Cheryl Strayed, Two Hearts Beating in One Chest
I haven’t shared a remarkable voice or spoken about creativity in a while, so today I’m sharing the remarkable creative voice that is Cheryl Strayed.
She is best known as the author of “Wild” (Amazon, IndieBound), the story of her solo hike of the Pacific Crest Trail, which became a hit movie and earned Reese Witherspoon an Academy Award nomination. However, my favorite book of hers is “Tiny Beautiful Things” (Amazon, IndieBound), a collection of (indeed) beautifully written, heartstring-pulling advice columns. Under the guise of answering people’s letters, she writes about the universal struggles we all face, from dating to addiction to creativity to loss and everything in between.
In one of my favorite chapters, she speaks about her own journey to becoming a published author. She has been writing since college, yet only completed her first book at 35. She realized not only that the roundabout path she walked was exactly right for her, but also that the book materialized when she dropped all expectations of what it should be and just gave it her all. A reminder to those of us who hesitate to start since we put too much pressure on what we create—or think it’s too late.
“I’d finally reached a point where the prospect of not writing a book was more awful than the one of writing a book that sucked.
…
When I was done writing it, I understood that things happened just as they were meant to. That I couldn’t have written my book before I did. I simply wasn’t capable of doing so, either as a writer or a person. To get to the point I had to get to to write my first book, I had to do everything I did in my twenties. I had to write a lot of sentences that never turned into anything and stories that never miraculously formed a novel. I had to read voraciously and compose exhaustive entries in my journals. I had to waste time and grieve my mother and come to terms with my childhood and have stupid and sweet and scandalous sexual relationships and grow up.
…
I didn’t know if people would think my book was good or bad or horrible or beautiful and I didn’t care. I only knew I no longer had two hearts beating in my chest. I’d pulled one out with my own bare hands. I’d suffered. I’d given it everything I had.
I’d finally been able to give it because I’d let go of all the grandiose ideas I’d once had about myself and my writing—so talented! so young! I’d stopped being grandiose. I’d lowered myself to the notion that the absolute only thing that mattered was getting that extra beating heart out of my chest. Which meant I had to write my book. My very possibly mediocre book. My very possibly never-going-to-be-published book.
...
It was only then, when I humbly surrendered, that I was able to do the work I needed to do.”
Is there an extra heart beating in your own chest that you need to start pulling out?
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