Getting Stuck, Getting Back, and Going Together

The energy of perfectionism and asking for help.

Hello good people, 

It’s been a long while since we saw each other here, and as September feels like the proper start to the year, it’s a good time for an update. Last fall, while my book was at the editor’s for several months, I held workshops, teachings, and a retreat around end-of-life care. Many of these moved a little more deeply from the head space to the heart and body space. From a weekend retreat where fifteen people gathered in a gorgeous house on the shores of the Salish Sea, to a classroom on Tuesday evenings as the sun set earlier and earlier, to putting hands to building a community casket, many people came together to talk about death in a way that is neither sensationalized nor stigmatized—but as a hard, beautiful, spiritual, and practical part of life.

I also returned to hospice work, supporting skilled and open-hearted volunteers to accompany people who are living with a life-limiting diagnosis, are caregiving, or who are grieving. After being spiritually initiated into end-of-life care during my time with cancer, hospice is where I found my first footing professionally. It feels good and right to be back in that space at this time in my life, and I'm humbled and grateful to be welcomed there.

Then winter arrived, and I craved time to gently step back and allow solitude to rebalance all that extraverted energy. If you’re an introvert like me, you’ll understand the necessity of time alone to nourish and fuel the rest of life. 

In early January, my book came back from the editor. As most of you know, I have been writing about community deathcare through the story of my friend Mary Morgan, who adamantly believed that ordinary folks have the ability to support one another through aging, illness, and death. While Mary was alive, I helped her to coordinate communicating with her wide network of “loverlies.” Her friends from around the world would contact me to be added to Lotsa Helping Hands, the website she used to send out updates about her health. One of Mary’s friends, Barbara Pulling, got in touch to be added, and I saw in her email signature that she was a seasoned editor. I tucked this knowledge away. 

Two years later, when I began writing Mary’s book (I’ve always thought of the story as “Mary’s book”) this tidbit surfaced and stayed throughout the writing. I knew I would contact Barbara at some point. A year into the project, I emailed her and asked if she would consider editing the manuscript. She agreed, and I expected to have a draft within four to six months. As with most of my self-determined deadlines, that one passed, and it was a full year after first contacting her that I finally gave Barbara the manuscript to read. I am grateful for her patience. I felt strongly that the connection with Barbara was a gift from Mary and that she was the right person for the project.

So when Barbara returned the book last January with her feedback, I knew it was in the best shape possible. I began the next stage needed to birth this story—creating a submission package to circulate to agents and publishers. When labouring to birth something—whether a small human or a creative work—there are different stages, challenges, and energy required. Anything you do for the first time is generally the hardest, and for me, this stage was absolutely the most difficult. The package basically markets your work in order to try and get it published. Along with an author bio and letter of introduction, the package generally contains a synopsis, (one to three pages,) a summary (one to three paragraphs) and a “hook,” one to three sentences to capture a reader’s attention. I began by attending workshops and listening to podcasts by agents and publishers, all who seemed to reiterate how difficult it is to get published and the necessity of writing something that is at once catchy, concise, and polished—something overall extraordinary that will elevate your work above the proverbial slush pile of thousands of other manuscripts. In other words, creating something perfect. There is no word more paralyzing than perfect. 

After more than two years of writing and 80,000 words to create a book, drafting five pages about the book was far more excruciating. I know short-form writing is not my forte. Once, my Grade 10 Geography teacher commented that the language I used in my essay was superfluous (“extravagant, unnecessary”), and I do struggle with getting to the heart of the matter quickly. But I’ve always relished the space that long-form writing affords to allow my thoughts to slowly lead me where I’m going. 

Day after day, trying to get out those five or so pages, I was confronted with the roadblock of my own perfectionism, which almost always leads to feelings of inadequacy. In the process, there was no flow or inspiration. Everything I wrote felt constricted and forced. I felt far from my centre of being, which is the house of my voice. The words in my package were polished, but artificial. I began to despair that I’d never get it right. Still, over several months, I persisted. 

What changed—what broke it open again—was choosing the voices I listened to. Although reading about the process of creating a submission package helped in some ways, I allowed those voices to take over so much space in me that I could no longer hear my own. I was driven by a scarcity mindset that relentlessly states there’s never enough—agents, publishers, time, creativity, opportunity, yadda yadda yadda… Who can create anything worthwhile listening to that? 

I began asking the wise people in my life—who know me and know my work—for their help. Their feedback was like an echo, reflecting my voice back to me. They helped me to get unstuck and to get some flow back. It took work and patience, and it still wasn’t exactly what I hoped. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. And next time, it’ll be easier. I’ll have learned more and have more skills. The time after that, it’ll be even better. It’s a process. 

Where are you in process? What do you need to finish well? More time? More training? Or to step away, rest, and reground yourself in the house of your voice? Are there people who know you well that you can call in to help?

Inspiration comes and goes. For me, writing a moment to moment re-dedication of myself to the highest vision I have for my life. That takes time and patience and trust and a good dose of daily work. And, whether it's workshops, hospice work, or writing, more than anything it takes the good companionship of other people. Just like Mary taught.

P.S. I'll soon share the outcome of the submission package. Stay tuned!