When I was 10, we moved from one side of town to the other side.  That move draws a line in my memories such that any recollections I have of the neighborhood around that first house are in the context of 5^th grade and younger.

I look back now and realize that those under-10-years-old playtime memories were enveloped in a wonderful freedom that was unique to that period of my life.  I was not old enough for a job, too young to have much homework and yet I was still old enough to have quite a bit of leeway in how I chose to spend my time.

I walked home from school by myself (different era then), changed from my school dress to play clothes, and then the afternoon was mine until dinner time.  I played with my neighborhood friends, rode my bike (with no helmet), played Barbies and tag, occasionally did crafts, roller-skated or curled up with a favorite book.  I did all of that without the least bit of worry about how good I was at doing any of those things; I simply did them for the sheer enjoyment of doing them.

That all changed by the time I hit pre-teens.  I started caring about my grades in school and by junior high I tried hard to get onto the honor roll. By high school, I confess I was “way over the top” in terms of viewing myself through a lens of how I did academically.  I put a lot of unneeded stress on myself in defining myself by accomplishment.  My Dad, though he meant well, encouraged us kids to be “the best”, whatever that meant.

By the time I graduated high school, I thought being “the best” was supposed to be my aim in life. From then on, I struggled with whether all I did was enough for the world, for my parents, for me.  “The Best” always seemed just a bit further off from wherever I was.  That struggle to reach some goal…but I could not tell where the finish line was…created a lot of anxiety within me.  I carried that anxiety on through college, on into my working life, and into my life as a parent.

I have (finally) reached a point in my life where I now realize that the under-age-ten activities that I gleefully did after school each day represented a better premise in life.

“Dare to do something for the sheer fun of it.  Don’t worry about whether it’s good enough.  The enjoyment is what counts.”

I started blogging almost 4 years ago now.  I started the blog to deal with emotional pain and the process of writing has been enormously cathartic for me.  Something else has happened to me though in these years of writing…I have found that the process of creating the written word has rekindled that under-ten-year-old joy of doing something for the sheer pleasure of it.

I am taking a step towards something new in my life.  I’m still a small business owner with my husband; that’s what I do and it puts food on the table and pays the bills.  Who I am though, that is a different answer.  I am now daring to call myself a writer, something I have dreamed of for many years.  About a month ago, I took two steps towards that dream.  First, I finished up the manuscript for a book I had completed 12 years ago for my two adopted daughters and then left on my computer.  I plan to self-publish enough copies for the family.  I haven’t the faintest idea how to do that but will figure it out.

My second step took place when I finally realized that I could choose to write a book for the sheer enjoyment of creating a story.  Regardless of whether any publisher will accept it, regardless of how many people will end up reading it, I realized I was now free to do this.  I am currently somewhere in the research phase and beginning the outline.  It will be historical fiction and my plan is to weave a “bitter to better” plot line though it.

I am writing a book!  I say that to myself sometimes and I grin inside.  How fun is that!