Mental and emotional patterns fly up the minute you say “That’s it, I’m meant to write this book and I’m finishing it, no matter what.”

Thats when your ancient lizard brain, never missing a beat, or an opportunity to shut change down, pipes in to say, “oh hell no you ain’t, Missy.”

Every writer has to face this down, most intensely with their first book, just like I did when mine hit Amazon in 2017. 

That unstoppable, roaring fire and decision I made in that “no matter what” declarative moment, turned into a smothering glow, and then ash, in a second.

I slammed my laptop shut and started cleaning my toilets, instead of writing my guts out, which is what it always takes to pay proper homage to the inspiration inside. 

Suddenly, I had no qualms whatsoever with abandonment. With me being an abandoner—even though I had been telling women to stop abandoning themselves, and their true nature, for over a decade online. I had built an entire business out of it!

Faced with the screeching, wounded parts in myself that needed urgent attention and healing, I was fully and completely on board with abandoning my own true self. 

Fear was winning, at least in that moment. 

I didn’t realize what was happening, I didn’t even know I was doing it, nor what to do with those parts, despite having years of healing experience and intellectual mastery over inner child work and trauma responses, I just did not know!!! 

I couldn’t calm down enough to tune into what was really going on, not even for a second, because it felt like a life or death decision:


Such is the way when that darned lizard brain takes over. Giving us black or white choices, nothing in between. Forgetting that run-or-die is for mammoths, not completing the very books that represent our fullest soul expression in this one short life we’ve got to live. 

It’s like everything I had learned and knew deep in my bones, from both study and decades of experience, were gone. Like they  never even existed.

Fear took over, and I was like, “life-purpose, who? Where? When? What now?”

I was being absorbed by it. The fear, and if I’m honest, sheer terror of just writing the damn book I was always meant to write.

Fear was easier.

The ol’ shut down and Netflix and hide. 

Eat too, if there was anything tasty enough, and numbing enough to forget the mammoth moment I *almost* had to, but never really did quite face, not before I hit publish on Amazon.

*Almost* facing it was good enough for me, for a long time... until ... a moment threatened to turn into a string of moments, days, weeks, months, years, decades—maybe my entire life.

I remembered periods in the past, taking quick photos for my imaginary book cover, in my car, between unnecessary errands and busy-making tasks I generated to keep me from writing. 

Every one of those photos ended up in the trash because they showed way too much self-betrayal. Tired eyes. Limp hair worthy of using third person pronouns, because it didn’t feel like my own. That entire body I was supposed to call my own, showing in those photos just how much the soul had been drained right out of it. 

Just like those toilets kept me from writing and being present with the real business of tuning into my book, so I could feel and connect with it, then produce a book cover that really represented the soul of the thing.

My soul. My life. The guts of this one true life, that I deep down wanted to dedicate to something meaningful, a legacy, not a basic, run-of-the-mill “existence” that I needed to put into quotations because can we even really truly call that LIVING A LIFE?

Or is this really just a tired, misaligned selfie in my car from the Walmart parking lot? 

That’s all I could afford, after all, not living my best life. 

Not being my best self at all.

Like at all.

Presence doesn’t work that way.

Neither does true art.

So the visions of a possible future me, the horribly misaligned me kept rolling in....attempting to finally get it, finally stop it, finally let go altogether of a life I didn’t want anyway.

Visions of me taking selfies during breaks at jobs that drained the mother fucking life outta me because I wasn’t writing my book. 

Fake smile. Stealing time. Giving my real self a toilet-caliber scrap of time from the life that wasn’t even mine. 


All just to avoid facing down the real true me? Loving her? Giving her exactly what she needs by sitting down to breathe and move my pen across that page?

Sometimes all it takes is to stare the thing down. The fear. The terror. See it for what it truly is.

Something to step over and move past because nothing is worth sacrificing my divined destiny for.


Because im just not about that life - what is now popularly being called The Basic Bitch Life - it’s just not who I am.

It’s not who you are either

And if you stay stuck in that place longer than a minute, well now its not just a fear blip taking up 30 seconds of your day, now is it?

It’s your entire fucking life.

The years go by, the decades go by, still no book.

You wake up in a third person pronoun life  (even though you’re describing yourself) having no idea what just happened. 

Where did YOU GO? The real you? The one who was always meant to be living your REAL LIFE?

You’ve been dedicating your life to the wrong thing.

Now it’s time to make what may be the biggest u-turn of your life.

Turn the car around now.

Do the math on how many free hours you actually have during the day, see what you’re dedicating them to, and therefore why your book really isn’t getting done, so that you even have a chance to get your foot pushing that gas pedal, without you even trying. As if you’re on cruise control, but in the right life. The one that was meant for you.

Because when you’re present you face the shit, you look it in the eye, you feel the fear and STILL say yes to you and the life you’re meant to be living, all your moving parts get on board and move for you.

It’s easier, it’s flow, like being with a baby ... or watching a group of deer...or a Queen-of-the-Forest mountain lion, taking care of what she’s meant to be taking care of, with her FULL gorgeous beautiful fucking self, totally present, every where her paw steps, every moment, of every day—it’s unstoppable.

Is it even a question anymore: what will you choose?



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PS. My UNSTOPPABLE Online Writer’s Group just opened August 1st. I’m guiding  a select group of soul-led writers who are unwilling to step into 2020 without a finished book. We meet online weekly for a minimum of three months (or more if you want) - message me here if this is calling you and I’ll send you all the deets.

Gina Silvestri