This is my first blog post.

Duh, You say.

Agreed, nothing like stating the obvious to start a conversation. But, that’s how things begin, by stating something obvious.

“I love to be outside, I should learn to garden.”

“I love books, I should become a librarian.”

“I love to write, I should become a writer.”

Coincidentally, these are all obvious things I have said, and have since done. Two of those beginnings were less ah-ha moments and more like Duh moments. But one was not ah-ha, or even Duh it was bump, bump, screech, “no, no, no, why!” Silence.

I’ll give you two guesses which was which, and the first two don’t count.

If you guess Writing, then ding ding you get a cookie, (go ahead, I’ll wait, it’s important to treat yourself).

I’ve loved writing from an early age, coming up with stories in my head, the way words on paper would come together, letting the idea in my head come to life so others could read them! It was like a surreal dream, spending hours putting the words to paper, making a world and characters come to life.

This was my dream.

Writing created this euphoria of connection. And terror. Terror became the predominant emotion though. I loved writing like this. I wanted to be a writer, but I became afraid. Afraid because I didn’t think I was good enough.

Fear is powerful. It stops you from doing things you love. You talk yourself out of it, time and time again.

I. Am. Not. Good. Enough.

Silence.

As you get older, you gain perspective, and you’re forced to face your mortality. Look back on your failures. And from this Grow; junk like that. I call this your 40s, at least that’s what it became for me.

I had failed at becoming a writer. I’d failed my dream. (Thinks for a minute. Here is where that perspective comes in handy). I hadn’t really failed, I reasoned, because I’d never really tried.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit!

(This is where I pull on my proverbial big girl panties and go okay now what?)

From my age, I gained the perspective of: Things don’t always work out, but you don’t know unless you try. Another perspective I’d gained was even in trying there is success. There is also failure. In trying, you learn both.

My fear of I am not good enough, became “Well, of course you’re not good enough, you never even tried.” (Bangs head against desk, repeatedly).

I am not good enough had become my excuse, and I clung to that excuse like a 6-month-old baby who grabbed unknowing auntie’s hair.

Now I couldn’t use that excuse anymore.

So, now I’m trying. This is me Trying.

Writing 250 words a day.

Writing a Story that sucks.

Trying again. Writing another story. Guess what it sucks too.

Keep trying. Proofreading that story. Still Sucks, but sucks less.

Trying. Editing. Researching “What do I need to edit a story?” “What do I need to be a better writer?”

Trying. Joining writing forums, and Critique groups. Asking my husband to read my story. Freaking out, because I asked my husband to read my story.

Trying. Feedback; My story doesn’t suck, but it could be better. How? More Editing.

Trying. Talk with a professional editor, ask more people to read my story. Freaking out, because I asked others to read my story. Feedback: Give me more.

Trying. Researching “What do I need to publish a story?”

Shit, Shit, Shit. I am not good enough. Ugh, that doesn’t work. I have a story; I want to publish it. I’ve worked too hard. Spent so much time. Loved/Hated every second of this process. It doesn’t need to be perfect. I don’t need perfection. I am not perfect. My writing is not perfect.

I am enough. My writing is good enough. I’m doing this for me. For my dreams.

My name is Lyssa Lwyd. Today I submitted my manuscript for copyright and purchased ISBN’s. My goal, my plan, is to publish my first book in December.

Trying. Because. I am a writer.