so. i’ve always known i wanted to write a book.

in third grade, we had to do an All About Me project. one of the prompts was a list of three jobs you wanted to have when you were older.  mine were:

1.       write books
2.       be a famous country singer (and obvs wear awesome boots)
3.       be on broadway

and you know what, guys? I TOTALLY ACCOMPLISHED ALL THREE. Mostly. I did write a book—The Little Mermaid 2, about how Ariel had to turn Prince Eric and her kids back into mermaids so they could save King Triton from the evil Sea Urchin (he was a homeless boy, turned evil by his hunger. pretty deep for a fourth grader, eh? I KNOW, RIGHT.)  the country singer thing doesn’t count because some of those Garth Brooks tunes are really catchy when you’re eight and don’t really know why the thunder is rolling and whatnot. and i was eponine this one time for choir.

SO. there you have it.
chick, check and chickety check.

except, for real? writing a novel has always been on my List of Things to Do Before I Die (along with swimming with sea turtles, owning a pair of Louboutins and planting an herb garden—all super important things, but I digress). and the thing is, it’s been on my mind FOR SO LONG—one of those someday kind of things, you know--something for the future? except now someday is here, i’m a little bit lost. where do i start?

how do i translate something that has always been a dream into reality?

i've been writing stories my entire life, but always just for fun. there has always been a huge margin for error—in fact, no margin at all; the entire page was a big blank space for mistakes—so i never had to take it (or myself) seriously. but now i've come to a point where the time feel right to try.

i want to know what–if anything–i’m capable of.

it turns out i'm capable of doubting myself. and flailing. a lot.

this trying thing? taking down the big shiny dream that's been sitting on my someday shelf my entire life?

it’s hard.
and i can’t help but question myself.

maybe i’m not meant to be a writer.

could be. not everyone is. and a lot of people try without success. but when i think about NOT writing, i get anxious. when i go days without putting SOMETHING from my brains into words on a page, i feel… overwhelmed. it feels like sensory overload.  i get little snippets of dialogue crashing through my head every day. scenes play themselves out like filmstrips behind my eyes while i pretend i’m a productive member of the working class. if i let them build and build in my head without an outlet, i think i might legitimately go insane.

so that has to mean something, right?

whether i’m meant to be published is one question, but whether i’m meant to write? i think i already know the answer to that.

maybe this isn’t the right time to start.

yeah, but if not now—when? is life ever going to slow down for me? probably not. i’m a single mom with an active eight year old and a demanding job—one i must keep, if said active eight year old is to continue to eat on a regular basis.

so maybe there is no RIGHT TIME. maybe it’s all about MAKING the time i have right.

i can sit here and fling excuses at myself all day about what is keeping me from realizing a lifelong dream–no, expectation--but when it comes down to it, i’m the only one in my way. if i want this to happen, then i need to make it happen.

so i will. 

* taken from head full of doubt/road full of promise by the avett brothers. have you heard this song? i put it on every time i'm feeling uninspired. and oh. THE HEARTSWELLS. and the TEARS IN MY EYEBALLS. please listen if you're not familiar--or just look up the lyrics. (also they're pretty bearded southern fellows. SO THERE'S THAT.)