My wife and I were sitting in the lobby of the Sheraton Grand Seattle a little after 2pm last Sunday.
We had just enjoyed a weekend of exploring downtown Seattle: checking out the Public Market, catching a baseball game at T-Mobile Park (my Astros won, 3-1, by the way), walking the streets of Chinatown and Pioneer Square. Now we were resting our tired legs, killing time before our departing flight home to Vegas.
I had just purchased a drink from the hotel vendor when the automatic sliding doors of the hotel opened allowing a few people to walk inside. Even though it was cold and wet outside, I heard a few notes from a street saxophonist who was braving the weather a block or so away. The music made its way into the lobby before the doors closed again, leaving only the ringing of the front desk telephone and the quiet murmuring of a few guests like us.
Those few notes, from whatever somber song that was being played, were all it took for it to hit me.
My trip was over and Monday lurked in the shadows.
But it wasn’t the typical “I don’t want to go to work” Monday dread that people get. Mine was the writing that goes with the content that I try to produce on a weekly basis. I suddenly had a feeling of “Who cares“?
Most of us, especially writers, have that feeling wash over us from time to time.
“No one cares what you have to say.”
“Your last post only got 3 views. Just give up.”
“What you say doesn’t matter.”
I lost faith in my voice.
It hit me that quickly. From happiness and joy to sudden apathy for what I want to tell the world.
It was jolting to say the very least.
Quietly, I made eye contact with my wife, who could tell instantly that something wasn’t right (that’s what 15 years of marriage will do for you). She asked what was wrong and I was as honest with her as I could be. I didn’t want to work this week. I didn’t know what to say because what does it matter what someone like me has to tell anyone?
I’m not Gary Vaynerchuk. No one would ever confuse me with Simon Sinek or Ed Mylett.
My investments haven’t made me millions and I don’t yet have a best selling book to my credit. What could I possibly have to offer anyone?
My wife listened to me complain for about 10 minutes. She’s heard it all before, but she graciously always allows me to finish my pity parties. Then she grabbed my hand and (paraphrasing) told me exactly what I needed to hear:
You’re a good writer. You’re funny when you need to be, politically incorrect when it calls for it, and you always share what’s on your mind. Even when it doesn’t make sense. The thing you say tomorrow doesn’t need to go viral. But it’s important that you say it.
She has a way of humbling me still, after all of these years.
The words are true for you as well.
The impact from your words may not be immediate. And, here’s the truth, they may never go viral. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t important. Your truth deserves to be heard, or seen, or felt. You can’t possibly know who might stumble across your blog, your art, or YouTube channel and need to hear the words you’re saying.
It could help them turn the tide in their struggling business. Or it may help them out of a rut in their personal lives. It may be something as simple as helping them get through this day today.
But I do know this: it’s important that you say it.
Without it we are less.
Tags: dread, life, work