I have always been a writer, I guess. Creative writing. I used to write stories on our first PC, print them with a font that matched the theme, and distribute them to my family members. For example, The Lemonade Stand: comic sans, 14 pt., bright yellow. Grandma had trouble reading that one. Then, academic writing. In college, I double majored in History and Native American Studies. It was rigorous. I used to write 10- to 30-page papers on a weekly basis.

I never intended on writing for an audience. I am still uncomfortable with it. Each story I send to my editors produces immense anxiety. I do not want to offend anybody. I do not want to misspeak. I do not want to create negative thoughts. I just want to bridge understanding.

The only reason I started publishing my work at all is that I was asked. I found a mentor in a writer whom I respect. He asked me to write. So I did. He convinced me (and still reassures me all the time) that my writing is good and that my thoughts are useful. I am insecure. Putting my writing online for the world to see took a lot of encouragement, a lot of risk. But I was asked.

Now, other people continue asking me to write. So I keep going. Each time I get a message in my inbox or a comment on social media from another person who cares, who found some inkling of hope or insight or inspiration from what I said, I am reminded that it is worth the risk. But it took years of study and practice and thought and encouragement to get to a point where I finally feel comfortable speaking about complicated issues in Native country. Or about anything, really.

But I’m glad that I waited.