I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

I was in prison, throwing chicken scratch handwriting into one of those black and white journals I used in high school.

You know, the ones, most people I knew filled in all the white with their pen.

I had decided I was going to write a book; looking back, it was almost like it was chosen for me.

I had to get what was inside and had probably been inside me in one shape or another for over forty years, out of me.

It had grown too big and too powerful to ignore. I needed the outlet writing provides.

But I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

How would I even take what I was writing in journals and get it into a published book? How do I craft a story? What the hell am I really writing about anyway? It felt at the time like the ravings of a lunatic.

And that 1st draft kind of was.

How do I get an agent, how do I land a publisher, how do I sell copies? I mean, this thing needs to support me; I’m flat fucking broke with no prospects on the horizon.

I’m a corporate guy, at least I was until I blew up my life; what do I possibly know about writing a book?

Not to mention, amid all the logistical self-doubts and the ever-increasing amount of things I didn’t know how to do, I was scared shitless of actually publishing.

If I do what I say I want to do, and this thing is out in the world for everyone to see – I open myself up to be seen.

I’d fulfill a dream I’d been running from ever since the responsibilities of adulthood told me it was silly to dream.

I’d discover my purpose and bring it to fruition.

Fucking terrifying.

So how did I, through all the internal crap, publish “Blank Canvas: How I Reinvented My Life After Prison“?

Here are the 5 crucial steps that helped me.

A to Z

Throughout my writing journey (I still sometimes do this) I leap from A to Z.

This means I was leaping from A (still writing) to finished product (publishing).

I was teleporting from where I was all the way to where I wanted to go and skipping the journey in between.

And Z terrified me because I had no clue how to do it. Z was overwhelming in its complexity and threatened to keep me where I was.

Something powerful dawned on me: I had to go to B, to C, to D, and every other letter before I got to Z, and I had no idea who I would be when I got there.

But I knew that the version of myself at X and Y was a guy who figured everything out until this point, so he’d figure out Z, too.

Mission

Engaging in a massive project like writing a book or anything I give my heart to is an emotionally, mentally, and sometimes spiritually draining endeavor.

Facing all the fears, self-doubts, and terrible self-talk every day is exhausting, and it’s untenable without a significant reason why I was voluntarily facing all that crap.

I’m fortunate; I discovered my mission early in the process when I was still in prison, and I wrote it in that black-and-white journal:

To help one person.

I knew or maybe hoped, what I was creating could help someone who feels right now how I once felt.

Once I had a mission that was about someone other than myself, I wasn’t carrying the burdens of fear and self-doubt for myself, I was carrying it for someone else.

I was willing to carry that burden because it was too important not to.

Love the Process

I set time aside every day to write.

And even though those days were often filled with fear, self-doubt, feeling like a phony, and potentially the worst bit – facing the worst parts of myself head-on, I learned to love the process.

And I learned to love it because I was on a journey of self-discovery in service to someone else. I was doing what I had wanted to do for over forty years, but the responsibilities of adulthood put my dreams on the shelf.

I was living my purpose, and my actions (for the first time in a long time) aligned with my inner being.)

I can’t think of too many other aspects of life, other than love, that are so powerful.

I Asked For Help

Men don’t ask for help.

They figure it the fuck out.

Or so I believed most of my life. And I was usually good at figuring stuff out, which only reinforced the belief.

“See, I can do it ALL on my own.”

There were a couple of things I realized while writing Blank Canvas:

1. On my own, I am lonely; it’s isolating. Creating anything of deep meaning requires connection; it’s integral to the process.

Connection and meaning don’t happen in the vacuum of “on my own.”

2. Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness.

I used to be afraid to ask for help because I feared appearing weak.

It didn’t dawn on me then that asking for help is an act of vulnerability, and vulnerability is an act of profound courage.

Fear is The Path

I, like many of us, ran from the things I fear.

On this journey, one of my biggest fears was the fear of being seen, heard, misunderstood, judged, criticized, and made fun of for expressing my authentic self.

I was safe where I was, hidden in the shadows.

Publishing meant standing in the sun.

My feeling of safety was an illusion. It’s an illusion rooted in inauthenticity. Hiding in the shadows denied my authentic self; it closed the door on my purpose.

How is that safe?

I’ve learned the more I move towards fear, the safer I become.

—

We’ll face obstacles when we want to create anything new in our lives that slams into the edges of our comfort zone and challenges us to tap into our untapped potential.

It’s an inevitable part of growing and expanding into the extraordinary.

We wouldn’t begin any physical journey, like hiking ten miles, without being prepared.

Why would we embark on a mental, emotional, and spiritual journey without preparing?

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