The postscript explains it all

I love P.S.’s. I love footnotes and hidden messages. But these days it’s all about becoming visible. Finding your voice.

Whatever phraseology you choose, this week Havi nudges me to consider that being visible and putting stuff out there = terrifying but doesn’t mean I can get away with not putting stuff out there. Anastasia Ashman replies that the process of becoming visible is about ‘expanding your comfort zone‘, Tara Lutman Ağaçayak calls it ‘do what you love,’ and Julie Stuart enticingly names it the ‘sweetspot‘.

There’s been confluence the last few weeks about eradicating lingering self-doubts. Elaine Aron’s book on linking and ranking suggests there are better and easier ways to be out in the world, to nurture the undervalued self, beyond pushing one’s way into the front of the line. Like practicing, absorbing one’s surroundings, and waiting for the right, pivotal moment. If you have sensitivity to subtle energies, as Kari describes it, there are still times one needs to run the risk of failing.

Pushing to the front of the line reminds me of attending Elif Şafak‘s lecture this afternoon at the second-annual book fair Kocaeli has ever hosted. Throngs of people. A woman confessing how much Elif’s books moved her. Another young hopeful asking for advice about what one should do if they want to be a writer.

Elif’s answer: write, share it with other writers, send to magazines, share it with a writer’s group, start a critique/book club like they do in the US, read blogs, start a blog, don’t get down if you don’t get published right away, write, keep going.

In other words: show up, do your work, live your life.

What’s your secret rhythm, where’s your niche?


P.S. My husband hardly ever reads my blog (right babe?) but it’s our five year anniversary today. Five years ago, my life in Turkey had just begun with a bed, a couple plastic chairs in our kitchen, and a row of Efes beer bottles on our floor thanks to my friends who flew over the ocean to dance to Bryan Adams and Turkish pop music at our wedding while I nudged Devrim to please-god-change-the-music. I couldn’t speak Turkish, but I could nod along and appear interested. This bought me a year to learn a few phrases. Now we’re two languages, two babies, years of unfolded laundry, and one renovated apartment later. Happy Anniversary, love!