Sharing my Snowflakes, Sunshine, Puppy Dogs, and Rainbows

Glad to see some of you stayed in the car and are still willing to ride along with me on my journey! But we have a small problem. I’m not sure how to tell you this without scaring you, so I guess I’ll just spit it out.  There’s no roadmap for this trip. And I’m still not exactly certain where we’re going. But I know I’m a pretty good driver, even though the road ahead appears to be a lot like me, and by that I mean it's a little curvy, pretty hilly in spots, and rough and awfully dark in some places. (And I’ve told you before about my irrational fear of the dark!)

To make matters more complicated, I think it’s starting to snow. So, if you’re scared, you’d better buckle up now or hop out while we’re still going slow. Because sometimes I tend to drive 90 miles an hour, pedal to the metal, with headlights off and windows down. And I frequently choose to ride without a seatbelt or a helmet. That’s just how I roll.

I know it seems right now as if we’re still on cruise-control because if you’ve been with me in this vehicle for a while, you know I’ve been struggling in my quest to become a blogger and a writer. I’ve spent a lot of time researching everything I can find on how to find my “true voice” and find a topic that makes me really excited to write, one that others will care to read about. Months after declaring myself to be !A WRITER!, I’m still searching to find some “thing” I care about, something that moves me so much, I want to share it with the world. And it’s incredibly frustrating to feel I have continued to fail in finding my “thing.” I know I want to live a life on FIRE, but it seems I can’t even find a spark to start the flame.

And then a thought occurred to me yesterday. What if the journey of trying to find my “thing”……. IS MY THING!? Because what I’ve found is that anytime I write about myself, and my own travels on this insane excursion we call “life,” my writing seems to flow like a flooded river, and the response I get is overwhelming and amazing.  And WHAT IF THAT’S WHY YOU'RE IN THE CAR WITH ME?!

Nawwwwwww.  That can’t be it. There are plenty of other people out there who write about their journey to self-discovery. I want to be different. Hell, I AM different, we all know that. It seems to me that writing about “finding myself” has been done by many others before me. If I wrote about myself, I’d be just a tiny snowflake in a massive blizzard of other stories. There is a virtual avalanche of narratives about finding a life that’s fulfilling and true to yourself. Nobody would be able to tell my story apart, and I’d be an insignificant snowflake in the blinding blizzard of self-awareness journeys. No one would care about MY snowflake, since snowflakes are rarely examined individually. And we all know, snowflakes are simply, collectively, just an insignificant part of “the snow” that makes a blizzard. 

But the more I thought about it, the more it started to make sense.  They say no two snowflakes are exactly the same, just as no two people or their stories are. In fact, they are all exceptionally different. And if you examine a snowflake closely, you will find each is extremely unique, intricately patterned, delicate yet robust, and wildly beautiful in it’s own way. If you catch a snowflake in your hand, you will find a fragile yet strong, tiny yet perfect, miracle of nature staring you in the face. One that’s survived a journey you can't imagine, and remained intact, beautiful in it’s own way, despite the raging storm. 

In their design, snowflakes appear insubstantial and weak. It’s unimaginable that they can survive the bitter cold, the driving wind, the violent collisions with other objects, the fierceness of a winter night, without simply disintegrating. Yet they DO survive, maybe not forever, but long enough to accomplish their mission. They make it through the cold and sometimes the darkness, battered by the whims of the wind in their blizzard, yet they remain intact and float to the ground, undamaged and dazzling in their deceptively insubstantial way, where they remain until the sun comes out again. 

And it seems maybe that’s what I want to write about. I want to write about MY snowflake—and my beautiful storm of life--and how I’ve managed to remain just a little bit like a snowflake, despite my challenges. How I’ve found a way to retain what’s beautiful on the inside of myself and remain intact, even when the blizzard of life has betrayed me. I want to write about how, at the end of every shit-storm I’ve survived in this life (and there have been plenty), how even against all odds, at the end of every the day and after every storm, I’ve managed to find warm sunshine, cute puppy dogs, and beautiful rainbows. 

