For more 30 days of truth: Day 1, 2, 3, 4.

When I was a little girl I always thought I’d be a writer. Well after the, I want to be a ballerina days, at least. I spent most of my time lost in a book. I always thought to myself, I will write books one day. Books people will love to read. Books people can lose themselves in. I will write novels. I will be a writer. I can do this. I wrote stories all the time. I made up characters in my head. I was constantly writing.

Then, a seventh grade AP Lit teacher told me, I’d never be a real writer, because I couldn’t seem to stop writing how I talked.

Dreams crushed.

After that, I wrote out characters and plots of novels. Sometimes I even wrote part of it. But that nagging little voice of that one teacher had gotten in my head. I’d eventually stop and shred whatever I’d been working on. Life took over. Marriage, kids, a career that I despise, but am very good at.

Here I am, 18 years later and I’ve never really gone back to writing.  I write this blog, but I have no confidence in my own writing abilities. Not even enough to try and write on other blogs. I’ve carved a neat little spot here and I stay here. All tiny and small and cozy.

In my head and in my heart, I know I’d like to write a novel. I’d like to publish it. I have a good enough imagination that I believe I could write a whole novel. But I haven’t ever actually managed to finish one.

That? Is something I’d like to do in my life. Write and publish a novel.