The computer screen had to be lying. It was my first semester of college and there was a letter staring back at me I had yet to see on a report card. F.
Turns out the excuse of having to work instead of turning in assignments didn't fly in the collegiate sphere. I asked myself then how anyone earned a degree.
Two semesters later (and after a short break) I achieved my first ever 4.0.
On another night, I wondered if the crying would ever end. I sat on my couch holding my oldest child while the tears dripped and dripped down my face as he screamed. I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn't think I ever would.
But then I did it. And now I have four. It's still hard, but there are too many good moments to count.
For years I would sit at my computer, and start book ideas. Worlds constantly tumbled around my head, and there was no relief except to put it on paper. The only problem was, as much as I wanted to write a cohesive story I had no idea how. It wouldn't be long until my words turned to nonsense and I would quit.
It was impossible for me to write a novel. I knew it because I had tried and failed.
Until one day five years ago. A little niggling had taken over my head, and I felt forced to sit down and write the story about a girl who could shake the earth.
Never before had I written forty-thousand words. It was amazing! For once I was going to write a whole novel. I could do it. I would do it.
To commemorate my success, I started this blog. I was going to publish a book, I was determined.
But I never did.
Once I started editing I learned a new "truth." Publishing was thing I couldn't overcome.
Unlike everything else I'd done, I would never stop telling myself this lie. For five years, this has been my rhetoric.
It didn't hit me until this morning.
In the middle of my run a reoccurring leg cramp seized me, rendering me unable to do more than walk. I wondered then how anyone completed a marathon. I thought of my father who had not only run many marathons, but also run a 100-mile race through the mountains.
Another memory gripped me hard, one that made my stomach turn so painfully my leg cramp felt like nothing. It was my father laying on his bed while my mom massaged his legs.
My gaze turned heavenward as the truth slammed my gut. My father didn't stop running because it hurt. I still went to school after failing. Having a difficult child didn't keep me from having more children. Not being able to finish one novel didn't stop me from finishing seven others.
The only thing keeping me from hitting publish is myself, and that lie I've believed for five years.
This is where it ends. I have one novella written and two others plotted that I will be publishing this year.
There will be days when I know it will suck. There will be critiques I'm not sure I'll be able to overcome. There will be times when I want to give up. But I won't, because I'm through with lies.
