On Sunday I realized I needed to buckle down and write my column. (Ha, I love that!) Tuesday is my deadline and while this weeks column was up and ready (I have to file a week early), next weeks was languishing somewhere in my brain and was in no real hurry to expose itself to me.
That's when it hit me! I can no longer rely on the luxury of inspiration as I do with this blog. I have to actively pursue topics. A wave of panic hit me. I have a responsibility to produce, on demand, interesting, captivating columns of roughly 500 words every single week! Oh. My. God. What if I'm a fraud? What if I can't sustain this? What if? What if? What if?
That's when the Barbie-brain kicked in. Talking myself off the ledge, I realized who gets hurt if I fail? My ego, my pride? It's not like this will be the first time that's happened. They're pretty battle-hardened. The kids? They already think I'm a lunatic, so no real loss there. Pat? He's hoping this writing thing takes off so he can retire and coach lacrosse forever, with the occasional golf game thrown in.
That's when I realized, I am a writer! I care. I have worked since I was 17. Admin jobs, marketing, parenting. Different aspects of the same thing really, making sure shit gets done, gets done right, and gets done on time. This, this writing thing, this is different. This is fun. This is terrifying. This, this is empowering. And I never want to stop.
Ever.
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