The power of not hearing no

It’s interesting how many times we reinvent ourselves in life. Science tells us that our bodies are cellularly different every seven years. In essence, we become a brand-new version of ourselves. We often cycle through multiple careers—and don’t even get me started on the vast array of “loves of my life” I’ve fallen in and out of love with (sigh). I have lived many, many lives, each one extraordinary, varied, and rich with lessons.

I spent over a quarter-century immersed in the world of advertising and production. I even produced a feature film that opened TIFF. I moved countries, shedding most of the labels that defined who I was—to the world and, truthfully, to myself. This isn’t some kind of bragging résumé but rather an introduction to my belief that anything is possible when no one tells you no.

When I sat down to write my book, I hadn’t publicly exercised my writing talent since Miss Bonvalane, my second-grade teacher, accused me of plagiarizing my extraordinary poem, The Joy of Hotdog Buns. I had absolutely zero—and I do mean zero—sense that this was something I could, should, or would do, let alone that I had the talent for it. I had spent my career managing other people’s creative abilities, never my own. I didn’t even know I had any.

So I began to write, never once thinking it was an outrageous, insane idea. Why? Because I didn’t ask anyone’s opinion. I didn’t seek approval from friends or family. I just started writing—for me. What I began to write was very different from what I eventually finished. But isn’t that the glorious thing about creating something? It tells you what it needs to be.

I immersed myself in the writing process. My routine involved getting up early—an achievement in itself, as anyone who knows me will attest. With a latte in hand, I would write. When I wasn’t writing—say, soaking in my bathtub—I was listening to podcasts, audiobooks, or MasterClasses about writing, with a particular bias toward humorous nonfiction writers, my literary queens: Nora Ephron and David Sedaris. For nearly two years, I did little else. I was afraid to stop—terrified that if I did anything else, and I mean anything, I wouldn’t be able to start again. And you know what? That is exactly what happened.

At that point, with nearly 80,000 words behind me, I moved into the condo I had purchased for my parents years before—a place they had sadly vacated with their deaths. There, with COVID still lingering, I was quarantined in a lower-level apartment. Friends left groceries, Starbucks, and wine outside my window, too afraid to come in. The fear was thick, contagious. Some days, I would stand barefoot in the grass outside, just to remind myself that it was summer.

Maybe it was the anxiety of the pandemic. Maybe it was sitting among the ghosts of my parents, surrounded by dusty Tupperware boxes filled with decades of memories. But suddenly, not only could I not write—I couldn’t even bear to look at a single word I had written. I was paralyzed.

This paralysis did not end when I got out of quarantine… or when I went to the cottage… or when I was finally allowed to hug people again. It lasted five months. Five months of being unable to open my computer or read a single sentence of my manuscript. If I had told someone—anyone—I’m sure they would have given me permission to stop. You’re not a writer, Christina, I imagined them saying. You don’t need to do this.

Then I did something outrageous. I started talking to my dead parents… and to Nora Ephron, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, and any other writer who popped into my consciousness before I closed my eyes. I didn’t ask them for help—I thanked them for it. I thanked them for their words, their stories, their inspiration. Some of these nighttime conversations lasted for hours as I visualized myself ripping open a cardboard box filled with my glossy hardcover books. I imagined myself in a red dress, in a crowded bookstore, joyously signing copies for eager readers. I could see the end—I just had to get past the middle.

So I threw some money at the problem—an idea I’m fairly certain came one night from my pragmatic father, still offering sensible advice in the afterlife. I booked a five-day online nonfiction course. I knew myself well enough to know that if I put cash down, I’d show up. And show up, I did.

Not once did I ask: Am I good enough? Should I continue? Am I really a writer?

I finished and sold my book. And yes, I wore a red dress and signed copies at my book launch. I am enormously proud of this accomplishment. But if you take anything from this, let it be this: Don’t ask permission to do something completely insane—not even from yourself.

I never heard no, mostly because I never asked the question. Should I write a book? Start a production company? Produce a film? Am I good enough? Am I too young? Am I too old? Will anyone like it?

I wrote because the story needed to come out. I got out of my own way and let it happen.

So call upon those inspiring spirits who give you permission—and thank them. Visualize the ending, even if you can’t quite see the path. No is not the answer to all those unasked questions. The treasures buried deep inside you are waiting for you to say yes.