with a draft of Lilith’s official announcement arrived. They wanted permission to use our headshots. And for us to begin to get to know each other. They included information about the members of the cohort.

All of a sudden, I was absolutely certain I was in over my head. People in the cohort had published books. There are rabbis and professors and doctors. And me. I’m nobody. I’ve published a piece of my own about once a week on the 2 Rules website. You don’t even need all of your fingers to count the number of pieces I’ve had published by another outlet.

Finding my Place… Amidst Doubts

I was drowning in my own self-doubt. So I turned to Adam for reassurance. I had sought his approval to make the decision to apply in the first place, all the way back in 2021. He was the one who helped me edit my answers to the application question. He was the one who kept me from backing out of the very first poetry workshop I took with sam sax, one of my favorite contemporary poets. Adam is the person who gave me the best writing advice I’ve ever gotten. If anyone could reassure me this time, it would be Adam.

“You’re not out of your league,” he told me. “They created a league just to invite you into it.”

His words reassured me for a little while. I’ve kept them in my head. I wrote them in my notebook. I’ve been clinging to them like Kate Winslet clung to that door at the end of Titanic.

The words have helped. A little. In between the moments of abject terror and self-pep-talks about not quitting even though I’m completely hopeless, and I’m never going to be a writer or write anything decent.

Finding my Path through the Doubt

I struggled for days and days to actually say “Yes” to releasing my headshot. It wasn’t about the photo. It’s one of the few photos of myself that I like. But because saying “yes” to it made this opportunity all that much more real. It meant putting my words out there, my heart out there. To other writers, to editors and eventually to an audience of a size which I can’t imagine. To a bunch of nameless, faceless people. Not like sharing my work on Facebook or Twitter, where people can find me and interact with me if they want to. Where I’ve actually made some new friends because of things I’ve written.

I left a half-written email giving permission to use the headshot until nearly the last moment. I had conversations rehashing the anxiety I was feeling about saying “yes” again and again until I couldn’t wait anymore. I’d known from the beginning that I’d say yes. It just took some time to build up the nerve to actually say yes to it.

Two weeks later, the Lilith announcement was made. And a few days later, the 2 Rules announcement was released, too. I received nothing but love, praise and support. The Facebook comments were filled with good wishes and congratulations. People were telling me I deserved it.

And all I could think about was all of the ways I might let them down.

I’m doomscrolling through my own future here.

The First Workshop Approaches

The first workshop inched closer, day by day. My calendar filled with meetings and appointments months in the future, while I’m barely able to keep it together to make it through the first workshop. Every time I thought about it, I would feel nervous. Shaky. I’d break out in a cold sweat or feel queasy.

Under normal circumstances, I’m not a particularly vain person. But even after months of doing Zoom calls from rehab, I hate to actually look like I’m in rehab. I make sure to put on a decent shirt. I try to switch up my background whenever I can. Anything to make it look less like a hospital.

This Calls for… Lipstick!

But for this call I decided I needed to put on some makeup, too. Anything to improve my confidence right now. Of course I don’t have any makeup here in rehab. I do have access to various delivery options, and so for two weeks I browsed sites, filled carts, and didn’t purchase. . My favorite lipstick has been discontinued and I can’t go to the store to look at the colors. It doesn’t matter that I’ve known for years that you can find the right shade of nude lipstick for yourself by matching the lipstick to your nipples because that’s really hard to do on a computer screen. Anyway the point is not whether there was a workaround for my situation. The point is that I was so anxious about this whole experience that decision paralysis took over my ability to choose things I’ve been buying for decades.

And so I reached out for help. I texted my sister and asked her to choose some things for me. Her skin tone is similar enough to mine that I could count on her to choose. And for the first time, I was honest with her about just how paralyzing the anxiety was in this situation. I told her I was so nervous that I couldn’t even figure out what I needed.

But my sister, who runs a business of her own and has a family to take care of, took time out of her day to send a few things to me. Things that would make me feel better. “Text me a selfie,” she said. So I did, and a few hours later a bag arrived from Walgreens with a few things in it that would help me feel a little less like I’m in rehab, and a little more like just a regular person.

