“So, lean in!” Sheryl repeated during her interview with Marc the Salesforce CEO.

She turned and smiled at the video cameras and the audience over 1000. “Lean in.”

For the past 30 minutes, she regurgitated her book. Her stories, her snippets sounded rehearsed. In the fact that they never quite answered the question. Marc asked about her success, about any insecurity, and more. But she used every question to pitch an idea from her book. The fact that women can’t be called “aggressive”. The fact that she started a project that said “what would you do if you were not afraid?” The fact that men should just pitch in doing laundry.

Well, besides the last one, I wondered what she was trying to do. It was obvious that she was just speaking about the book, in hopes of spreading the word rather than sharing her own personal stories and directly answering the question.

Sometimes I wonder if my insecurity comes from my struggle of being feminine—being quiet, submissive. When I catch myself being loud and demanding, I am suddenly afraid. Will people not respect me? Will people like me less? And that last thought stays with me, killing any enthusiasm for the reason that I spoke up and leaned in.

I know that there are times that I can be harsh, perhaps even cruel. Yet, would I feel the same if I was male?

But for now, I will lean in.

Last week, I dragged Chris over to the couch. “You have to see this,” I said and pressed play.

For the past few months, both of us have decided to focus on what we want to do. Away from the man. That unfortunately results in little income with the same level of expenses. And we were unwilling to let go out of our lifestyle. And so, our deep-seated frugality surfaced. But how far were we willing to go?

A friend’s husband shamelessly admitted to me, “I would dumpster dive. Then I would share my food with her. Sometimes she’ll even eat it!”

I raised my eyebrows then. But then I came across Extreme Cheapskates on Netflix. Now, you see, I have always subscribed to the model that if you put more money in, the more money that will get out. Although some peers may disagree with me, I am not a penny pincher (even if that roommate from graduate school still claims that I always split the bills down to the penny! I personally thought that was fairness and not stinginess.) In the past few months, I moved a lot of my savings into investment accounts. At the very least, to make sure my assets were creating their own “income” without my input.

But then, what else could I do? Although I already had a habit of eating half of my meal when I ate out…what else? What did these self-proclaimed cheapskates do? Sure, there was the garbage picking. Shameless confession: if the furniture on the street is in good condition, I’ll take it (note: this rarely ever happens). But then I watched a woman in New York City open a dumpster and pull out tomatoes, packages of prepared meals, and a carrot cake. She combined the prepared meals in a single pot. Then I watched a mother cut up old clothing into cloths to be used as toilet paper (saves over $10 per month, she claims!). That I won’t do. And the guy picking rice off the ground after a wedding. And the guy giving gifts from scavenging to his wife for their 25th anniversary. Then his run to tables where the diners have left so that he can collect the leftovers.

We watched in awe. We watched in horror. And yet, like much mainstream television, we couldn’t pull our eyes away. On one hand, the TV series was designed in a way to hook and surprise us. Yet on the other, we were curious. Would we do this? Would we be ok with doing…something…that was considered abnormal?

For now, I cannot. We found that most dumpsters behind grocery stores were locked. And we would never go through a neighbors’ trash (there is just things that I don’t want to use). But I did learn to cut open a toothpaste tube when it’s nearly done. And I learned…hey, I would eat anyone’s leftovers. I just wouldn’t ask for it.

Suddenly, under the age of 10, I claim that I was hit with writer’s block. With it, my ideas for stories disappeared. I could not imagine the crazy villains. I could not imagine heroines—my sister and me always. I could not imagine the plots, the other characters, or the settings. All of it was gone.

I wanted to be in yearbook and the school newspaper. Rejected. I started my own creative writing club, but I only had one class, because I didn’t know what to do. I did many things to overcome the writer’s block. But all I could do was write sparingly in my diary about what was going going in my life—what I hated, what I loved, what annoyed me.

Then when I was 18, I started writing again. Moreover in the form of blogging. It was read. I was validated! But I still wrote more personal essay shorts. More memoir type things. It was always about me. Then I participated in Nanowrimo. But I just used it to write a memoir. So I didn’t really reach my goal, but I wrote my entire life up until the age of 21. It was full of boys. I wrote in a xanga that my friend had spammed across the comments. I wrote long stories and garnered a legion of fans. They loved me for my insights. But then I hated it.

Then when I was 29, I decided this was the time. Someone gave me a prompt.

This year, rather than being a runner in the annual game of Journey to the End of the Night, I helped out. I registered the runners exchanging their waiver for two ribbons and a map. Then later, I helped out at checkpoint 3c, letting players arrive, handing them a juice box, giving them a crayon, asking them to draw what they wanted to be when they grew up, and marking their map for a completed checkpoint.

There was something amazing about being a volunteer. I could participate, but not really participate. I could see the fear, the excitement, and the happiness of the runners. I saw the disappointment of those that were tagged—their eyes drooped down, falling to be part of the majority of runners.

There was so much to be seen. For new players, returning players, and other volunteers.

Some ideas for what people wanted to be when they grew up:

I used to hate the word “nice”. To me, it screamed boring and bland. It was the word used to describe me in school. “Nice girl”. My mom used to use those two words to articulate our last name: N G as Nice Girl. But really what nice was…it was because I barely spoke. I was quiet. My face may have brimmed with thoughts, but my voice was always absent.

So in college, I decided to build a different persona. Deliberately, I wanted to be hostile and cold. I wanted to be mean. I wanted to be anything but nice. And yet, that’s the very odd thing. I didn’t want to be treated not nicely.

I have trying to backtrack. And to just simply start with the intention of being compassionate. I learned how to voice my feelings and thoughts with the greatest of intentions. That to really show empathy is believe in the empathy.

