Sunday night

I am quiet tonight, a bit tired, sort of in a wandering mood. Thinking of moving here or there or even way over there. Thinking of which road to take, even though deep down I know which road is the one for me. But I still don't know how to get there. It takes commitment and a goal. I have taken enough professional/personal development webinars this past month to know how to do this. But first I have to figure out exactly what I want and how I want it. 

They say (those pundits on the internet and in books) that you just have to choose, you have to commit, you have to want, to visualize, to desire, and then the universe will open its doors to you. I don't know why I can't believe this, even though it has been proven to me in my life for small things like cars or a job. I just can't get on board with the big stuff -- like the Universe could care less if something is big or small. 

I know I fear change, and yet I manufacture change all the time, some good, some not so good. My mother instilled a tremendous fear of failure in me; it was like a mortal sin, the worst thing you could do, like you were not a worthy human being if you failed. And yet I have failed, and I am still alive. I didn't go to hell or wind up on the streets, branded a supernova loser. I didn't have my name burned at the stake nor was I vaporized by glares of scorn.

So, I have decided, even as I write this, that I am going forward into the fear, that I am going to commit to being a writer. There, I have said it out loud for everyone to hear. I AM A WRITER. Always was, just didn't want to know it. Didn't want to claim it as my own talent because what if I'm no good. What if I fail? What if people laugh when they're not supposed to? It's a crazy belief. I have been published, online and in small journals. In fact, I have a story that has just been published in the Sandhill Review. Editors don't publish bad writing. 

I AM A WRITER.

I am trembling. It's amazing. It's real. I am real. I am naked to the world . . . and I am still alive.