I should probably insert all the clichés about time and how fast it goes by and all that but I am too pumped for that. Because I have spent so much time thinking about writing and what I would say and how my tone would be interpreted and if anyone would read it. So much time. Then one day, I started to actually do it. Every. Single. Day.
I wrote about the embarrassing stuff and the mundane and the sad and the wonderful. I wrote when I was tired and letdown and angry and fearful and even unexplainably optimistic (though never all those things at the same time). I wrote when I had tons of other stuff I had conditioned myself to see as more important (like folding towels). I wrote after the kids went to bed and when they were right next to me putting their icy cold feet on me and jarring me into reality. Every day, even though I thought I couldn’t possibly, I wrote.
I stared at the bricks in front of me, or spun around on my seat or walked on the treadmill. I wrote when I felt excited about submissions I had sent out and I wrote when I didn’t hear back from them. But I kept writing.
I have completed entire posts and then deleted them both accidentally (agh!) and on purpose (did I ever tell you why I don’t eat egg salad? I almost did!). Crazy, wonderful things started to happen. I started learning how to write like I meant it. I learned how to carve out a space just to work on the craft. I read about writing, I asked about writing and above all I wrote.
Six months ago, I started this blog thinking that I needed an outlet to try to get to work doing the thing that I love to do. To think that I am halfway through the year I set out to accomplish feels like a victory already. I want to say thank you, sincerely, to each of you reading this and I wish you the best of luck in running down your own dreams.