- 7 days ago
A year ago, my publisher told me how to describe my book:
A provocative and practical playbook of transformation.
I used that sentence everywhere.
On my website.
In conversations.
Through launch.
Until yesterday.
The description was technically accurate.
There are practical ideas in the book.
It's a story of transformation.
I am most definitely provocative.
But I never would have used those words to describe it myself.
I accepted my publisher's interpretation
because I believed they had ultimate authority.
They were the experts.
They knew publishing.
They understood positioning.
They were the authority on how books should to be sold.
I wrote the book.
And somehow, I still allowed someone else to tell me what it was about.
A few days ago, a woman who read my book described the experience of reading it using a completely different word:
A dare.
And the way my book should be defined hit me like a bolt of lightening:
An unexpected memoir that challenges every system we've inherited—
and dares us to ask the question: Is it still working?
Ah. There she is.
It took me almost a year to find the language for a book I spent years writing.
And the irony isn't lost on me.
I wrote a book about challenging the systems we've inherited.
Then I entered the publishing system and allowed its authority to overrule my own.
Which made me wonder:
How many times have I deferred my authority in other areas of my life?
How many times have you accepted someone else's interpretation of your experience because you believed they had more authority over it than you did?
In your career.
In your marriage.
In your parenting.
In your friendships.
In your family.
In your traditions.
In your daily habits.
In your body.
We allow other people tell us our stories constantly.
A boss tells you when you're ready for a promotion.
A parent tells you what happened in your childhood.
A partner tells you what you meant.
A doctor tells you what your body is experiencing.
An algorithm tells you whether your ideas matter.
A relationship status tells you whether your love life succeeded.
A bank balance tells you whether your business is working.
A publisher tells you what your book is about.
Eventually—when exposed to enough external interpretation—someone else's description of our experience becomes our inherited belief.
Someone else tells the story.
Their interpretation becomes a definition.
The definition becomes an inherited belief.
And the inherited belief begins overriding our own lived experience.
Interpretation is not authority.
Someone else's interpretation of your experience may be valid.
It may even be illuminating.
It may show you something about yourself you couldn't see before.
But it will never be the ultimate authority over your story.
That belongs to you.
That's what happened to me.
The reader who gave me the word dare was also interpreting my book.
The difference is that when she reflected her experience of it back to me, I recognized the inherent truth.
She didn't tell me how to describe my book.
She helped me make meaning of what was already there.
There is a difference between receiving someone else's perspective and surrendering authorship to it.
Other people will always tell stories about us.
They have perspectives.
They experienced us.
Their stories belong to them.
What they cannot do is become the authority over ours.
Systems that demand their definition carry more authority than our lived experience should be challenged.
And I think many of us have spent our lives confusing expertise, proximity, history, status and power with authority.
They know me.
They were there.
They're the expert.
They're my parent.
They're my partner.
They're my boss.
They're the publisher.
So they must know.
But their interpretation is still an interpretation.
It's one version of your story.
The way they see it does not have to become your ultimate story.
And the way you see it can change too.
Because the story you told yourself at 25 about something that happened may look very different at 44.
The story you told yourself while you were inside a marriage, a friendship, a family system, a career or a company may change when you gain distance from it.
The story you told yourself about who you were changes with you as you become who you are.
The story I told myself about my book while I was launching it changed after I spent almost a year watching women experience her.
Meaning evolves.
No interpretation—even your own—must become a permanent definition.
Maybe that's what authorship actually is.
It isn't the ability to control every interpretation of your story.
It's the right to decide which interpretations become part of it.
Your story can't be told to you.
It can be reflected back to you.
It can be witnessed.
Questioned.
Challenged.
Expanded.
Someone else may even hand you a word that allows you to see it more clearly.
But you decide what it means.
You decide what you carry forward.
You decide what is no longer true.
You decide when the story changes.
You retain authorship.
Because the question isn't:
Whose interpretation is right?
The answer lies in:
Who have you allowed to become the authority over your own experience?
You don't have to stop people from telling stories about you.
You don't have to correct every interpretation.
You don't have to convince everyone to understand your experience exactly as you do.
You don't even have to keep telling yourself the same story forever.
You only need to remember:
Your story can't be told to you.
It can only be defined by you.
Our stories—and sense of self—are strengthened when we tell them in safe spaces.
The Fall Gathering for our next HYPE WOMEN Dinner is September 9th.
And if my writing has made you feel seen, I want to make sure I can keep doing it.
xoxo,
Erin