And so it would seem after all this floundering about, I really just want to share my snowflakes with you. And my sunshine, puppy dogs, and rainbows. Luckily for all of us, I’m a good sharer.  

Who is the God of Blogging, Anyway?

So I mentioned yesterday that I have been spending a lot of time these last couple weeks in introspection and analyzing my own writing work.  In addition to what I shared yesterday, there is a whole lot more I discovered about myself, and how I want to do my “work.”  And I am going to share quite a bit more of it with you in the next few days because I have a whole lot to say about it. Imagine that, ME having a lot to say? Weird, huh? (Facebook fans, insert LOL here.)

One of the biggest things I found is that I need to throw some of the rules about blogging out the window.  I’d like to know, anyway, who is this “God of Blogging”, the “GOB,” that created the rules?  And what the hell does the “GOB” know about me, and what I have to say to the world? This “God of Blogging” preaches that I should condense everything I have to say to 500 or 600 words--or less? Are you kidding me? That’s simply not gonna happen, at least not for me, not every time. I am a WRITER! I WRITE!--A LOT!-- and I can’t always explain what I want to share in 500 words or less. That's too long for you,   Mr. God of Blogging? Well, you are aware that you don’t have to read my blog, right? (Although I do hope you will.)

But this is MY blog, and I created it for the express purpose of helping ME in my search to find the writer inside myself. And you are more than welcome to come along for the journey Mr. GOB, and I truly hope you do because travelling is always more fun in a group. But I am the driver and we’re going to go where I choose to steer us. You have to ride shotgun. And please try to remember, nobody likes a backseat driver. Don’t like the scenery from where you are? Want to go a different direction? Well, you can open the door and hop out of the car anytime you like. Hell, I’ll even pull over for you. But I’m certain of one thing; this journey is going to be the most fun I’ve ever had, and maybe it will be for you too. So stick with me kid, we’re going places you never imagined!

And this “GOB” of blogging (I'm starting to confuse that with S.O.B.) also says I “devalue” my work and am perceived as less articulate when I use "naughty" words? What!? “GOB” doesn’t like it when I use an expletive? Well then, the “GOB” can fuck off! Once again, he doesn’t have to read my blog. Sometimes I say hell, or damn, or shit, and even (*GASP*) fuck!!!  And a few other words that are considered inappropriate. Obviously, I know how to make substitutions, and I also know how to make good use of the “theasaurus” tool. And I don’t use them constantly, but sometimes they do help to make a point. So from now on, when it’s a time I would normally use such a word in conversation, it’s going to be used in my blog too. No more censoring myself, or worrying about offending people, or editing and rewriting my work to be as politically correct and generally acceptable as possible.

Because even though I know how to be a “proper lady,” when needed, I admit that I am a little bit socially offensive. Yes, that's right, I'm taboo. I’m a multi-tattooed Harley rider and a "party-boater" who's been seen in a thong bikini (or slightly topless) more than once, a crazy dog-lady, and a traveler living abroad, an "ex-pat" in a foreign country. I’m a bold entrepreneur who fought the State of Iowa (and won!), and then helped re-write the laws for an entire industry in my state. I’m a former prison staffer on a violent sex offender unit (working with rapists and murderers), and until recently, a secret survivor of sexual abuse as a child and physical abuse as an adult. I am also a product of a twice-broken home, the undeniable black sheep of the family, the only girl in a family of five brothers. I'm a "near-death" survivor of a ruptured brain aneurysm that should have killed me, and yet I still smoke cigarettes (insert another *GASP*) and I drink alcohol too, occasionally more than I should. I'm on my third marriage--yes, I said third (if you count my first marriage of four months), and I’m childless by choice. I’m a social renegade who carries a knife everywhere I go, and am not afraid to use it. I can be a scrappy little bitch, and sometimes I swear like a truck driver. I am a rule-breaker, a booty-shaker, and a path-maker. Very rarely am I the peace-maker. And, yes, (sometimes) I eat cheesecake for breakfast. There are a lot of socially questionable things are simply part of who I am and what makes me tick, and I am not going to hide them any longer.

