It seems like for the past couple of months I’ve been riding in the front car of a roller coaster.
I’m not talking about the kiddie coaster you’d find at the parking lot carnival, I’m talking about the gigantic wooden structure that creaks and sways as your car plummets down the never ending 97° drop.
And you scream. Loudly.
And the bottom of your stomach is ripped out as you scream some more.
For the past couple of months I’ve been doing things that scare me — and I’m not talking about spending the day at the Mall of America (although I did that on Sunday and once again — surprisingly — lived to tell about it). No, I’m talking about VERY IMPORTANT THINGS that have to do with my writing, and because even after two years of being able to call myself a writer without laughing (which is actually a lie because really that only happened about six months ago) I have a hard time coming to grips with the fact that I’m more than just a Target shopping, nap taking, laundry doing, taxi driving, grilled cheese sandwich making machine.
And frankly I’m finding myself kind of exhausted by these scary things. Exhilaratingly exhausted.
The new book (and all the hidden details that go into it) and the new blog space (and all the hidden details that go into it) aren’t the only things that have been causing me to shake in my boots (and by ‘boots’ I mean fuzzy socks, of course). In less than a month I’m going to my first writing conference — in another state — on a plane — all. by. myself.
And did I mention it is a very, very small plane?
And have I mentioned that I’m not a fan of flying…even on a very big, big plane?
Oh, that’s right. I have.
But I’m going to face my fears (which may or may not include taking a Xanax…or two) because once there I will not only get to meet some of my virtual co-author friends and other cyber friends I’ve made over the past year but will get to attend one of the premier humor writing conferences in the country — the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop — and I’m so excited.
And if all those things weren’t enough to make me tighten my seatbelt to the point of severing my lower half from my torso, there’s another writing related venture I’m currently experiencing which is absolutely terrifying. I want to tell you — I want to scream it out loud to you — but I’ve been put under a gag order. Every week that I have to keep my mouth shut (which if you know me you know is like trying to tell Clooney to stop being so damn beautiful) I find myself tightening the gag tighter and tighter.
It’s getting damn tough to sip my wine, let me tell you.
I’ll be able to untie the gag soon, but the point is that it is consuming me.
Exhilaratingly consuming me.
And I’m intimidated and scared out of my mind.
But I keep going because I know that the risk is worth the reward.
That’s something important I want my kids to learn and I’m proud to be teaching it to them by example — no matter how scared it makes me.
So here I am, sitting in the front car of the coaster taking the plunge…screaming my head off all the way.
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