Can you imagine the courage it takes to write what scares you most? I can and do. I said I would never write another memoir/self-help book, and here I am in the messy middle, planning it out and thinking, noooooo, I don’t want to do this. But truthfully, I do, which is why I am moving ahead with it.
There’s a particular kind of terror that only writers know – the ice-cold fear that grips you when you realise the book you’re truly meant to write is the one that frightens you most. It’s the story that makes you feel slightly queasy as you reach for the keyboard. The truth that sits in your chest like a burning coal, too hot to touch but impossible to ignore. The words that would change everything if you had the courage to write them.
You know which book I mean. It’s probably not the safe one you’ve been outlining, the one that feels comfortable and easy to whack out. I do this a lot, and while I enjoy writing the easier books, there comes a time when procrastination has to end. I’ve been working on an Oracle book since 2023, and it’s lolled on my hard drive, and I come to fiddle with bits when I have felt the urge. But recently, with my latest book looming it’s had my full attention. Whoops!
So, let’s get back to the one that whispers to you in quiet moments, the one that makes you think, “I could never write about that.” The book that would require you to dig deep into parts of yourself you’ve kept carefully buried, and you certainly don’t want to share. This is nonfiction work that demands that you share not just your knowledge but also your wounds.
Ok, that sounds daunting, but the reality is that once you start, you’ll wonder why you didn’t start earlier.
As a nonfiction book mentor, I’ve sat with writers dancing around their real book, circling it like a wild animal (a phrase borrowed from my mum when she talks about technology) that might devour them if they get too close. Your book is not a wild animal.
Fear and Writing
Your fear asks, am I qualified enough and good enough, and who will want to read my story? And then there are the towering peaks of existential dread that rise when we approach the stories that really matter.
The book that scares you most isn’t frightening because it’s technically difficult to write. You’re not afraid of the research, structure, or editing process. You’re afraid because this book asks you to tell the truth about something you’ve never said aloud. It asks you to stand naked in your vulnerability and trust that your nakedness might clothe someone else in hope.
Perhaps it’s the book about your mental health struggles in a family that doesn’t believe in therapy. Maybe it’s the story of rebuilding your life after abuse, or the truth about what really happened in your marriage, or your journey through addiction, or your experience with a child’s illness, or the way you found faith after losing it completely. We all have stories we want to bury – until we don’t.
And, of course, we all know that fear and excitement feel the same – so go figure.
Why We’re Called to Our Scariest Stories
Your scariest story is scary precisely because it matters so much. It’s the culmination of your deepest learning, your hardest-won wisdom, and your transformation. It represents the journey from your greatest wound to your most powerful gift. Of course, it’s a tad scary – you’re being asked to turn your most vulnerable experiences into a signal for others walking the same dark path.
Can you imagine writing a book about workplace productivity before finally admitting to yourself that you are meant to write about surviving and healing from childhood sexual abuse? I find it hard to write about what happened to me, but I will reference it in my book.
When you finally find the courage to write the real book, something will shift. The words will come easier. The structure will reveal itself organically. You will feel different, and it will all start to feel natural, and also you will feel the call of purpose.
The Paradox of Terrifying Truth
There’s a beautiful paradox at the heart of writing what frightens us: the very thing that makes us want to cringe and hide is the thing that makes others feel seen. Your deepest shame might be the key that unlocks someone else’s healing. Your most carefully guarded secret might be the permission slip another person needs to stop feeling so alone or to step into their purpose.
When we write from our wounds, we create bridges across the chasms of human isolation. Whenever someone shares a story they were terrified to tell, they discover that their experience—however unique the details, touches something universal in the human experience.
But this paradox doesn’t make the terror any less real. Knowing intellectually that vulnerability creates connection doesn’t quiet the voice that whispers you’ll be judged, rejected, or worse – ignored entirely. The fear of exposure runs bone-deep because it touches our fundamental need for belonging. What if sharing our truth pushes us out of the tribe? What if honesty makes us unlovable?
I get it because I feel it.
The Anatomy of Writing Fear
Let’s be honest about what we’re actually afraid of when we consider writing what scares us most. It’s rarely the writing itself—it’s everything that comes after. We’re afraid of:
The Judgment of Others: What will people think when they know this about me? How will my family react? Will my professional reputation survive? Will people see me differently?
The Loss of Control: Once these words are in the world, we can’t take them back. We can’t control how people interpret them, use them, or judge us for them.