So from here forward, I intend to share ALL of those things. I'm going to tell my story, the whole story, to bare my soul to you, dear readers, even the ugly parts. From now on, if you choose to stick with me, and although this blog is still primarily for me, it will also be for you. I’m going write as if I’m speaking to my best friends, my “people,” my traveling buddies, the ones who “get me”--and I'm going to speak as if we are the only people in the world who matter. And I’ll just have to hope that there are other people out there who might also be interested in what I have to say and join us on this awesome journey. If you're one of them, hop on in, there’s still plenty more room left in the vehicle!

Don't Let It End Like This, Tell Them I Said Something.

A few of you have noticed that I haven’t been blogging for the last couple of weeks. I’m making up for it by having a WHOLE LOT to say today, and probably tomorrow too. I have some valid explanations for my absence, but I’m not going to list them all out for you, because in the scheme of things the excuses don’t matter. I know I have let YOU down, my friends and readers, my supporters, and my blogging community, by completely bailing out and dropping out of sight without a word for almost three weeks.

In the end, though, it’s really not quite as simple as that. I haven’t stopped writing altogether and I have produced many pieces in the last few weeks, even during the holiday craziness, and in spite of gaining a 19-year-old “son” during the last month. (Damn, kids and holidays together are a LOT of work!) But I spent days upon days revisiting and rewriting almost every piece I wrote and still couldn’t bring myself to post a single one. And yesterday I sent every single thing I’ve written in the last few weeks to the trash bin. Why? Because it was all crap.

What was wrong with it?! What made it crap? The answer is nothing. And yet, everything. The posts were all readable enough, in the technical aspects at least, and maybe even slightly entertaining or interesting. I met a reader in person for the first time yesterday and we were discussing this. I told her a little about something I had written and deleted. She said to me, “but maybe somebody would have enjoyed it!?” And a few might have. But every time I proofed what I had written, it just didn’t feel right. I desperately WANTED to write something--anything--and tried many times. But the harder I tried, the more I failed. The words just wouldn’t come to me easily or naturally the way they usually do. All I could produce was “fluff”—lame, uninspiring, and boring.

After spending some time analyzing my work, I realized that none of what I produced felt true to myself or moved me in any real way. I wasn’t FEELING it, and it wasn’t feeling ME. I wasn’t writing about anything that I truly cared about or was excited about, and the evidence was in the lackluster results. My efforts clearly showed that I still haven’t found anything I’m very passionate about writing about. It was also obvious I wasn’t writing the way I would normally express myself, and that I had become too conscious of the possible critics. Consequently, I wasn’t writing in my “true” voice. I was censoring myself, and in trying so hard to please everyone else and be proper, I was hurting my own creativity.

I had thought it would be enough to just keep writing about something (anything), and that continuing to blog about my trivial day-to-day life experiences and my attempts at becoming a writer would help my passion just magically find me. But that hasn’t been the case. It’s obvious that I still need to do some work to find that “thing” that evokes such fiery emotion for me that I can’t NOT write about. I don’t know if any of you can identify with how frustrating and heartbreaking it is to feel you are wandering through life with no real passion for anything. It sucks.

Being unable to find even just ONE thing that really stirs my soul--something that makes me feel ALIVE!--leaves me feeling like a failure, like a sinking ship full of boring, meaningless words.  And I’m a woman overboard, arms waving over my head, screaming “Hey I’m over here!” to the empty vastness of the ocean. I’m drowning in all the possibilities spilling out of the ship, but unable to grasp one “thing” to cling to. I can't quite reach the thing that will keep my head above water and help me to survive. But I'm still swimming. For now.

