It has been quite an exciting time since I last posted here.  I completed Men With Pens’ Damn Fine Words business writing class (which totally kicked ass—I highly recommend it, and it re-opens May 7th), joined a freelance writers’ group, got my interim editing and proofreading website live (www.PremierProofing.com), and have been working on ideas for my writing website.

Moving forward feels good!

Even more exciting, I had my first guest post accepted at a successful website—Tyler Tervooren’s Advanced Riskology (thanks, Tyler!).  After so many years of keeping my writing to myself, I figured it was time to just ship something, dammit and stop waiting for conditions to be perfect.

Well, I succeeded at that!  Conditions certainly were not perfect, as the post ran earlier than I had anticipated, and the URL that ran with it led readers here….to an incomplete, non-revamped blog instead of the shiny, professional writer’s website that was SUPPOSED to be up before the post ran.

Oops!

So, my apologies to Advanced Riskology readers who clicked through and thought they’d see an example of someone who had all her shit together.  Mea culpa.

But, as much as my inner perfectionist is horrified and standing by with her whip o’ shame ready to berate me, I’m really OK with it.  Pollyanna-ish as it is, I really do believe everything happens the way it’s supposed to.

Will I lose some potential clients who are now thinking “How unprofessional!”  Yeah, probably.  Is it possible that there might be some people who appreciate my transparency and like my writing anyway despite my goofy mistake?  Maybe.

But I shipped.  I put something out into the Universe, and for that I am happy.  I’d rather fall flat on my face a million times than be stuck.

And I can assure you that I now have a great big fire lit under my ass to get the website up!

Good things are coming soon!

You know the POUND, POUND, POUNDing sound your heart makes when you narrowly avoid being flattened by an 18-wheeler or you mistakenly look at the wrong numbers on the Powerball website and think you’ve won the $47 million jackpot?  And then, you know how even when you realize that whatever it was that blew your brain circuits was a false alarm, it still takes a good five or ten minutes for your blood pressure to return to a safe level?  You know that feeling?

Well, I just got that feeling when I opened my inbox to see an e-mail with the subject line “Your details on the Damn Fine Words writing course.”  I know the results of the scholarship contest aren’t expected to be announced until the 22nd, but the primal lizard-brain part of me who read those words couldn’t get beyond “Yay, yay, yay, yay, yay!” to remember that.  For a few seconds, I really thought I had won a spot in the class.

Sure, part of the reason I want to win is simply competitive and a desire for validation.  I’d be horribly dishonest if I denied the part of me that is still an 8- or 9-year-old little girl who wants the teacher to mark up her paper with a big red A+ and tell her she’s special.  And since honesty (as even we not-yet-professional writers know) is one of the golden keys that unlocks the door to writing worth reading, I’m not going to start this writer’s journey by pretending that I wouldn’t wag my tail and feel soooooo goooood to get that pat on the head and yummy Milk Bone o’ praise.

But what’s kind of cool is that, maybe for the first time, that’s not what it’s all about, or even a main concern.  The reason I was so excited to think I’d won was that I really want to take the course.  I’m pumped up thinking about what I’d learn, and super-jazzed about the thought of actually being able to make my living by writing.  Something about the process of entering this contest has flipped a cosmic switch somewhere — for the first time ever, I really feel like I can do this.

So, whether I win the spot in the course or not is, in the end, not that critical (although I still really, really, really want to take it!).  I’m going to work my ass off, and find a way to make this writing thing happen, whether this class is the one that is meant to be or not.  So, Damn Fine Words or no Damn Fine Words…either way, the game is ON and I am IN.

P.S.  I’ve read enough Men With Pens, Copyblogger, and the like to know that — if I want to earn money writing — at some point I’m going to need to stop writing about “me, me, me” and start showing other people how what I can write will benefit them.  That’s part of what I’ll be learning in the course, too, if I am privileged enough to be able to participate.  But for right now, I’m excited just to be writing again.  It has been a long time, and I’ve missed it.  I may as well get all of my narcissism out now, while I still have a little dinky blog and nobody to impress!

