I picked up my book again. The one that’s already published. Yes, again. Among my comedy of errors in the world of first-time publishing, I made the mistake of looking at the final draft of my book before it was a even back from the printer (I know!). So by the time the glossy, printed version was in my hands, I already knew there were errors, exactly where they were, and I flogged myself for each of them over and over. I did this for several months after the success of the book wore off. I kept going back to it and re-writing sections. Then I spent a bunch of time asking people if it was worth it to go back and rework, or if I should just let it be the jagged edge that I rub up against forever. I let it sit for a year and wrote other things. It’s been five years now since I wrote it, and I’ve forgotten most of the words. I could almost read it as if it was someone else’s.
In the time since I put it down, I didn’t work on my own stuff. I was tired of it and needed to work on someone else’s projects for a while. I worked on a human trafficking project for a photojournalist, I worked on an international photo project for some photographers, I made other people’s websites and graphics. I wrote other people’s newsletters. Some of it was really great, inspiring, and moved me forward. Some of it was time filler. Some of it- the most important parts – served to remind me that I have my own story to tell. So I am back at my own story, which apparently begins at remembering the story I already told. The recipe also includes remembering what I learned, telling other people’s stories, and new experiences.
Oh, and photographs. My own photographs. I ran across this one the other day. It’s a start.