I was always a passionate reader. Before I had children I would spend all weekend in bed reading and only leave the bedroom to get something to eat or walk the dogs when their whining for attention became too annoying to ignore.
It took time for the idea of becoming an author to develop. When it did I shouted it down with all sorts of self doubt, believing I could never do it, I would never be good enough etc.—you know the drill I’m sure. When I told my husband he simply said, ‘great idea, why not’. Why not? Easy for him to say, I thought, because he’s never been held back by that stupid, annoying critic hiding in the brain that appears whenever I try to do something that challenges me.
I listened to that critic for years because I foolishly thought it knew what it was talking about. Then one day I couldn’t listen any more. My years were advancing not rewinding. I couldn’t bare to reach the end and think, geez I wish I did that. Sure there will be some of those moments, but I couldn’t let my passion be one of them.
For me it wasn’t about affirmations in front of the mirror designed to tell myself I was worthy, I could succeed. I simply couldn’t allow myself to live under the cloud of that critic any more. I couldn’t deny myself.
So I started typing and I started reading about the craft. I went to workshops and I met other authors. I joined a local writing group and chatted with like minded people. Before I knew it I finished my first book.
I did it. I finished something I thought I could never do. I proved to that stupid inner critic that it was wrong. The best part of all was that I loved it. Every minute of it.
Life is too short to waste it on doing things that zaps you dry. Sure not every day will be easy or worth remembering, but don’t let those off days transform into the story of your life.
I’m not where I want to be. Not yet, but I took a giant leap in that direction. I feel empowered and inspired. I know I will keep going.
I hope you do to.