First, if you were along for the ride last month as I opened the doors to the Write Your Book course, thanks for coming along!
Whether you joined us in this class or not, I hope you were inspired to write your book. In a world that seems more complicated every day, the best way to understand others is to hear their stories.
I believe books are teeny, tiny empathy machines. They endlessly generate empathy for their characters, real or fictional, and give insights into others' experiences and how they impact the world.
And god, does this world need empathy. We need to understand each other if we're ever going to improve anything.
That's why stories matter. It's why YOUR story matters.
And as a thank you…
For coming along for the ride with me over the last month, I want to share one of MY stories with you.
It’s a tad more personal than I usually get here. It’s about the time I almost died.
(I know… could I BE any more dramatic!)
I hope this entertains and inspires you. Scroll down for the juicy story.
Feeling brave?
If you want to be brave and share some of your writing with me, I would be delighted. Click here to email me and send something along. It would be my honor to read some of your words.
Stand Up by Liz Green
You can’t see my clenched fists in the photo. They’re hidden beneath the waist-high water of the glistening, emerald pool in which I’m sitting, surrounded by the lush jungle trees. I’m smiling at the camera, looking young and carefree with my tousled wet hair and tanned skin dappled with water drops. Everyone says what a great picture it is—I seem so happy and content. But when I look into my eyes, I see the panic. I feel the fear.
I’d always said I was afraid of water, but the discussion was academic before that day. I knew the sea was powerful. I understood accidents could happen even in a bathtub. But real fear isn’t in the brain. It happens in the churn of your stomach and the shift of your insides. It’s the tingle of your fingertips. It’s a deep sensation that makes your back sweat and your chest tighten as you stumble and flail, unable to think straight.
I felt all that in the water, while my friend said, “Smile!” and snapped a quick pic. She wanted to commemorate the experience because that wasn’t my first time in the pool. This was getting back in the water moments after I nearly drowned.
I shouldn’t have swum so close to the waterfall. I wasn’t a good swimmer—I shouldn’t have been anywhere near there. I didn’t realize my mistake until I was already under, spun around and around, so I couldn’t tell which way to kick, panicked and alone and desperate. Bubbles surrounded me, all pierced by shimmery sunlight. They were all I could see. I writhed and squirmed and tried to find the surface. Finally, when my body stopped kicking and my brain relaxed, it was peaceful down there in those beautiful bubbles. It was bright. There was a light.
When Tammy pulled me back up, I gasped and gulped down breaths. The air was loud with screams and cries. Hands bundled towels around me. Arms wrapped me tight. I shook. I felt like I’d been in another world and abruptly spat out. I looked around, indignant that the trees still stood, my friends still talked, and the river still ran as if nothing had happened. Someone gently guided me to the ground. I sat on the pool’s edge, pressed my palms into the sand, and stared at the water as my friends relived their stories of watching me drown. In detail, they described their fear and their fright. Tammy sat next to me, sharing my towel. She didn’t talk. We stared at the water together.
When our other friends were bored, we packed our things, pulled T-shirts over our swimsuits, and walked uphill, following the stream through the trees. We came to another pool—this one filled with a gentle trickle, no waterfalls in sight. The group stripped off and splashed in, spraying each other and diving into the water’s depths. Tammy and I sat on the shore.
I watched the group play in the pool and knew I wouldn’t go back in. Not today, perhaps not ever. I didn’t need to splash in jungle streams, or snorkel and surf in the ocean. I could have a good time, I thought, enjoying beach barbecues and volleyball games.
Tammy stood up, squared her shoulders, and walked straight into the pool. It was okay for her. She was a trained lifeguard. She was used to getting back in the water. I sat alone and watched my friends having fun. And I thought about the life ahead of me.
I imagined what else I’d avoid to stay safe. I contemplated a world of pulling back, hesitating, trying to tamp down the panic. I thought about saying no and staying onshore as my friends sailed off without me. It would be a smaller life—quieter, with less color. But who needs water to live well? I could have a limited life and live wonderfully. It would be okay. It seemed safe. And sad.
In my world, water was community. It was barbecues on boats, group snorkeling adventures, and teaching each other to surf. It was jungle hikes and discovering waterfalls, doing cannonballs and belly flops, and relaxing and laughing until conversations turned deep, honest, and memorable. Without water, I’d lose connection. I’d live without living.
As I watched my friends play and talk, their conversations just out of earshot, I was swallowed by sadness. And the sadness made me realize the truth: Avoidance isn’t a smart strategy; it’s just fear. What else would fear steal from me? How quickly would it become habit to avoid anything interesting in the name of self-preservation? I had a vague sense that fear was insidious—that it crept over you like fog rolling down hills. I was sure that once fear settled, it smothered the life beneath it. I stood up.
I clenched my fists and stepped forward. The water lapped at my toes, reaching out to touch them, then pulling back as if beckoning me in. Someone called my name and whooped. I gave them a tight smile and looked down, concentrating on the water five feet ahead. That was my destination: five feet and a future without fear.
I stepped in. The water was cool, but I felt suddenly clammy. I took another step and a deep breath. I shook my hands loose and stepped forward again. I plunged down and sat on the pebbled pool floor, the water now waist-high, tickling my tummy. I clenched my fists again and tried to breathe.
“Smile!” said a girl, crouching in front of me with a camera. She clicked a picture and skipped away. I forced myself to stay there. I sat rigid, desperately hoping my friends wouldn’t splash me. I breathed in. I breathed out. I stayed there.
I made it five feet, but I didn’t lose my fear. A decade later, I still panic around water. My stomach squirms, and I go clammy. But I get in. Every summer, I strap on a life jacket, yank the straps tight, and inch my way into the lake. I sit still for a few moments, then jump out, sweaty and panicky and proud.
I am proud because this is me. I am a person who faces her fear. Perhaps I don’t overcome it. I imagine I never will. But I get in the water anyway. I refuse to let fear interfere. My bravado is inevitably short-lived, but I don’t need long to remember that this is who I want to be.
And this is why that picture is on my wall. To visitors, it looks like an exotic vacation snap. But for me? I see the panic in my eyes, and I’m proud. I remind myself of the undeniable truth: No matter what tries to pull me down, I can stand up. I can get back in the water. Even as I feel the fear, I can take that step.
Thanks,
Liz “Let’s Get Personal” Green
Editor, Book Coach, and Ghostwriter
Green Goose Writing
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