I have written dozens of posts in the last few weeks – and I have deleted every one of them. Why? you might ask. Because I read other people’s blogs.
I’ve been doing it again. The thing that every respectable self-help book tells you not to do. *Cue doom music… Dah Dah DAH….*
I compared myself to the other writers.
I’ve read some amazing blogs on wonderous adventures and trips that have been taken, people they have met and fascinating jobs held. I could actually feel myself shrinking and almost imagine how a man must feel while he watched the beer commercial about “The Most Interesting Man In The World.”
So, while I was playing handball against the nearest curb and pondering why on earth would any of these people want to even know me – let alone read one of my books. Then it came to me…
I have the richest inner-life of anyone I know.
From the first time I picked up a book at the age of four, I had a wonderful gift. I have the ability to become the characters in them. Because of that, I have sailed the high seas with busty wenches on pirate ships and slashed through the underbrush in a South American jungle to find treasure in hidden cities. I have walked in Ancient Egypt with Cleopatra and rescued Helen of Troy.
I’ve traveled the Universe in a blink of eye and made friends with aliens. I’ve lived with vampires, fairies and fallen in love with werewolves. I’ve been wealthy, poor and everything in between. I’ve lived in castles and caves and at one time, I was the only living woman on the planet.
How on earth could I compare myself to others after that? I am just me
I have wonderful stories inside of me that are just bursting to get out of my head and on to the page.
So, while I appreciate the awesome lives that other people live and I don’t begrudge them a second of it – I realized I DO have my place here as a writer.
Today, I’m going to be a rock star!