The Weight of Responsibility: When we write about difficult topics, we become inadvertent leaders for others facing similar challenges. Are we ready for that responsibility?
The Reopening of Wounds: Writing about traumatic or difficult experiences often means revisiting them in detail. Are we strong enough to handle the emotional excavation?
The Fear of Not Being Enough: What if our story isn’t interesting enough, important enough, or unique enough? What if our truth is ordinary rather than extraordinary?
These fears are entirely rational. Writing what scares us most does involve real risks. But so does not writing it.
The Cost of Keeping Our Truth Locked Away
There’s a price to pay for keeping our most important stories locked away, and it’s higher than most of us realise. When we refuse to write what wants to be written through us, we don’t just deprive the world of our message. We deprive ourselves of our own healing and growth.
For me, writing is always about healing and growth and how it shows others what is possible in the world.
I think not writing books will come to haunt us. Sure, you can journal, but if you are like me, these get burned.
Building Courage
Courage isn’t the absence of fear – it’s the willingness to act despite fear. When it comes to writing what scares us most is that courage is built not in grand gestures but in small, daily acts of bravery. A 1000 words a day will soon become addictive.
Start with Private Writing: You don’t have to commit to publishing before you’ve even begun. Start by writing your truth privately. Give yourself permission to explore the scary territory without the pressure of public consumption.
Find Your Why: Connect with the deeper purpose behind sharing this story. Who might it help? What healing might it facilitate? How might it contribute to important conversations?
Create Safe Spaces: Find trusted readers, a writing group, a mentor, or a therapist who can witness your story with compassion before you share it more widely.
Write in Stages: You don’t have to tackle the entire story at once. Start with the edges and safer parts, and work towards the centre of your fear.
You’re Not Alone: Whatever you’re afraid to write about, others have written about similar experiences. Find those books. Let their courage inspire yours.
The Sacred Act of Truth-Telling
When we write what scares us most, we’re contributing to the great conversation about what it means to be human, suffer, heal, grow, and overcome.
When you find the courage to write it, you’re not just healing yourself; you’re contributing to the collective healing. You’re saying to everyone who has walked a similar path: “You are not alone. You are not broken. Your experience matters. You matter.”
This doesn’t mean the writing will be easy. Truth-telling rarely is. You may cry as you write – I do. You may need to take breaks. You may want to quit a hundred times. But if you stay with it and keep showing up for your truth, something sacred happens: your wound becomes your gift, your pain becomes your purpose, and your scar becomes someone else’s roadmap.
The Transformation
Writers who find the courage to write what scares them most often describe the experience as incredibly transformational. It’s not just that they’ve written a book – they’ve reclaimed parts of themselves they thought were lost forever and transformed their relationship with their own story.
This is the gift that comes from writing what scares us: we stop being at the mercy of our experiences and start being the meaning-makers of our own lives and eventually others.
The Reader Who Needs Your Scary Story
Somewhere out there is someone who desperately needs the book you’re currently too frightened to write. They’re struggling with something similar to what you’ve faced. They feel alone, ashamed, confused, or hopeless. They’ve searched for books that speak to their experience but haven’t found anything that truly gets it.
Your scary story might be their lifeline. Your willingness to be vulnerable might give them permission to seek help. Your truth about surviving might convince them that survival is possible. Your honesty about the hard parts might help them feel less alone in their own darkness.
You’re saying, “I’ve been there too. It’s terrible, but you can survive it. Here’s how I did it. Here’s what I learned. Here’s what I wish someone had told me.”
Taking the First Brave Step
The courage to write what scares you most isn’t about eliminating fear – it’s about writing with fear (or is it excitement) as your companion. It’s about acknowledging the terror and typing anyway. It’s about trusting that the story wants to be told through you, even if you don’t feel quite ready to tell it.
You don’t need to be fearless to write your story. You just need to be willing to be afraid and write anyway. Start with one page. One paragraph. One honest sentence. Trust that your courage will grow as you write, that your story will teach you what you need to know, and that your truth has value even if—especially if—it terrifies you to share it.
Your story is waiting. It’s been patient, but it’s ready now. And somewhere, someone who needs exactly what you have to offer is waiting, too.
Are you ready to write the book that terrifies and calls to you? As a nonfiction book mentor, I specialise in helping brave souls find the courage to share their most important, most frightening truths. Your scary story is your gift to the world.
