I’m scared.

There. It’s out. Writer hibernation isn’t good for the soul. Or the mind.  This post is my first step in moving past the fear of losing a part of myself.

Posting my fear is not a ploy to gain sympathy. It’s a form of self-therapy; a way to break through that proverbial wall I hide behind.

All in all, life is good.

Reminding myself how fortunate I am to be a mom, wife, friend, and daughter is a new practice I’ve acquired.  At forty-two, I’ve witnessed how abruptly circumstances can change and wallowing in the negative (that comes so easily, if I let it) isn’t beneficial.

Perfection is a myth…

A myth taught through fairy tales, denial and those motivational posters that littered my elementary school walls.

Embracing my imperfections has been HARD. Like swallowing cooked spinach HARD (sorry, spinach lovers!). I gag at the thought of placing those slimy, threadlike tentacles in my mouth, just like I internally fight to acknowledge  my mistakes.

But admitting things, such as how I forgot to pick up my kid one day – or maybe two days, or how I missed a kid’s otho appt for the third time, or how I gave our dog high blood pressure medicine (that was my husbands!) instead of his pricey, doggy allergy pill has taught me that being beautifully flawed is an asset.

It also helped me learn to laugh at myself…once poison control was called, of course.

Allowing grace inside my writing…

Giving myself grace in life allows me to grow in all those titles I listed above (mom, wife, ect.).

Yet, I can’t seem to carry over forgiveness when it comes to my writing. Or lack thereof.

I trip over my laziness and fall flat on my ass. I am harder on myself than anyone else and my inner critic hones in on my deficiencies no matter how many of my cheerleaders rally around.

Writing has never peacefully coexisted with wife-dom and motherhood.  My mental and Cloffice doors close and the creativity tingling in my veins gets pushed behind grocery lists, Target runs, and my job as the family social organizer.

Eventually, the urge to write ebbs becoming tired of poking at my insides and being ignored.

It technically becomes dormant. Only existing in the sketchy, half-ass dreams my subconscious creates once I will myself to sleep each night.

Writer hibernation isn’t dependent on seasons or weather. It’s determined by a harsher element:  Ones own self.

Depending on rescue from ones self is stressful.  More so than school pickup lines, club sports, politics or algebra homework.

So, like any self-persevering human does…we seek out the things we know we CAN do well. Like grocery lists, Target runs and cleaning out the closets.

Grand Re-opening!

Today, I’m shedding the coat of fear that hibernation lent me and stepping back into my Cloffice to write this post.

This will be my first blog post in a year. And no, it’s not perfect. It is not heavily laced with keywords to pick up traffic. It may be poorly written in a technical sense – but, it’s me and my truth.

And yes, that’s a little scary for a writer.

It’s time to let go of a preconceived notion: To be a writer, one must be a perfect writer.

Per Jennifer Probst’s Write Naked, “It’s okay to suck. Keep writing!”