Help.
There's a word. One I hate using. Always have.
But.
Recently I had the opportunity to apply for a mastermind program for indie writers. I knew it would be good for me. I knew someone who was in the program just ending, who spoke highly of it.
But.
It's asking for help, right? Even paying for the membership is asking for help.
I don't do that well. Just ask my husband the stupid situations I get myself into because I don't like asking for help. Move furniture alone? Sure. So what if I can't stand up straight for 2 days? Transport 3 yards of mulch by myself? Absolutely - unless you insist on helping, and then I'll probably tell you that you're doing it wrong.
But it nagged me. I knew that this program - 12 writers at the same level, 12 months of intensive coaching, the kind of inspiration you only get from people who want the same thing as you, as badly as you - would work for me.
Fine. I applied. It was a more thorough application than any job I've ever had.
And then I got accepted.
For a moment, I thought about making an excuse - too busy, not enough money. Something.
Then I said, "Yes, thank you," and sent my payment. Because I do want to learn how to improve as an indie author, and I'm far more likely to do the work if I've paid for it.
But asking for help...it still hurts.
1 comment:
Congratulations on making that uncomfortable step, one you suspect will reap benefits for you. One day, you may be so glad you stepped out of your comfort zone.
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