Writing My Way Out from Hiding

The moment Kristin, my book coach, said, “Karen, it feels like you’re hiding on the page,” is one I’ll never forget.

I’d been writing that book for over three years.

At the time, it was a self-help book about the steps to come out from hiding. But Kristin was right. I was deeply absorbed in the exact thing that I was attempting to expose: Hiding. And now it was appearing in my writing as I was trying to circumnavigate, or spiritually bypass, my pain and trauma. I was looking for an easier way out.

It wasn’t working.

I began writing that “self-help” book in 2017, at a time when I fell apart. Or it might have been a breakdown. A shattering? Whatever. Call it what you will. It was a bottom, on hiding.

But it was now 2020 and I was committed. Writing was what I wanted to do. It was ALL I wanted to do. So, I took a leap, quit my job, and joined Literary Alchemy, a six-month online literary writing course. This course was composed of published authors and other amazing women, all beautiful writers, all of them writing incredibly inspiring books. I was terrified and immediately felt like a fifth grader in a graduate course.

To compensate for my lack of confidence (flailing), to fit in and not be seen, I engaged one of my fail-safe ways of hiding: humor. My humor can be a lot of fun—mostly for me—and today is mainly used as a form of levity, connection, and playfulness. But it is also a perfected coping skill and one of the ways that I hide when I’m nervous, disconnected, or scared. I learned at a young age how to banter and joke and dodge and weave through vulnerable moments with sarcasm (which is defensiveness and hiding) and jokes so, humor has saved me on more than one occasion. But not now. I was deflecting my fear and hiding was all over my page.

At the end of each month, the women in Literary Alchemy read a chapter of our pages to each other. For the first few months, I listened to beautiful, poignant, inspiring pieces, while I sat in my sweat and felt my heart pound out of my chest. I chose to read chapters laced with humor and wit, as they were safer and kept me above the surface. Above feeling. In control. I would disassociate and blow through the reading, barely taking a breath and praying that I would make it to the other end without crying or being exposed as a fraud. I then waited for feedback and heard sweet comments, such as, “You have great wit, Karen. I’m looking forward to the day when I can see and experience you in your writing.”

“Karen, it feels like you’re hiding on the page.”

I sat facing Kristin on my laptop screen that day and felt my body drop. My façade wasn’t working, and she saw right through it. Of course, she did. They all did. I was hovering over my story because I feared falling into it, afraid I wouldn’t find my way back out. I had been fighting and avoiding that for decades and was trying so hard to stay in control. It was time to surrender.

So, I opened up. I told Kristin what I couldn’t write. Though my tears—sobs—I told her one part of my life that I just knew I couldn’t write. Then I told her another. And another. Kristin sat and listened with compassion and empathy. And then she said, “Oh Karen, this is the story. You must write about this. Your story needs your voice.” I wasn’t so sure but as an author, she knows that this is simply how it goes. We go where the writing takes us.

I put the self-help book aside and began again by sitting and writing exactly what I didn’t want to write. It was hard. Hard doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was a personal excavation. My buried stories and stuck emotions fell onto the page, and I truly thought I was losing my mind. But once the truth started to come out, there was no going back.

When my shitty first draft—no, really, that’s what it’s called in The Literary World (which is kind of a scary place)—was complete, my book was a first-person memoir. I still couldn’t read it out loud, and those who got the ultimate pleasure of listening to me choke through my words are my heroes. But I continued and continually fell to pieces and, little by little, word by word, hidden parts became exposed. Set free. Each time a layer fell away, I found more ease. I was lighter. Just a bit, but a noticeable bit.

I’ve tackled some form of “hiding” each step along the way. Through my tears, with a red face and nose, a pounding heart, clammy skin, and constricted throat, I first shared my words with one of my closest friends. Then at the end of each month, I sat in my discomfort and kept trying to read to the women in my writing class. And, because it was a breakdown shattering bottom, I opened up about my deepest trauma and pain with a kind, patient, and intuitive therapist. The inner work began again each day when I sat and opened my laptop. It simply wouldn’t let me stop, so I just kept writing the book.

A few months later, an inexplicable miracle happened. With a calm voice and ease in my body, I read some of my most tender and painful chapters to the women in Literary Alchemy without completely losing my shit. For the first time I could see my journey as just that, my journey. Not something that still controlled me. Not something that was going to kill me or send me off the deep end. I think we were all surprised. I know I was. Within the writing came liberation because the stories I had been hiding from were no longer suppressed and hiding in my body. They were free and I felt like a different person. Lighter. Honest. Authentic. As free as I’ve ever been.

In April, I had a completed draft and shared the full manuscript with a few close friends, some who are a part of the book. This made me face my perfectionism—also hiding—and my insecurities. I won’t tell you that I haven’t crawled a bit out of my skin with much of this process, because it’s a very personal story and each step has been a deeper dive into vulnerability.

I’m currently swimming in the next scary part of this experience by sending query letters to agents who have never met me, nor I them. And I won’t lie, each “this isn’t a fit for me” feels like rejection. For a minute. Then I remember: My work, not me, isn’t a fit for them, which means that we aren’t a fit to work together. I know how hard it can be to say, “no,” and I appreciate their honesty. Then I smile, because I learned one critical lesson throughout this process: The only person who can reject me, is myself. Then I send out another query letter. And another. In my past, I would have retreated into hiding but today is not my past. Today I’m doing things differently.

I would encourage you to write, or draw, or create a poem, or a dance or a song, or maybe even a cotton-pickin’ jig, but to get in touch with the creative spark sitting in your soul. It will bring you out from hiding—and yes, we all hide. It will change you.

I don’t know if there has ever been a time in my life when I’ve felt more exposed and vulnerable. I also don’t believe there has ever been a time in my life when I’ve felt more courageous and real. Free to be and express exactly who I am.

Happier. So much happier. Because I’m no longer hiding.

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p.s. If you think you want to write a book that will become a different book than what you currently think, I totally recommend working with Kristin Kaye. She is pure gold with a huge heart. She is a game changer and I’m happy to share her with you. You can start by signing up for her six-month book writing course, Literary Alchemy, right here: https://kristinkaye.thinkific.com/courses/literary-alchemy

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