Focus in

Writing is a terrifying prospect at times. I've re-written a story I plan to submit for publication three times.

Ben thinks I'm nuts. The animals in the Land of the Flowered Bed think I'm obsessive. Anyone who has met me knows I'm eccentric in the least, so this should be no surprise.

Sometimes I worry I focus too much on things. I rabidly await the weekend to work on writing and getting publication stuff out. I manage to get writing done, but something always comes up for sending stuff out. The spacing is off or this envelope looks tacky, or an event comes up that derails my schedule. Realistically, I know that waiting a week, or two, isn't going to be a earth shattering event.

To me, however, it is. I feel as though I'm operating on borrowed time. I'm running down a highway that's eventually going to run into a cliff, which may or may not have a bridge. I know within five years, we may look into having children. At that point, I want to have enough "street cred" and connections to launch a career as a full time author.

Still, on the same hand, I can't freeze my life for five years. I am married, I do have friends and I do have a family. It's not fair for me to ask them to freeze for five years while I chase this dream. At the same time, it's hard for me to be there at a late dinner on Saturday night or going out when all I can think of is the characters in my head. There's so many stories to be told, and it feels as if my fingers can't type fast enough to tell them all.

If you were to go inside my convoluted mind, you would see a room with several doors. Each door would be a different part of my life, and a different story. These stories I write: the blog, the Christmas stories, Lint gremlins, peanut monster all have a different door. Work has it's own door. Home has it's own door. Friends have their own door. For the past month, the doors have all been opening and slamming quickly or remaining cracked. I'm standing in the middle, running from door to door to door. I peek into a door just to see a sliver of light before it slams shut again, sending me to the next door down.

All I know is, I need to close some doors before I open some more. I want to get these stories, out, get them seen, get them published. I don't want to see another week, another day of focus slip by. Even if it is somewhat terrifying to risk rejection, I feel like I can't afford not to. So here I go.