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I began the long journey of writing a book last month (yes, I’m finally doing it!). I ate a frozen chicken biryani for dinner. Nothing fancy, just one of those microwave meals I picked up for convenience. The rice was spiced and golden, clinging to the inside of the tray from being microwaved to oblivion. I ate it slowly, alone, in the quiet of a borrowed house I’d retreated to for three days. It took a great deal of strategery for me to carve out these days just to get this thing started. This was a sacred space, an artist residency, if you will, for one reason: to write.
And I am so comfortable.
The house is an old one, but decorated with a modern, thoughtful touch. It felt like it had been waiting for little ol’ me to fire up creativity. Every amenity I could think of had been considered. My host stocked the kitchen with snacks and left a bottle of wine on the counter with the sweetest welcome note and a beautifully scented candle that I immediately lit to make the whole place smell calm. I even found a copy of Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus tucked between a book about war and courage and Neil deGrasse Tyson’s Death by Black Hole on the dining room shelf. Delta of Venus! It’s as if the house was whispering, “Go ahead, be brave and sensual and raw and all the things you’ve been afraid to be.”
The bed is plush with more pillows than a Serena & Lily ad. You know – the one where the bedding looks like a cloud and you question your entire life every time it pops up on Instagram. I immediately fell in love. I intentionally chose the darkest room in the house with the least natural light. Darkness has always comforted me. Maybe it’s because it’s a place where I don’t have to be seen. It provides a space to hide, to disappear, to feel safe. This abode has become my sanctuary and creative womb for the next few days…a gracious gift I would use to begin creating something deeply personal. And I wish I didn’t ever have to leave. I feel grounded. Held. Ready.
The Biryani Dream
As I slept, an Indian family moved into the house in the middle of the night – not symbolically, but literally. They were just there. Why were they Indian? I chalk that up to the biryani from the night before. I don’t think my dream was laced with racism. Rather, I thought, Maybe the Indian family might have just been an unfamiliar identity for me.
When I woke, their teenage kids were sprawled across the living room couch and floor surrounded by food wrappers and trash. They’d eaten all of my food, smoked my cigarettes (I don’t even smoke anymore), and taken over the kitchen. The quiet and solitude I had so carefully gathered had been ruined. I felt completely violated. It was as if my space and purpose for being here no longer belonged to me. I can’t help but wonder what all of this meant.
Let’s see . . . they took my fucking food (my nourishment), my cigarettes (my rituals), and left trash behind (waste). I felt my right to take up space, create, dig in, and tell a story was taken away. And the trash they left behind? What if that symbolized emotional debris? I’ve certainly had my share of cleaning up that debris when others consumed parts of me that they didn’t appreciate. Am I still triggered much?
The dream continues . . .
When I told my host what happened, she didn’t even flinch. “They’re supposed to be here,” she said. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” Like, what the HELL? In reality, I could never see her react in this way. Was it even her, or was this my own fear making me obsess about rejection subconsciously? If I tell my truth, will people dismiss me or say that I don’t belong?
And there it was – that gut punch of injustice. That old familiar feeling of being asked to shrink or disappear altogether. My inner voice of fear telling me that my discomfort doesn’t matter and neither does my story. Pshhhhh!
I woke up in a cold sweat with my heart racing. It had nothing to do with last night’s biryani, but everything to do with the realization that writing this book terrifies me! It’s a crippling fear to truly believe and shout from the top of my lungs that I belong somewhere, especially when I’ve spent most of my life hiding in dark corners (or bedrooms) where no one could see me bleed.
This fucking dream…
After I got out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and shot-gunned coffee in an attempt to calm my damn nerves and self-doubt, I looked up from where I stood and had a lightbulb moment. I am allowed to write this book! It’s too big to stay quiet. And it’s time.
I thought, This dream isn’t sabotaging me. It’s showing me what I’m up against: fears that no one cares what I have to share and that I’ll make myself vulnerable by telling my truths only to have people turn their backs on me.
Not this time. Screw that.
I will write anyway . . . even if the room gets crowded, even if someone tries to take the wine, the candle, and the quiet away. And the darkness? It’s all mine, baby. And for the first time, I won’t be using it to disappear. I’m going to use it to begin.
Someone once told me, “If you mention it, it’ll never happen.” As if sharing my dream to start this project out loud would somehow chase it off. But I’m done whispering. This book might take years. It might come out ragged, full of starts and stops, but it’s happening. For me. For my kids. And for anyone else still living in the shadows of generational trauma, wondering if they’re allowed to take up space.
And through the silence, the hiding, the healing, there’s been food. Not as a crutch or a coping mechanism, but as a quiet, steady close friend. It’s the very thing that encompasses who I am. This book won’t just be a memoir. It will be a love letter to the meals that carried and healed me on the road back to life. Every memory. Every recipe. One plate at a time.
I want to read this book of yours, no matter how long it takes, you to write it, I will read it! You have a lot to say and you are authentic. I can only hope to be like that before I leave this earth!