I didn’t plan to write a memoir.

When I first decided to write a book – to submit to the yearning of my whimsical inner voice – I never dreamed I’d write a personal story. If I was going to do something as indulgent as writing a book, it would have to be scholarly and informative. So, I hatched a brilliant to plan to write a PhD thesis about Antarctica and turn that into a book. I almost pulled it off.

In March 2013, I enrolled in a PhD program at the Australian National University with three fantastic scholars as my mentors. After a few months of reading and pondering, I chose my topic: the history of Antarctic tourism.

Off I went, to research and write my heart out. I collected archival documents, read personal accounts, and interviewed pioneer tour operators. A story began to form. One by one, chapters were written. Four and a bit years later, in May 2017, I submitted my PhD thesis, a 75,000-word manuscript with over 500 footnotes.

Violà! I have the first draft of my book.

Within a month of submission, I’d attracted the interest of a university publisher in the US. All I had to do was turn my thesis into a book and I’d be a published author. I could tick ‘write a book’ off my to-do list.

But something held me back.

While much of my PhD thesis reads like a book, I knew that transforming it from an almost-book to an actual book required more than a minor edit. Sections would need to be removed and new ones added, which would require more work and more academic writing. I wasn’t sure I had it in me. I remember confessing to a friend that I’d be happy if I never wrote another academic word in my life.

Meanwhile, my whimsical inner voice had more to say on the matter. Over the course of four years of documenting and writing other people’s stories, I felt a growing desire to write about my own experiences. I was also encouraged by the interest of others. Whenever I gave a talk on my research, questions would inevitably turn from the academic to the personal.

‘What was it like?’ everyone from university professors to retired farmers would ask me about my travels in Antarctica.

By the time I’d finished my PhD, my plan to turn my thesis into a book was under threat by my longing to write something far more personal – a story straight from the heart about what I’d learned on my voyages to the ends of the earth. But whenever I flirted with the idea of writing a memoir, a flood of resistance followed.

‘Why did I spend all those years doing a PhD?’ I’d ask myself. ‘Am I really going to let all that work go to waste?’

In an attempt to be resourceful, I came up with a new plan. I’d do both. I’d weave my personal experiences into the broader history of Antarctic tourism. It would be a story within a story, each one enriching the other. I’d be granting my inner voice its wish without wasting my thesis. Problem solved!

For months, I sketched up different versions of this two-storied book. First, I tried telling the two stories simultaneously, with alternating chapters. Then I tried a three-part approach, whereby the first part was for history, the second part for my story, and the third part for bringing the two together. No matter what I tried, the stories were weakened rather than strengthening by each other. Finally, I conceded that it wasn’t working. Finally, I let my thesis go.

The resistance didn’t stop there. When I began putting my experiences down on paper, I realised how exposed I felt, writing a full-blown memoir. I hadn’t just been holding onto my thesis for the sake of resourcefulness. I’d been hiding behind it; hunkering in its leeside out of harm’s way.

What was I afraid of?

Making a complete fool of myself for a start. Being called narcissistic, self-indulgent, self-absorbed, lacking self-awareness, annoying. Writing all about myself instead of something more important, like conservation, climate change or gender. Needlessly adding myself to an already saturated market of privileged white woman who travel to exotic places to find themselves. The list of fears goes on.

I’m told all writers struggle with fear. It’s one of the reasons so many people talk about writing a book instead of doing it. It also explains the hordes of writing gurus and their inspirational slogans: Someone needs your story! Action cures fear! Write it anyway! That list goes on too.

The fear never goes away, but nor does the desire to write my story and share it with the world. More specifically, I look forward to these three things:

I savour the thought of holding my book in my hands; tracing my thumb down its spine and flicking playfully through its pages. I’m endlessly curious to find out what my story looks like – how I’ll articulate what I learned and which scenes from my life I’ll choose to show it. And I’m excited for the experiences this book will make possible. The people and opportunities it will bring my way. The new adventures it will spark.

Forging on and finishing this book is also, in a way, the final chapter of my story. If I learned anything on my travels to the ends of the earth, it’s that sometimes you have to let go of your brilliant plan in order to make space for something even better. I planned to write a scholarly book but that whimsical inner voice knew best. And I now know better than to ignore it.

So, I keep going. I write it anyway.

P.S. My PhD thesis is available here.