I am completely overwhelmed by my lack of effectiveness these days.
It seems that everything I touch turns to I don't know, nothing. Just nothing. Please hold while I take a phone call.
Might it be that I am constantly interrupted?
Not to say that the interruptions aren't important ones. People need me. All the time. I know I'm a wife and mother who has a job to do. I'm just sayin'.
But I am going to keep the little promise I made here yesterday.
I've decided I will commit to writing a little something here each day, weekdays. There, I've said it. You can hold me to it, and I hope you will.
I've claimed to be a writer since I was a little girl, but truthfully I suppose I'm more of a thinker. I think about writing all the time, and I'm one of those folks who believes she's done something if she thinks about it enough. Last night I went to bed early, in a huff, realizing that I've pretended to a writer for long enough. It's time to get to work.
Motivation came in part from my current read, the classic Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. (Thanks, Jen.) I stuck just the tip of my nose inside its covers and was snatched right in. It's so delicious. It's making me sigh and just want to cry. I want to be a real writer, like that, one who can turn a phrase without constantly turning to cliches like "turn a phrase." Sigh, sigh, sigh.
So here I am, working out the Catholic Writer title I've christened myself with. I'm ashamed to say I hardly deserve it. But I desire it, and I plan to get busy earning it.