Beautiful. Industrial. Cozy.
With chrome fixtures, tabletops of knotted pine, exposed brick, and hardwood floors. Mugs had no handles but sat cupped in palms and warming cold, winter fingers with lattes and chamomile.
Yes please, a side of honey.
I was elated to dine at this new-to-me restaurant for brunch with two friends. I was excited for the hashbrowns with peppers, eggs, and chorizo. I’d dreamed of the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. But the thing I was really excited about? The one thing I was practically giddy inside to experience?
The restaurant played nothing but 90’s hip-hop and R&B.
Be still my 1997, teenage heart.
My two friends and I chatted for hours, sampling from each other’s plates as a cool rain dusted fallen leaves on the sidewalk, and in the street. My knitted sweater was long and thick, like wearing a favorite blanket in public. We laughed about the silliest things, and each time a another 90s artist played overhead- Notorious B.I.G., 112, Boyz II Men- I was greeted by a gentle swish of nostalgia in my belly. I’d smile and dance a little in my seat.
It wasn’t just a meal, it was an experience.
And I knew my husband, a fellow 90s teenager, would love it too.
Months later, we ventured there for brunch. You know what they were playing?
Not a 90s hip-hop or R&B lyric in earshot.
Suddenly what was supposed to be an experience turned into an everyday, $30-for-a-chicken-sandwich-hashbrowns-and-chamomile-tea, lunch. I was disappointed, and annoyed every time another 2018 song chimed overhead.
The restaurant had gone against one major aspect of its authenticity, and I didn’t enjoy it one bit.
That’s what it’s like when an intuitive introvert works against his/her/their authentic makeup, and tries to outline or write their book in a hyper-structured, rigid-deadline, chronological driven process: it doesn’t feel good.
It ruins the experience of turning your idea, that character or scene or conversation that popped into your head into a completed manuscript that you’re proud to put your name on. It becomes a dreaded task like any other.
You become annoyed, frustrated, and close to giving up when you work against your brain’s programming.
You see more abstract. Your mind finds connections and patterns in the most curious of places, and wants to ponder all the possibilities that using one methodology could never give you.
Your mind wants to understand deeply. It wants to explore.
As an intuitive introvert, you’re only about 4% of the population, so you’ve had a lifetime of being told how to do it the “right” way. And that way is usually from A to Z. Which is cool unless your brain works more from D to T to M to H.
But you can write in a feelings-over-logic
process and finish your book. I promise
Stay true to your personality and work style, and gain access to your complimentary copy of ‘Finish Your Book, a writing process for intuitive introvert, fiction authors.’ You can find it in The Library by completing the form below.