Checking in 25: 2.12.21

Hi guys,

It’s my birthday today!

I find myself feeling contemplative this morning. Thinking back to the year I’ve had. We could never have predicted this one. I know everyone is saying that, but it is the truth. I’ve been writing for nearly three decades. But 2020 proved to be the jumper cables to my sensitive bits I needed to start taking it seriously.

Most of the time I feel like I’m barely moving, barely making progress. So, I make a conscious effort to constantly remind myself how much I’ve accomplished. I started this website in April of last year. I finished the first draft of my first novel (still a LONG way to go before I query it, but still the dreaded first draft is done). I attended (online) two writing conferences. I entered one of the most well-known short story writing contests in the world. I have become an active member of a writing group. And I am going to be querying for two anthologies at the end of the month (which is coming up so fast and I still have so far to go on my editing).

My weekly word count has gone up, my editing has become more effective (thanks to the writing craft books I’ve been reading this last year), and I’m actually finishing things!

I still frequently have days when I get frustrated with myself for not moving faster. But, it’s hard to change long existing habits. Like putting off my writing to attend/do more normal social things. To do what others want or expect of me. I always felt guilty for wanting to give my precious time to my writing rather than to the people in my life. Writing was the mushroom in my life. Hiding in the shadows and stealing scraps of nourishment from other ‘more important’ areas whenever possible.

The craziest part is that it was all self-imposed. It all came from me. No one made me feel guilty. I made me feel guilty. No one forced me to go along with them instead of writing. No one ever seemed particularly interested when I mentioned I wrote, so I took it as a sign that no one was interested, or they didn’t think it was worthy of their time. Then I would never mention it again. But I never tried to make it sound interesting. I downplayed. I demurred. I was never excited to tell them about it, so why should they be excited to hear about it? It has always been something I am particularly shy about. I was embarrassed. I didn’t feel like a writer. I didn’t feel like I could claim it. I didn’t feel worthy, which brings to mind an image of me bowing at the feet of ‘real’ writers like Stephen King, Jim Butcher, and Sherilyn Kenyon screaming ‘I’m not worthy’ at the top of my lungs in a parody of that scene from Wayne’s World (does that date me?).

But this year, I started to tell people I’m a writer. I never did that before. If it happened to come up in conversation, which is rarely does, I would casually mention that I write and only follow up if they seemed interested. But I would never boldly claim ‘I am a writer’. And let me tell you, forcing my little mushroom into the light is scary and difficult. It kicks and screams the whole way. Hello inner critic and imposter syndrome. (Two things, I learned this year, nearly everyone has.)

I don’t want to doubt myself anymore. I don’t want to be self-deprecating anymore. I want to be brave and bold and stronger.

I want to kick that little mushroom into the light and let it grow and flourish and transform into a grove of aspens. I want the roots to grow deep and wide so it can weather storms. I want the wind to whisp through its leaves and let it bend and stretch, but never break. I want its branches to reach toward the sky and bask in the sun. Until it can’t remember ever hiding in the dark.