I am sitting on my couch, wrapped in a blanket on this cold, very wet February afternoon. As I listen to the rain beat down on my house, I am contemplating my approach to life. I am living an unbelievable opportunity right now, something that eludes many people: I'm being given a chance to pursue my dream job.
Author.
I do a myriad of things to help me in that endeavor. I do research. I write. I read. I work on my One Year Plan, outlining my eventual roll out of my plan to self publish because I have very little confidence that I will publish the traditional way.
Yes, I'm working on self esteem in therapy, I promise.
That is the trouble with dreams, though. They have very little chance of getting off the ground if it is mired in the muck of self doubt. Descartes said, "I think therefore I am" but my twist on such philosophy is "I think therefore maybe I am". I can't say it. I can't say I'm an author. Because I'm not published. I'm not getting paid.
My daughter was quizzing me the other day on All Things About G and I was asked if I knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. "Teacher," I replied.
"No... It's what you do."
And I'm scrambling in my brain... why does she want to be unemployed?
"Um, be a mom?"
"No, mama! I want to be a writer, just like you!"
Be still, my heart! She already thinks of me as a writer!
I, on the other hand, still think I'm playing make believe. I'm just pretending because I earn zero money at what I do.
G gets confused by me trying to "get a real job", because to her, what I do with my time at home is a job. But to me, I sometimes feel like an anchor dragging on the bottom of the sea, weighing down the boat that carries me through life.
I'm going through that One Year Plan and part of it requires me to come up with a brand story and personality and I keep getting hung up on my brand. What is my brand? Right now, I'm pursuing children's books because that is what I wrote: a story for children. Is that what I am putting out into the world? Is that what my brand story starts with? Do I go into specifics about how, when my brain is working properly, I think like a child and look at the world with wide eyes filled with wonder? Do I explain that I miss playing with Legos and my little animal dolls and wish for the days where I could lose hours of my day in my own little worlds that I created for myself? Would I be authentic to say that I sometimes miss my own little inner child so much it hurts?
When I was a child, the world was so much simpler, wasn't it? I could pretend that I was from another planet, a planet where I was the hero and the only way to combat the evil devouring the universe was little ol' Lori. I could pretend that there was a secret door in my bedroom that would let me go back to that world far away, where I was alone with my magical panther and we would walk the woods together in the peace of nature. I could pretend I was flying on the playground, arms out to the side, breeze on my face, ignoring the stares from other kids.
I could pretend. I still am pretending.
Who am I?
I am a lost dreamer, trying to clear the mists around me and find my way in the world.
I dream. I mourn the loss of my childhood. I hope to relive some of it through my art. I listen to the wind, yearning for direction from a higher power, telling me that YES YES you are on the right path.
Am I?
I don't know. But this is the path I'm on, right or wrong. I can't go back and I might be terrified of going forward, afraid of what the future holds. I have to keep moving out of this muck.
Or I'll sink.
Author.
I do a myriad of things to help me in that endeavor. I do research. I write. I read. I work on my One Year Plan, outlining my eventual roll out of my plan to self publish because I have very little confidence that I will publish the traditional way.
Yes, I'm working on self esteem in therapy, I promise.
That is the trouble with dreams, though. They have very little chance of getting off the ground if it is mired in the muck of self doubt. Descartes said, "I think therefore I am" but my twist on such philosophy is "I think therefore maybe I am". I can't say it. I can't say I'm an author. Because I'm not published. I'm not getting paid.
My daughter was quizzing me the other day on All Things About G and I was asked if I knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. "Teacher," I replied.
"No... It's what you do."
And I'm scrambling in my brain... why does she want to be unemployed?
"Um, be a mom?"
"No, mama! I want to be a writer, just like you!"
Be still, my heart! She already thinks of me as a writer!
I, on the other hand, still think I'm playing make believe. I'm just pretending because I earn zero money at what I do.
G gets confused by me trying to "get a real job", because to her, what I do with my time at home is a job. But to me, I sometimes feel like an anchor dragging on the bottom of the sea, weighing down the boat that carries me through life.
I'm going through that One Year Plan and part of it requires me to come up with a brand story and personality and I keep getting hung up on my brand. What is my brand? Right now, I'm pursuing children's books because that is what I wrote: a story for children. Is that what I am putting out into the world? Is that what my brand story starts with? Do I go into specifics about how, when my brain is working properly, I think like a child and look at the world with wide eyes filled with wonder? Do I explain that I miss playing with Legos and my little animal dolls and wish for the days where I could lose hours of my day in my own little worlds that I created for myself? Would I be authentic to say that I sometimes miss my own little inner child so much it hurts?
When I was a child, the world was so much simpler, wasn't it? I could pretend that I was from another planet, a planet where I was the hero and the only way to combat the evil devouring the universe was little ol' Lori. I could pretend that there was a secret door in my bedroom that would let me go back to that world far away, where I was alone with my magical panther and we would walk the woods together in the peace of nature. I could pretend I was flying on the playground, arms out to the side, breeze on my face, ignoring the stares from other kids.
I could pretend. I still am pretending.
Who am I?
I am a lost dreamer, trying to clear the mists around me and find my way in the world.
I dream. I mourn the loss of my childhood. I hope to relive some of it through my art. I listen to the wind, yearning for direction from a higher power, telling me that YES YES you are on the right path.
Am I?
I don't know. But this is the path I'm on, right or wrong. I can't go back and I might be terrified of going forward, afraid of what the future holds. I have to keep moving out of this muck.
Or I'll sink.
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