Eleven years ago, my first book was published. I was living in a cabin I built with some friends in the woods at the time of its release, and the words that filled its pages drew from years of experience with backwoods living, and the inspiration that had come out of that journey. Its name was Unlearn, Rewild, and it was a heady, at times poetic, at times brash and outrageously unfiltered collection of ideas and skills that felt particularly exciting to me at that moment in time.
A few months ago, I was deeply immersed in the process of writing (and rewriting) my new book, when a friend asked me if I was finding the creative process itself to be therapeutic.
I hadn’t thought about this, and although I’d written through streams of tears at several points during the preceding months, I wasn’t sure how to answer the question. As I paused and reflected on it, one very notable thing came to mind: During the entire writing process, I was aware of, watching, and unravelling a deeply entrenched habit of mine that has at times been my undoing (both as a writer, and as a man) - the impulse to prove myself. The impulse to prove myself right, better, smarter, more worthy, or in any other way superior to others. There is an insecure part of me that habitually wants to puff out its chest, and either knock others down or build itself up in a rather dubious way, to compensate for its deep sense of unworthiness.