With the same piece that I had critiqued yesterday, the instructor today encouraged everyone to start with the good parts. “Start with what you like,” she said. It felt oddly different than yesterday when the other instructor began with 5 seconds with what she liked and more than a minute of what didn’t work. Being creative requires a thick skin, yet I never expected a backlash of that level. So today, in an in-person class of seventeen, I felt more at ease, understanding for why what didn’t work…really didn’t work. Where once I was about to delete sections, I could help build better context.

People often say they have good intentions. Yet if they are buried so deep, they almost don’t matter. And those of us who don’t have the thickest of skins, we let it hurt us. But at least for now, because this is the only way I can learn, bring it on.

“That doesn’t look right,” a voice said.

It took all I could to resist the temptation to tell myself that meant that I wasn’t good. That in my first design critique in graduate school, it was okay to be slightly off or imperfect. Because who gets it right the first time? But as I stood there with my classmates staring at my carefully placed typography on paper, I heard the critiques. It stung harshly then. But then after several more weeks, it stung less and clarity swam to the surface. That’s when I could also critique with focus, “Yes, I see what you mean. Maybe the J needs to move over.”

It’s hard to be creative. But it’s hard to be creative and not let critiques affect you negatively. Because it’s only through critiques that we learn what needs to be improved. Because in your eyes, your work is perfect already and you cannot see from others’ eyes until you ask for feedback.

Today though, almost ten years later, I had something critiqued. In a different kind of medium. It felt as painful as the first time. When I realized that something that I once thought was perfect…was actually imperfect. It stung deeply as my decisions turned out to be false. So I listened to the voices and took a deep breath. “Thank you,” I said.

When I walked into the class today, a woman walked with some authority around the classroom. Her hair was brown, cropped right above the shoulder. Her clothes was conservative, and she carried a quiet self-awareness, a feeling of being a teacher and assured of her place in the world. She scanned the classroom, almost trying to memorize the faces. She smiled at people entering, most who rushed to find seat. Eventually, she settled down in front of a seat, piles of paper and books.

She was not the porn star.

I had signed up for the writing class several weeks earlier, intrigued by the name of the instructor. Initially, I imagined that the instructor was Asian with a last name of “Lee”. An Asian writer is rare—especially from a culture that emphasizes wisdom from science and mathematics. It’s interesting that the emphasis is toward logic when China once revered the arts of opera, dance, and painting. Especially writing. So all of that led me to googling. When I realized that the name was of a porn star down at the local San Francisco kink.com. Now most contemporary porn stars…if I can use that terminology…are often feminist activists. Rather than seeing their work as simply indulgent paid work, it’s about letting females be powerful, just because they can be. It’s about allowing women to be who they are and make choices in their own right.

So I was super excited. Because writing is so vulnerable, I wanted to learn from someone who allows vulnerability in a real way.

To my disappointment, she was sick last week, causing a slight riot from students when we were told after sitting 20 minutes in the class waiting. Then this week, we were told by the replacement instructor that the original instructor needed to opt out due to her mysterious illness—something that she discovered at a doctor’s appointment. For my curiosity’s sake, I really wanted to know. But when announced, I nodded emphatically, accepting that for the next few weeks, I wouldn’t be learning from a porn star.

Every artist needs one. Someone that will always hit “like” or “favorite”. It’s the one person that will always show up when it’s free, when it’s $100. It’s the someone who not only says, “I believe in you” but also screams angrily at you when you say, “I quit!”

Quitting isn’t an option for the unconditional number one fan.

I always wondered how successful people got to where they were without someone who believes in them. Was their internal voice that strong? Were they that stubborn?

While visiting potential wedding venues, my friend told me why her fiancee (and now husband) was the one. “Because he was like a rock,” she said. “No matter, what I did and where I went, he was still there.”

I hope that I can be like that too.

I only learned recently that William Faulkner said the oft-quoted phrase, “Kill your darlings”.

I first heard the line at a SXSW talk on how to succeed in design. In 2008. Granted, being raised by immigrant parents, meant that I often miss common idioms. At the time, I thought it was cute. Yes, of course everyone should kill their babies! To save the most precious one! Save your resources for the one that deserves the most love and care!

But today, I am reluctantly getting there. The worst part of any creative project is killing the darlings. I am suddenly in a midst of a project where I am more than just knee-deep. I am all the way in. Instead of flying through it swimmingly, I am sinking and my toes are getting caught in the mud. It doesn’t feel right, but I know that the mud doesn’t belong. It is making me seeing less of the surface, less of the sun, and less of the oxygen.

I am not afraid, am I? I have finished more than half. I have thought about it over and over again. And I wouldn’t have gotten here if it wasn’t for all the failures and mistakes, right? I’ll create it for them, because it’s what they wanted.

In college and the few nascent years after that, my creativity peaked at night. At that time, I engaged in deep, emotional conversations with people (and myself) during those times. That’s when I was the most inspired to create. Brilliant ideas came naturally (although I wouldn’t always execute them) always then. My best writing dumped on the page after the day had finished. I needed to write all of that down.

Then I started working. In an office. I am not sure what happened, but my creativity and/or my willingness to let creativity blossom only happens in the morning. The day’s events bogs me too much now at night. The day’s activities take away any of my creative clarity and energy I need.

So what happened? What happened to the me that would need a day’s worth of turmoil, disappointments, activities…vs. a good night’s sleep to whisk all of that away? Maybe it’s because now that I have landed squarely in my thirties, that the brain is different. Or that I have gotten over the wounds and pain…and those healed areas…well they don’t inspire anymore. Or that clarity comes best with rest.

I wonder. But my best work in the last year have come in the morning. And also when I am stuck somewhere without purpose or intention.