I always thought I would be a writer.
There I said it.
I didn’t grow up to ” be what I wanted to be”.
Don’t get me wrong I have stacks and stacks of note books with rhymes and poems and jottings about what I thought was meant to be, stories of struggle and victories, words lined uniquely up to make something painful-
appear beautiful….but none of them are paying the mortgage.
There were endless hours in college writing classes where I envisioned myself publishing a book, a children’s book, a book of poetry, a story or two of childhood, but I have yet to publish anything more than a few Blog posts.
I recently began to wonder why I stopped.
The list of excuses was long, so I decided to skip over that, and go right to making
no more excuses