My friends and family give me shit for saying this, but—here’s the thing: I truly believe I survived my brain aneurysm four years ago because I still have some purpose left on this earth, something amazing left to accomplish during this existence. I just don’t know what that thing is yet but I do know it has to do with my writing. What I also know is, I want to write about something that matters, something earth-shattering, something that changes peoples lives--SOMETHING EPIC! So why can’t I find that something to begin with—ANYTHING—that I’m passionate about? I’m spending a lot of time right now researching that too, and I’ll let you know what I find out.

In the meantime, I have been returning over and over again to a quote I saw recently that really struck a nerve with me. I have seen it attributed to both Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary, and a character in the book “Don Quixote” (which I should mention I’ve never read but would like to) and it goes like this:
“DON’T LET IT END LIKE THIS. TELL THEM I SAID SOMETHING”

I’m not exactly sure why, but I can’t get that quote out of my head. What I can say is, I promise I won’t let it end like THIS. I may not be able to blog every single day, but I am going to keep swimming in this ocean of words. I will continue the process and write about it regularly until I find my “thing.” And then, I will write about my “thing!” I promise you that someday, you won’t have to tell “them” I said something--I will have said it myself. And I will keep on trying to say something--anything, everything--until the day I draw my last breath.

What a Girl Wants, or "My Christmas Wish List"

I haven’t posted for a few days and I feel a little embarrassed. Although I have been writing other things, I haven’t kept up with my commitment to blog every day. It seems I’ve been playing the role of “mom” and “housewife” too much lately, doing lots of cooking and cleaning and laundry, and it’s definitely wearing on me. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not good at it, just like my mom wasn’t. Just like I’m not good at saying what I want or need from dear hubby, or the teenager who's become our “son,” whom we ADORE, and who is staying with us full time right now.

Our "son!"

But with Christmas just around the corner I decided I needed to start asking for what I want, so I started writing a “ Wish List” the other night. Not because anyone asked what I wished for, but more as an outlet for all that I've been holding in. And, finally the words just came pouring out that evening. It quickly morphed into something more than just a Christmas wish list, and I know it's a little long, but please hang in there with me til the end, because I need to get this off my chest.

So, what DO I want? Well, I want someone to throw away, refill, or replenish anything they’ve emptied, or write it on the shopping list if it’s completely gone. I want someone besides me to take the trash out BEFORE it overflows onto the cupboard floor. I want someone besides me to notice the breadcrumbs around the toaster, the juice spills in front of the fridge, or the jelly smeared on the counter, and wipe it up themselves. And the dried toothpaste in the sink. Just once.

And once in a while I want someone to say, “Can I help you make dinner tonight?” I want someone (besides me) to push their chair back in when leaving the dinner table, after saying, “Thank you for working SO hard on that delicious meal.” Even if it wasn’t delicious. Every so often, I want someone to offer, “Let me do the dishes tonight, you go relax.” Even if it was a bad day and you don’t feel like it. I have bad days too, I just never tell you. I know everyone works hard, and I appreciate it. And I probably won't take you up on the offer anyway. But honestly, I despise being “JUST the housewife" and cooking and cleaning and whatnot, and I rarely ever truly FEEL like doing any of it. Truthfully, I was NEVER cut out for this, but I do it to care for you, and for US. And I always appreciate the offer to help, even if it's refused.

I also want to be told your clothes need washed the DAY before, NOT the hour before, they are needed. I’m not asking anyone to do the laundry-GOD FORBID, please DON’T touch my clothes! Just give me a little advance notice, and I’d be happy to do it for you. But I am not a servant or an employee waiting to jump at your every request. I do have other things I am working on, even if it appears I’m just “looking at my computer.” Whether you don't understand, or don't want to believe it, I AM aspiring to become more than just the maid, cook, meal server, and laundry facilitator. And I intend to succeed.