I appreciated the stuff. But the text message that she sent where she said, “You will do fine. You were accepted for a reason,” meant so much more.

The Day of the First Workshop

The day before the workshop I talked with Adam, as I do almost every day. I talked with my friend Kate, better known as The Lavender Librarian. Both of them assured me I’d be fine. I had trouble believing them. When I said good night to Adam I told him I’d talk to him in the morning before I got on Zoom.

Remarkably, I slept. I was sound asleep in fact, when the day shift staff came in, and I woke up to a CNA standing directly over me, thrusting a plastic bag at me.

Tianna, the CNA who is here with me four days a week, who knew what was happening held out the bag. “What is it?” I asked. 

“It’s for you. You can’t do this in a hospital gown.” And when Maria came in to see how I was doing, she asked what I was holding. “Una nueva camiseta,” I said. “Un regalo para mí de Tianna.” (A new t-shirt. A gift for me from Tianna.)
“¡Que bonita!” she said. The shirt was a lovely shade of turquoise, and I was absolutely stunned at the generosity. Suddenly I knew I had the support of people who have never read a word I’d written, but who care about me and want me to be successful.

We had a quick chat about the schedule for the day. Tianna promised me that she’d come in before the meeting in time to make sure I was ready. She promised to keep my door shut and to keep people out of my room while I was online. She even told me she would arrange to hold my lunch tray so that I could eat after the meeting instead of during the meeting.

I didn’t ask for any of this. It was pure generosity on her part. Because she believes in me.

I ate breakfast, I chatted with Kate again who, once again, provided reassurance that I’d be fine. She told me to call her if Adam wasn’t around in time.

Everyone is Supporting me! Oh God, that just Adds to the Pressure!

I felt the weight of everyone’s expectations on me. Not just mine, but my writing community, teachers and friends who have supported me. The CNAs here who were making special arrangements to help make things feel a little less clinical. Every person who had congratulated me on this achievement. Every person who reads my work. Along with my own.

I got dressed. Draped a shawl, a gift from a friend, over my shoulders. I put on the new makeup. My sister had done well choosing a shade of lipstick, too. I picked up the phone and called Adam and rambled at him for a few minutes about how anxious I was feeling. Told him that I knew that no one expected anything from me but to do my best and to learn some things. I talked nervously, with occasional reassurances from him. As the clock inched closer to when I had to login I said, “I just needed a pep talk.”

“You gave it to yourself,” he reminded me.

He was right. I’d gone from convincing myself I was an absolute failure, undeserving of this experience to at least believing that I could try it out.

I put my headphones on, logged into Zoom and sat through a workshop presented by Jessica Valoris on doodling as part of creative practice.

Finding my Place at the First Workshop

No one told me I couldn’t do it. No one told me I didn’t belong there. In fact, the opposite happened. The facilitator reminded us to be present and that there was no right way to do this. And so I have a page of doodles that are uniquely mine. Different from everyone else in the space, but just right for me. And when we were asked to create a short piece of writing–a letter, a poem, a narrative of some sort about the workshop, I wrote a letter to thank every one of the people who has helped me along on this journey.

Dear Everyone

I took you all with me into my workshop today–whether I carried your energy in the shawl from Zoe or your joy and love in the blouse and cap from the hospital staff or in my heart with the words of excitement and reassurance from my 2 Rules community who have been such a part of my life and which I am honored to call myself a part of and to lead. As I carried you there with me, my anxious thoughts were calmed by your presence, knowing that all you expect of me is to learn and to grow and to do my best. Your expectations weigh heavily on me but I will do my best to meet them and to follow the best writing advice ever, which comes from my 2 Rules co-founder: Tell the stories only you can tell in the way only you can tell them.

Thank you. 

I Survived

At the end of the workshop when I finally exhaled, I had done what I was supposed to. I’d done my best. I’d learned something. And I’d survived.

I’ve got to do it all again next month. And the month after that. And a bunch more times. Maybe it will get easier. Maybe it won’t. But I’ll keep showing up, and I’ll keep believing that I can. Because even when I forget it myself, when I’m paralyzed by my own fears, I’ve got a whole community of people behind me to remind me that I can.