I’ve been called Pollyanna more times than I care to count.  One of my core life values is that I believe in finding the good in every situation, and a gift in every disappointment.  I believe in living large, taking risks, being true to yourself, and setting the world on fire.

In other words, I don’t believe in whining, complaining, excuses, or settling.  Our lives are ours to make, and it’s our responsibility to do that.

I mostly do that, or at least I try.  In one area, though, I’ve been a hypocrite, and — in this, my first blog post — I’m calling bullshit on myself.

I’ve known since I was six years old that I was meant to write, and that I am a writer.  BUT I DON’T WRITE.

I’ve danced around the edges of the professional writing life:  English major, school essay-contest winner, professional editor and proofreader of others’ words….I’ve done everything I can to be involved in the life of language without ever having to risk, be vulnerable, or demand, expect, or believe I deserve payment for what I write.

These days I sit in a cubicle for way too many hours a day, in a job with zero creativity, making sure, again, that OTHERS’ words are presented correctly.  They’re not my words.  I hide behind them.

But I’m so TIRED of it!  I’m TIRED of not thinking I have anything to say.  I’m TIRED of being gone from my house ten hours a day and missing big chunks of my kids’ growing-up years because of my damn commute to my boring job.

But you know what I’m mostly freaking SICK of?  I’m sick of being scared.  I”m sick of feeling not good enough, and boring, and timid, and weak, just because I’m not The Bloggess or Anne Lamott or Mark Morford or Alexandra Franzen or Johnny B. Truant.  I’m sick of admiring other writers who write and who make a living at writing.  I’m sick of seeing braver people do exciting and creative things with language while I sit around feeling envious and unworthy and acting like I have to wait to be invited to some special secret writers’ club before I can start creating.

I’ve got lots of confidence and self-esteem in other areas of my life — but when it comes to writing, all I hear in my head is OK, but Not. Good. Enough.  And these are the internal mantras that stop me from starting: Not funny enough! Too wordy! Don’t have anything to say that hasn’t already been said, and said better by people way more talented than you!  It’s too overwhelming!  You’re too old! You’re too lazy!

A friend of mine who is a counselor always says that people don’t grow real self-esteem by pumping up their self-talk or chanting affirmations, but by doing esteemable things.  I’m a long-time serious student of personal development, and just about everyone who knows me thinks I’m the most positive person they know.  But it’s time for me to actually walk the “Rah rah, you’re awesome! Love yourself and follow your passions!” encouraging coach-talk that I give to everyone else, and to actually live the inspiring motivational quotes that I constantly post on my Facebook wall.

I’ve joked with a friend that I was going to start a blog someday called “This Is Bullshit!” because — even though I claim to believe in a philosophy of moving toward positives instead of away from negatives — the only time I’ve ever made a big, courageous move on anything in my life is when I’ve finally had enough and stood up and said “THIS IS BULLSHIT!”  Right now is one of my This Is Bullshit moments.  The life I’m living right now — ragged, small, scared, bored — is BULLSHIT!

I set up this blog a few weeks ago and wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, until now.  I’m a WRITER, dammit, and this is going to be the story of how I claimed it.  I’m forty-two years old, and I’ve known I was meant to be a writer since I was six years old and banging out stories on my dad’s typewriter.  I guess it’s about time I got on with it.

My intention when I sat down at the computer today was to research free copywriting training and resources and, if I couldn’t find any, to start looking at nearby colleges for something I could afford as an underemployed single mom.  I hadn’t even started my research and was reading a different blog for pleasure when I hopped from link to link and ended up at Men With Pens and a description of the Damn Fine Words writing class (www.damnfinewords.com) and contest.  I don’t believe in accidents.  I think having this blog set up, as tiny of an action as that was, was the spark that set the universe into motion to get me where I need to be.

Continuing to hide is not acceptable.  It has turned me into a liar, and I can’t live with the lie any longer; it’s killing me inside, and wasting my life.  I want more.  For me that doesn’t mean I want to be A-List, or famous, or write the proverbial Great American Novel, because that’s not what it’s about.  It’s about being real, and earning my living doing what I am. It’s about fulfilling my potential so I can show others how to do that, too, and give something back to the world. And I know I can do it, as soon as I stop telling myself I can’t.