I have to give myself some credit, for I have learned some anxiety management skills over the last few years. There is a time in the not-so-distant past in which consistently being asked about the most daunting task hanging over my head would probably found me freaking out on a somewhat regular basis. Even if I’d managed to keep my feelings private, they’d be turning me upside down internally.
Instead, I am quite used to being asked, “How’s the book coming” and managing not to spiral out at the bad thoughts that can easily pop in my head–What if I don’t make my deadline? What if it’s terrible? What if I don’t have anything worth saying to say?-- when I think about the fact that the book is still very much in-process. I respond with the truth: It’s coming along fine.
I think it is. I was terribly blocked for two months–the time period in which I intended to have started the book–and getting into a constant flow of steady writing after years of writing inconsistently was a challenge as well. As my professional career blossomed years ago, I went from being a prolific writer to an occasional one. I accepted assignments that were given to me (and racked up some cute bylines, mmkay?), but I hadn’t pitched anything in years when I came to Vanity Fair with the Chappelle essay last winter. (I’ve grappled with this here before.)
Now, writing is not something I can do when the spirit hits or simply when I get a great opportunity. It is a central part of my life. This book is something I have to attend to with the sort of care one would give an undertaking that could define the trajectory of one’s life, no pressure.
I am tasked with the challenge of kicking my shit at length. I’ve talked a big game in the form of short bursts of thought on social media, lifetimes-ago blog posts, and many articles, speeches, and media appearances. But what I am doing here is so much larger. It is all my theories and petitions at once (okay, maybe not all of them), and I better not let any single poorly constructed/articulated thought sink the rest of them because you know how easy it is for us to dismiss a Black woman based on even minor shortcomings and failures. No pressure.
It is worth mentioning that there is surprisingly (or not) little writing by Black women about single motherhood, so I do not take the opportunity to center our experiences. We do not have a universal trajectory or worldview, but the open hostility towards our identity as single Black mothers is but one of our commonalities. And as common as we may be ourselves, there’s still little public consideration of our side of the story. What an honor and daunting-ass challenge to be in a position to further our voices in the public dialogue.
One great thing is that I find inspiration wherever I go. I am constantly jotting down ideas and actual text–during dates, while driving, as I grocery shop. The book is always being written.
I’ve also truly immersed myself in the research process. I am excited about all of the great books I am citing (most of them by Black woman authors, though there are a good number of brothers in the mix as well.) I’d like to shout them out now, but that would kind of ruin the big reveal, right?
Whenever I think about pitching a story, I find a way to incorporate what I was thinking about into my book. The book is the baby that needs me most right now. I don’t plan to go much longer without doing other writing (aside from my weekly parenting column), but it’s been hard to pull myself away from the book. I’ve started a few pieces for this newsletter, but they’ve been folded into the book.
The book is coming along fine, but I am still somewhat shook about it. Do you know how big a book is? It is very big. And it is filled with blank empty pages until you fill them up, all by yourself. Is that not terrifying?
My therapist is surprised that I am not more confident about my writing. It’s not that I don’t think I can do great work. It’s just that this particular work means so much to me, which is also connected to the fact that I am using parts of my own story throughout the book. It’s not a straight-up memoir but it documents significant events from my life, for public consumption, served alongside feminist theory and cultural criticism. If I fail, I fail myself. I fail my history.
Of course I won’t fail, and won’t even entertain failure because I’m now one of those manifesting broads who tries not to turn fate against her by obsessing over negative outcomes before they happen. The book is going to be great. I’m going to love it, you’re going to love it. Everyone’s gonna be like, “Oh my God, why have we been treating Black women and girls like crap all this time, they’re amazing!” Kinda like they have been for the last few years, but this time, they’ll mean it. Black women will take to the street to burn copies of the Moyhihan Report, “Brand New Day” from The Wiz will play, it’s gonna be great. No pressure.