I Keep Chasing Birds Instead of Writing My Book

If you’ve been with me for a while, you know I’m writing a book.

You might be thinking, “Haven’t you been writing that for a long time, Renée?”

My answer is, “Yes, I have. For a long time.”

I am embarrassed by that. But it is true.

I have a strong outline. I have a manuscript. I have a title, “Put Love to Work.” I have a publisher and a book coach. I have data, models, insights, and practices from a decade of living and breathing this message.

I have chapters and pages explaining why and how to lead and work with Love over fear.

Beyond telling these truths, the book shares stories I’ve gathered from many of you over the years. These stories show the importance of Love over fear at work and bring these truths to life.

But what I don’t have yet is my voice in that manuscript. I don't have me.

And that is why it’s taking so long to write, because finding that voice and myself, for some reason, is hard.

Here’s what happens. I’m working diligently in my well-crafted outline, writing what I know so well after a decade focused on Love. The next topic comes up in the chapter. I have something to say, from all that I’ve learned being with Love for so long. I write.

But then the quietest flicker of a deeper truth flits through my mind. I feel an uncomfortable prickle on my skin and a tightening across my middle. These are telling me that tiny bird of my experience needs to be followed and found so I can identify it, observe it, listen, and record its song.

But how to do this when these tiny creatures appear in the middle of my well-structured manuscript and the muddle of my well-filled daily life?

Conscientiously following my 15-hour-per-week schedule to write is one thing, but those questions and insights that swoop in and perch over there just outside the window are another. They need me to drop everything, slip on my shoes, and go find that bird that is my truth. But time doesn’t stand still. Clients have deadlines. Grandchildren need tending. So does my husband. Food needs cooking. Bills need paying. Calls. Birthdays. Exercise. Sleep.

Sometimes I can only scribble the possible location of its nest on a sticky note while on a Zoom call or listen to its song while cutting vegetables. I try to tuck all this away where I can find it again later, when there is space and quiet.

But more often now, I drop everything to chase that flash of feathers, trusting the mess I leave will get cleaned up later, and my family will be forgiving because I have to find that bird. I have to understand what is mine to say.

Why Does This Matter?

It’s clear to me I could’ve written a version of this book, without me, five times over the last five years. But it wouldn’t have meant much to the reader.

It would have been forgettable and incidental.

You see, when my book is finally in the world, I don’t want finding and reading it to be like a fleeting encounter with a forgettable stranger. The kind of conversation where, partway through, bored, you politely excuse yourself to take a call, use the bathroom, help in the kitchen.

No. I want finding and reading this book to be like that chance first meeting you always remember, with someone who becomes a dear friend, whose presence weaves into the habits of your life: Tuesday lunches, random walks, Saturday morning coffee and weekend visits. That book you read all the way through, yes, and then you pick it up again and again, opening to passages you know well and can quote, but still savor reading the words on the page.

That book is clear and useful, sure. But it is something more. 

It is alive and human. 

It means something to you, and it makes a difference in your life. 

This is the book I am writing for you. Yes, it is taking a while. But I hope it will be worth the wait. 

Oh! Excuse me, won’t you? 

I just saw a flash of wings outside my window. I need to investigate.