I want someone to go downstairs in the dark with me every single night to take the puppies out to potty without fail. I want someone to say, “I am aware you have an irregular, childish fear of the dark, and even though I don’t understand it, I know it is very real to you, and I will not belittle you. I’m here to protect you, night and day, no matter what.” I want someone who will not make fun of my fears in front of others or write them off as irrational. I don’t ask for much, but I’m asking for this.

I'm Listening!

I want someone to say, “Tell me about your day,” and actually listen while I explain my day. No multi-tasking, writing of invoices, taking phone calls, checking email or texts, channel surfing, or scanning the internet at the same time. No wandering away while I speak, saying, “Go on, I can hear you from outside.” Just someone to be present, and actually listen. With eye contact. Even if only for ten minutes.

I want someone to say, “You look really beautiful today” and mean it--even if I’m a filthy, sweaty mess and haven’t showered all day. I’d love someone to say, “That dress/jewelry/hat, etc., would look great on you!” and then go buy it for me. And have it actually look good on me. Or suggest, “Get out your fanciest dress out and highest heels, fix your hair, and be ready by 7!” And not tell me where we’re going. It could be just a date at home, or a simple picnic dinner on a blanket under the stars, a drive to a romantic hideaway, or a unique destination. I want someone to wake me up with breakfast in bed. AFTER the dogs have been fed and let out to potty. French toast with lots of butter and syrup. Not everyday, once is enough. Ok, maybe twice. Surprise me, and I just might surprise you.

And finally, I want two back-to-back days off from ALL household duties, including cooking, each week. Yes, TWO whole days, a weekend, free from cooking, cleaning, laundry, and caring for the entire family! Everybody else gets days off, I want a weekend too. I’ll even compromise and accept just one day, as long as it’s completely free from caring for anyone other than myself. No household chores, laundry, cooking, or cleaning. I'll even up the ante by caring for "the kids" since they can't care for themselves. Because we all know, weekends are meant for enjoying time with your family and friends, appreciating the beauty and excitement life has to offer, and relaxing and recharging your batteries. And I'd like to have one day a week to do just that.

I’m only asking for one day each week. Maybe we could spend it together and do something fun. Because when you look back on these days from the future, I guarantee you it won't be the memories of the days you worked so hard and your house was clean and your yard was perfect that you'll cherish.

So what do I really want? I want what most people want, someone to care FOR me, not just receive my caretaking. Someone to share my life with me, not just share my chores with. I want someone to occasionally say my name lovingly, like a song or a soft, sweet caress, as they would say the name of their beloved. I don't want to hear my name as just the demanding, identifying sound called out only when something is wanted or can’t be found. I want what I'm sure every mom wants, because even though I am not truly a mom, I sure do feel like one lately.

I'm not saying dear hubby, or our "son" do not do these things. They do. I also know I am just as guilty of forgetting to do the little things that mean so much, which is what prompted this diatribe and served as a reminder to me as well. But the best part of this list? It doesn’t even have to be Christmas to give or receive any of these gifts. Very few of them need gift wrap, or even a bow. And I think I'd better go get started working on some of these things myself right now.

Two Tiny Killers, One Big Creepy Crawler

I think I’ve mentioned before that I am learning to co-exist with the creepy crawlers that are everywhere in our lovely little village. But last week there was one (usually harmless) critter who tormented my dogs and me, and it became a battle of epic and humorous proportions.

It began when I heard our two tiny doxies, Kitti and Bunni, singing the canine "song of their people," calling their humans--and the entire animal kingdom--to action with a mixture of baying, howling, and high-pitched screeching. Those lyrics are reserved for the times they’ve found something particularly tantalizing. It’s a terrifying sound because it usually means they’re in danger. Hearing it sent me flying down the stairs three at a time.

When I arrived at the fence, which they were brutally attacking, there was nothing there. No angry tarantula, no pissed-off possum, no dinosaur iguana, no killer snake. None of the usual suspects. Not even a harmless (but tasty!) gecko. Yet they continued their frantic cries, pawing and chewing at the gate, splintering the wood with their tiny little teeth.

