In my list of all lists I wrote – somewhat innocently – that I would write a book this year.  What a ridiculous statement. I mean seriously, one does not simply write a book. Ok, ok, one could simply write a book but wouldn’t it be fantastic if what I really wrote on that list were “Write your meaning. Write you. Write something important!”

What would that mean?

Last night I took part in a free webinar for women on organizing your writing life. The point of the conference call online (apart from pitching their exotic writing retreats in Nicaragua), was to go over tips on not becoming overwhelmed, and thus unfocused on your writing goal.  During the 50 minutes we collectively shared online, 10 strangers and myself, were asked to brainstorm what our writing goal was.  Dilemma: I have no idea!

I know I want to write. I can’t really tell you why, other than that it feels good when I do.  I like when others, receive my writing in the same way that I like when I cook something that makes others happy, or I assume like how a doctor feels having healed a patient, or how an electrician feels having completed a circuit? It feels like a puzzle is finished.

I would like, now in my mid thirties, if my writing sometimes generated a reliable income.  Not all the time, that would be ridiculous, but sometimes. I think I might have a little more self-esteem about my writing abilities and then I might even write a little more if I were say, being paid. Maybe not, but it’s possible.

I want to be a respected writer (this was part of the brainstorm).  I want to walk out and down the street and say “Hi, I’m Meloni and I’m a writer” and then to continue walking without pausing to question whether I really am, or whether the person I just said that to believed me.  Truth be told, I would like to walk down the street and say “Hi, I’m Meloni and I’m an…(fill in the blank)…” and feel great about whatever that blank is. Cook, writer, mom, human.  I want that high of self-assuredness.

I don’t think I’m alone.  Having children is sort of a cliff that we all fall off of. A cliff where we are ripped from our own self and then plummeted bones and muscle down the hill, our original skin waiting at the top.  That skin left behind will wither away and we rebuild a tougher, more elastic form in our new place.  It’s a miracle, this transformation we go through as women, but it is also dangerous ground, walking about in new skin not always sure of who and what we are or what adornments we should add to our outer selves.  We are moms.  This part we know, but sometimes we want and crave to be more and have to force ourselves to calm that roaring tide inside while we sort out the busiest parts of parenting.

For some of us our journey began much sooner than others. I was by no means a teenage mother, but by modern standards I started young (in my early 20’s) and maybe hadn’t quite stumbled around enough to find ME first, before finding my skills as a parent.   So here I am, three military moves and two stunning children later, three relatively distinct reincarnations of myself faced with the clock of my life. What will I be?

 I found myself walking around this afternoon really doubting that I was in fact able to be “a writer.”  I mean really doubting, like making fun of myself – to myself.  It was about this time that I decided to clean the garage because obviously writing was not one of my skills, so why waste my time at the computer?  Having lived in our new house a month or so the garage has become – yet again – the catch all for the things that just don’t make sense or the stuff I just don’t have the energy to process yet.  Moving is hard.

 While digging through boxes that had been sealed over three years ago and stored while we were in Hawaii I found a stack of newspapers.

 “Ewww, why did we save a stack of newspapers?” I shouted at the piles by myself in the garage; I couldn’t believe our hoarding tendencies had gotten so out of control in just a few years.  But as quickly as I went to toss this stack I noticed a byline on the first page. “By Meloni Courtway”, and then another “Meloni Courtway” and then “Blogger Meloni Courtway”, and more and more. Hundreds of clippings. Me. I had hoarded me into this box with other treasures and junk.  I had stashed my writing away.

 Revelation.

I am a writer.

 I have written.

 And so, without meaning to, I have just swept that roadblock out of my way. That piece-of-shit self-doubt has been cleaned up (for now). I have been writing for years and even sometimes been paid a pittance. Now, it’s about honing in on what writing makes me happy (and more dollars, let’s be real).

 My conclusion is that I must follow the conference recommendations made of starting with small goals and some large ones. Hello, isn’t that how all life works? Funny how easy that is to forget!

 And so, here are some goals. It’s sort of keeping in line with my list of 13 Adventures I guess. Maybe this is just one big list blog – I don’t know, but whatever it is, I hope it grows.

 Small:

• Pitch 10 articles/stories before December

• Finish my website resume

• Write

Big:

• Write a book this year (see, it stayed)

• Become an expert on something and write about it

• Write.

Write.