do it scared
How spontaneity, delusion and 'doing it scared' got me the writing group of my dreams
Two years ago on a random Saturday in March, I found myself in Rhode Island shuffling nervously on the doorstep of a stranger’s house, wondering if I was insane to accept an invitation from someone I met on instagram to write with her and two of her friends.
It was, in retrospect, a little insane of me to show up at all. We had shared only a few messages about our respective books over instagram after one of her reels landed on my discover page. A montage of videos from a coastal writing retreat her and a few other writers went on. The beach was local. Naturally, I reached out and said I lived nearby. The idea of a beach writing trip seemed like a dream born straight out of my gloomy-Sylvia-Plath-coastal-new-englander-writer aspirations. I wanted a life of writing retreats and writing friends very badly. Sure, you can gush to anyone about finding the perfect verb, but only a fellow writer will get it. Only a fellow writer will will hold your hand and tell you that your self-indulgent plot point isn’t enough to propel your story forward.
I wanted critic level honesty, I wanted to dissect the bones of my favorite books, I wanted my story to be nurtured by discernment of fellow writers.
I wanted a writing community, so there I stood, on a stranger’s doorstep, scared but determined.
If there is one, painfully apparent and paramount thing I’ve learned over years of pursuing my writing dreams, it is this:
Anything worth doing in pursuit of a dream is inevitably going to scare the crap out of you. And if you want it all, the mess, the glory, the triumph, you’re going to have to do it scared.
This was not the first attempt at finding my perfect writing group. On reflection meeting someone on instagram was marginally less insane than my previous attempt.
Only a few months before this, I found myself in Dublin, Ireland on a winter writing retreat with a ten strangers. It is important to understand that I booked this in the midst of one of my many, spectacular mental break downs of that year and was now faced with the prospect I had made a massive error in judgement (At least, being a romantic at heart, something about being miserable and freezing in Dublin sounded scores better than being miserable in the US).
Ten days with ten strangers. We all hailed from the east coast (one from Canada), but that was where our similarities ended. We ranged drastically from age to the genres we were writing. Most of them were far older than me. They were writing more ‘serious’ works. Memoirs. Literary fiction. Poetry about important things: world events, famines, genocides.
None of them were writing fantasy.
I didn’t know what to expect. Before then, I never traveled solo (let alone, to another country, with strangers averaging 15-20 years my senior), never let anyone read my WIP, never allowed myself to think I could be a truly serious writer who did things like go on writing retreats. The first day I showed up to that tiny victorian-garbed room in Trinity College I was certain my ego would wither and die the moment I was asked to share what I was working on. But I came ready for judgment, and with a back up itinerary in case the trip went south (scared but prepared)!
In the end, my work was well received. I spent a week on Trinity’s campus talking about Dubliners by James Joyce, debating on essays by Edna O’Brien, brainstorming and critiquing for my new friends’ pieces. I was still so new to the industry of writing and publish, I was enthralled by my colleagues’ ability to critique and give feedback. I soaked up everything I could from their experience, and never once did they pass judgement on my lack thereof. We saw plays at the Abbey, danced away at The George and went to Howth on a day trip.
It was joyous, an intellectual heaven, I felt like I’d waltzed into a literary expatriate fairytale worthy of Hemingway and Fitzgerald.
That’s the thing about doing things scared. It pays off. Do it once, and a world of possibility opens up for you.
But I wanted that feeling forever, I wanted it to continue long after I returned to Connecticut.
And so I was on a stranger’s doorstep.
Not knowing I was about to get everything I dreamed of for myself.
An international group of bright, talented fantasy writers. Friends to brainstorm with, lament with, celebrate with. Thoughtful, wonderful people I would travel to different states, different countries with. Who loved the art of writing, who were gritty and determined and disciplined in pursuit of their own dreams. Dreams that inspire my own and hold me accountable yet grounded.
These people mean the world to me now. There is no question, I am a better writer because of them. What we have, what we created is so beyond anything I could have hoped for.
All because I did the scary thing and clicked comment on a stranger’s instagram reel. All because she took a chance and invited a stranger to write with her and her friends.
All because I said yes to doing it scared.
Chaotically and whimsically yours,
Gianna