Having rescued my girls many times before, I’d at least had the forethought to grab a broom on my way downstairs. Irritated at the false alarm, I jabbed it at the gate to show my frenzied little monsters that there was nothing for them to worry about. However, as I pulled my broom away, one huge claw snapped out, and my two tiny killers nearly lost their minds.

It was a massive land crab! He was hiding by hanging upside down on the big rolling gate. Harmless enough, but as the pups continued to harrass him, his angry, powerful claw nipped closer and closer to their tiny, ferocious noses. By now, the neighbor had appeared, nervously checking to see if the depths of hell had opened up at my gate. The noise was unrelenting as my diminutive dogs voiced their rage at the crab's intrusion! Hurriedly, I scooped them up and tossed them inside. In response, they cranked up the volume, echoing their frustration for all the village to hear. I headed back downstairs, intending to shoo the crab away with my trusty broom.

And that’s where things got ugly. The more I pushed that damn crab around in an attempt to get him to leave, the more he came at me. I just wanted him to go away, but he wasn’t leaving without a fight.  He angrily snapped at the broom. Over and over, he grabbed the bristles just long enough for me to prepare to toss him, then dropped to the ground and scuttled back under the gate. I wielded that broom like a ninja warrior. He feinted and bobbed like Mike Tyson, and snapped at my bare toes with fury. His claws grabbed for purchase with every swish of the broom. And I started sweating. And cussing. And beating at that damn fence with a vengeance.

At long last, nearly crying, I managed to sweep that angry bastard from under the gate and into the middle of the lane. With one last heave ho, I hurled him into the tall grass next to the water. Severely mangled, one eyestalk broken and dangling drunkenly on his back, he clumsily plopped into the the canal. Exhausted, I returned to the yard where I saw the neighbor watching me. I waved and called out to him that everything was all right. He grimaced awkwardly and turned away. About this time, I saw the passengers on the water taxi, which cruises by our place many times a day, glaring at me with a mixture of shock and disgust.

“No worries!” I reassured them, “Just defeating a killer land crab. I’ve got it under control!” And there you have it, just another day in paradise.  And for the rest of the day, at least after the dogs finally calmed down, it most certainly was.

Finding Jesus? My Re-Birth Day

Last week, I posted on Facebook that the hubby and I were going out, as we do every year on the Monday after Thanksgiving, to celebrate my “Re-Birth Day.” Later, we saw friend in the village who asked if we were celebrating the day I “found Jesus” and was “reborn” the religious way. Um….. No!…. Hell NO! But I found it pretty funny considering my extreme aversion to religion, and after I stopped laughing I explained the story. So I thought today I’d share with you what my “Re-Birth Day” is all about.

In 2009, on the Monday after Thanksgiving, I suffered a massive hemorrhage of a blood vessel in my brain. The medical term is a “ruptured aneurysm.” It causes physical and mental impairments similar to a stroke, and often death, because the blood in the cranium kills brain cells. The bleeding was so extensive the doctors didn’t know if I would live through the night. Luckily they stabilized me, and the neurosurgeons were able to repair the blown-out vessel using small titanium coils and a stent. Amazingly, when they pulled me out of the drug-induced coma five days later, I was functioning! And I wanted my Blackberry so I could get back on Facebook- STAT!

Fortunately for me, I recovered fully within a few months and that is part of why we celebrate the event as my “Re-Birth Day” every year. Some of our friends say they wouldn’t want to be reminded of such a painful life-threatening event. But the other part of why we celebrate is because it was the beginning of some wonderful changes in our life. Surviving it was the catalyst to our seeking out a way to live a different life, a life we’d only dreamed about previously.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying being left with a permanent hole the size of a pinky finger in my head, which dear hubby calls my whale hole, was wonderful. It wasn’t. The pain was unbearable, like having a sharp axe buried in my head for months. And four years later I still feel out of balance on stairs. And at least a quarter of my memory seems to be wiped out. And I have scars that make my hair grow funny. And even a normal headache scares me to death. My party-girl life is over because enduring a hangover is unthinkable. But we still choose to celebrate because I DID get to live again, and we realize we could have had a very different ending to our story. We celebrate because we have decided to make it a priority to do whatever WE WANT with whatever time we have left. We're still alive to celebrate, not everyone is so fortunate.

