Flappability

I am so relieved, now that I know. For the past week I’ve been sitting with not knowing, the roiling discomfort of it, the self-doubt and ache of wondering. But now I can breathe again. My editor likes my manuscript, more than likes it, was moved, and found the story resonant. And apparently I can write, because I still wonder sometimes. I am unburdened, motivated, ready to do more. And we will, my editor and I, in a few weeks. But at least I know.

The first of several interviews happened this week and I love pretending I am a journalist. I am speaking with a half dozen people who are key characters in this story, people I love and adore, people who inspire me. It’s quite possible I wouldn’t be able to do this, that I wouldn’t have thought to write a book, without their presence. I want to write them well, showcase who they are in a true and colorful way, which is why I am asking questions and writing their words, which will guide mine.

In the past, before I started this journey, I would often skip over the acknowledgements section when finishing a book. Now I study them, imagining how many pages I will devote to mine. I already have so many people to thank.

I’ve been thinking about the how the sheer act of doing this, writing a book, changes you. Here, Sam Kahn is describing a novel, but this is true for memoir too:

I’ve been spending the last couple of years learning how to write a novel — and, really, there’s nothing else like it. There’s a sense with a novel (and I think this goes for anything book-length) of starting an ocean voyage with no guarantee whatsoever that you will make it to the other side. To put it another way, you change so much over the course of writing a novel that the work captures not just who you are at a moment in time, but something about yourself as you move through time, which is to say that it gets at something really essential about you, what it is that stitches together the different components of yourself across that gulf. If that sounds mystical that’s because it is.

I don’t think I will be able to stop writing books after one. There is a magnetic, addictive element to it, and now I know the baseline ability is there - to sit and produce, refine, and then repeat. It’s not actually that difficult, the writing part, once you do it often enough. The feelings are the real challenge. The not knowing, the worry, the cycles of joy and doubt. In the manuscript, I explore the mental aspects of flying paragliders, how improving and progressing as a pilot is largely mental. Writing, I think, is similar. You need to be willing to sit with discomfort, to acknowledge what’s happening inside of you, to breathe and continue on.

There are now three concepts for future books, they all require serious research, and two might involve me ghostwriting. I am in love with the idea of helping shepherd someone’s book into existence, and of course I wouldn’t offer to do this for just anyone. Maybe one day this is how I will spend some of my working days - building stories that don’t belong to me, helping people I admire turn them into publishable work. My intuition tells me I can do this, that I’m organized and determined enough. I suppose we will see how things go with my book, but the thought of doing more, working with others, will not leave my mind.

The title for this first book will most likely be Unflappable, but know that Life is Short, Learn to Fly will not go to waste. A lovely designer and friend sketched a concept where those words are featured on the back cover, telling the reader in no uncertain terms: this is the message of the book. I like being straightforward with people, so it fits. Hopefully, by month’s end, there will be a mock-up ready to share.

It’s lovely to know, to feel confident and assured, but I expect there will be more challenging moments ahead as we dive into the editorial process, where the manuscript will change, and I will too. I feel fortunate to be doing this, grateful that I can, just as I’m grateful to fly. It’s improbable and beautiful, but also difficult in ways you cannot know until you start trying.