Why I Told No One That I’ve Been Writing a Memoir For The Past 8 Years

If you asked me what I’ve been doing for the past eight years of my life, I intentionally skipped the part about writing my book. Instead, I told you something interesting. I traveled somewhere. I married someone.

I wanted to tell you about my book. I really did. About how it excitedly kept me up at night…about how, at times, I cried when I finally nailed a passage.

I didn’t want to talk to you about it, though, because aside from those moments, it’s been brutal. If I’d chosen to be honest with you and not tell you about my trip to Croatia or marriage to Ben, then I would have had to tell you how discouraging the writing process has felt. About how hard it’s really been.

The most discouraging thing about writing my memoir for the past eight years wasn’t the time spent writing it; it was editing it. It was saying goodbye to those vivid vignettes; that perfectly-paced dialogue. This isn’t a revelation by any means–the literary Gods have been encouraging writers to delete their work for 100 years. But “kill your darlings” doesn’t really mean anything until they are your darlings and you’re the one drowning them.

I felt it in me. The book. I always had a book in me. As someone that has always appeared calm on the outside, while internally choking on my panic on the inside, I knew that my story was just absurd enough that it deserved a page. Or 263.

But the hardest part wasn’t reliving my battle with anxiety–that moment when I first learned that there was something “wrong” with me. It was writing about it, and then deciding that a painful memory wasn’t worthy of being read. I had to stop being writer; stop being editor; and become my own friend. I understand that moment was hard for you, Rebecca, but it’s simply not relevant. Say goodbye to it, Rebecca. Then I’d hold Rebecca’s hand and, together, we’d highlight and delete, reminding ourselves to breathe but, still, not breathing.

Today, I’m publishing Stop, Drop, and Panic…and Other Things Mom Taught Me on my own, because it’s a book, and that’s what you do with books. You teach them everything you know, you edit them for six, seven, or even eight years, then you hit publish and send them out blindly into the world to be indulgently consumed, or painfully ignored and stacked next to a bed organized by color.

So if you know anyone that’s ever had a panic attack, experienced co-dependency, or had a blind homeless man shove their hand into your friend’s mouth while riding the New York City subway, then you’ll connect with Stop, Drop, and Panic.

I hope you’ll read it.