So for us, celebrating my Re-Birth Day is a symbol of more than just surviving, it’s a celebration of the start of living our life the way we dreamed. It’s the day we say thank you, precious ruptured aneurysm, for giving us the opportunity to celebrate living instead of mourning dying, and start realizing our dreams. Without the valuable lesson that tiny but deadly hemorrhaged blood vessel taught us, we wouldn’t be living the life we always wished for, but never thought we could have. We wouldn’t be here in Placencia. And right now, here is exactly where we want to be. So Happy Re-Birth Day to me - I wish the same for you. Minus the aneurysm, of course!

Beware of the Bitch, She's Giving Birth

Wow, I’m sure after yesterday’s post, you’re thinking that I am quite the overconfident, conceited, arrogant bitch, aren’t you?  After all, didn’t I just completely shred a fellow writer’s hard work? Didn’t I just “slice‘em & dice‘em” just because they composed an article and then (*GASP*) actually had the balls to get it published? Even worse, then I proceeded to say that I believed I could have done better? Pretty goddamn superior and full of myself, aren’t I?

Perhaps I should have been more clear about my thoughts, and that any perceived flaws were ONLY in MY OPINION. The connection I was trying to make was that obviously the editor didn’t see any faults, but yet I still saw things I would have changed. Maybe a better choice of phrase would have been to say I would have written it DIFFERENTLY, not “better.” At any rate, the point is, there is no doubt I am a severe, exacting, and harsh critic, whether of my own work or someone else’s. But ESPECIALLY of my own work.

Which is why, until now, I’ve avoided submitting a single thing to any publication. No matter how much effort I’ve put into guiding my message to perfection, I always think it could use just a little more revision. And because I work so hard at creating, nurturing, and revising what I write, my literary creations become almost child-like to me. And I’m afraid to give birth to them. I am terrified of sending that fragile, tiny, innocent bundle of thoughts and feelings out into the world, kicking and screaming, naked for all humankind to examine.

And like any mother, I want my baby to be perfect beyond compare. I want to protect it from the terrible things that could happen once it arrives in the world and takes on a life of its own. Horrifying things-- like having a fellow writer or a cold-hearted and ruthless critic shred it to pieces. And that’s the biggest obstacle that's been holding me back. Plain and simple FEAR. The fear that fruit of my labors isn’t good enough, or might be viewed as inadequate, possibly criticized, rejected, scorned, or disapproved of.

Writing this blog has been an amazing process in helping me overcome that anxiety. I haven’t completely conquered my fears. But with each post I write, I'm building courage and gaining confidence, even as I share my thoughts and feelings with the world  for anybody to dissect or destroy.  Yes, I’ve received a little negativity. And I've had a few people who don’t “get” me (dear hubby is probably number one on that list!). But it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as I was afraid it might, and I survived.  OMG, I’m Gloria Gaynor, and I WILL SURVIVE!

But more importantly, I have received an amazing and overwhelming amount of encouragement, advice, and positivity, and I am incredibly grateful for that. You, my friends and readers, are helping me move towards my goals by leaps and bounds! I admit there are still days that I have to swallow my panic and force myself to hit the “publish” button on my blog page. And when I do, my inner voice is still screaming “OH MY GOD, NOOOOO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”  But those days are getting fewer and farther between.  And someday soon, I hope I will be sharing a link with you to MY first published article.  And my writer friend will get the first shot at publicly and mercilessly shredding it. I promise you that.

I want to leave you today with a quote that has been all over the news feeds after Nelson Mandela’s death last night.  It couldn’t have been more appropriate for me at this point. He said, “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” RIP, Madiba