I wanted to believe that it was all the way done, because if I admit that I can make it better then that’s admitting that I was wrong to seek representation for it. It’s admitting that I made that oh so typical newbie mistake of pitching my first completed book all over the place before it was really ready. I wanted to believe that I was cleverer than that, but it turns out that I’m not. It turns out that there are new ideas eager to be woven into the old. It turns out that there may be a way to take a silly, mostly coherent story and turn it into a fabulous one.

Maybe. If I can swallow down enough humble pie. If I can, every day, do the work necessary to accomplish that transformation. If I can sacricice some of my time wasting and pour that energy into creating instead.

I’ve been ignoring the impulse to write for quite awhile now. I’ve been pretending that I can get by without. That it’s enough to be all the other aspects of myself and just cut this one out for awhile. But for all that it’s costly to create (we pay so much time, heart, and self, we creators do), it’s far more costly not to. Every day that I don’t write costs me self-respect, joy, fulfillment.

I’m not so good as I would like to be. I’ve avoided looking at that manuscript because I want to avoid seeing its flaws. I want to avoid seeing where oh so much work still needs to be done. I want to tuck it away somewhere so life can be simpler, easier.

But what I’m realizing (or is it remembering?) is that hard work is part of my happy. I need it, even crave it, though I’m often too scared, too foolish, to admit it.

Denial is nasty, nasty stuff. It steals from us so much of who we are, and who we can become. It’s the soul-stiffler, the self-respect drainer, the robber of dreams and the crusher of goals. Worst of all it makes us feel safe. I know that when I live in denial of what I otherwise KNOW to be true, I become weary and forgetful.

And there’s no magic cure for it except to work, to choose, every day. We all of us have greatness in us. Even if it is simply the greatness of choosing to live rather than to hide. I don’t know if I’m any closer to that than I was when I began writing this blog post, but I know that I have more hope than I did before. I know that I want to choose to write, to live, to act instead of react. I want to choose to be my entire self, and not just the parts that come easily.

I don’t want to hide anymore. It’s far, far too dark in here.

And while I’m working on that, please enjoy some gratutious cuteness:

Lately I’ve been trying to spend my spare time doing things that are just the weest bit more rewarding than killing zombies with my iphone or watching junkfood-for-the-brain TV shows on Netflix. I decided to get rid of the excess in my home, and I’m being BRUTAL about it. The garbage bags and garage sale boxes are filling up, and this is a good, good thing, in so many ways, and for so many reasons. But mostly because it’s helping me find my happy, and there’s no end to the ways in which that pays off.

So I found this old photo album and decided to repurpose it. I took a huge box full of cards and letters and attacked (the cards) with my trusty exacto knife in hand. I cut out the important parts of the cards – the loving, handwritten messages – and I put them in the photo album. It was amazing seeing that big box condense into this small photo album, and I may just have had a silly grin on my face more than once because of that fact. But mostly I was grinning because WOW, did I ever feel loved as I filled those pages with thank you cards, just-because-notes, valentine’s from my husband, and birthday wishes. It hit me that I was filling those pages with love.

And that got me thinking (nasty habit of mine). If everyone I knew were to make a similar book, how many pages would I fill? Have I given everyone I love that tangible gift of words on paper? Have I expressed gratitude for the blessing that my friends and family are in my life?

So while I pat myself on the back for my brilliant idea to create a Book of Loving Pages, I’m going to strive to move beyond brilliance and become something more. I’m going to strive to be grateful, thoughtful, and kind. I like to think those are qualities I possess, but I have to admit to getting self-absorbed at times and forgetting to be the truly amazing person I have it in me to be. Wasted potential is sad, desperate stuff, isn’t it?

I’ve written seven thank you cards this morning, and it made me think of this book. It’s both a fun and funny read, but it’s poignant too. I’m pretty much going to insist that all my daughters read it some day. Just in case I lose my current fervor and don’t teach them properly about being grateful.

Who are you grateful for today?