Long story short, my husband and I bought 82 acres near my hometown a little more than two years ago. We have 30 acres of trees with a creek running through it, and 52 tillable acres that we lease to an old farmer named “Cleets” (aka Cletus). We moved a farmhouse 11 miles and paid through the nose to have electric lines brought in (if you ever want to know how much it is for a mile’s worth of power lines, I’m your woman). We plopped the house down in the middle of the field and called it home.
We’ve endured eyelid-peeling winds from every direction, with no mature trees nearby to buffer the constant beating. It wasn’t uncommon to have snow blow in through our patio door, and my Swiffer cowers in the corner underneath …
I can’t believe I fell for it. Browsing through my most recent Parent’s magazine (cause I’m cool like that), a blurb on the front cover cried out to me: “See your kid on our cover. Quick! Visit parents.com.”
“Who? Me?” I ask as I glance behind me. “You’d like to put my adorable, sweet little Anna on your cover? Ok!” And I ran to the computer and uploaded her little mug just as soon as my fingers would let me. It wasn’t until after I hit “submit” that I felt a pang of guilt.
I had become one of those parents. The one who thinks their kid is the cutest-wutest ‘lil munchkin ever. But doesn’t every parent feel that way? At least until the first time you discover the masterpiece of a finger painting they …
I wouldn’t really know. Haven’t “dated” since I was 18, and even then, it was “love” at first sight (or close enough) with my hubby when we met at Sheplers. I worked in Women’s, he worked in Boots, and the intoxicating smell of leather and steamed felt hats created a ripe environment for two young Wrangler-wearing kids to fall for each other.
But here I am, sitting down on my second date with Blank Page. I was pleasantly surprised how I felt this morning after our tryst last night. I didn’t feel dirty, used, or taken advantage of. Turns out, we kind of like each other.
Nevertheless, it’s still intimidating and a little awkward. My husband hovers behind me, and I feel the need to minimize the screen. “Don’t watch me,” I chide him. He shrugs …
Blame it on the cherry-pomegranate juice, or the brilliant Kansas sun reflecting off of the stainless-steel Chipotle patio table, but somehow my friend Mia convinced me that I need to give this writing thing a go–for real this time.
I’m not really sure what happened to me. Somewhere amidst my hectic life, I lost my courage to write. Not my passion, but my courage. Give me a topic to write about, give me a word count and my audience and I’m golden. Give me a blank page, with no restrictions, no particular audience and my fingers do the “clickity-clack backspace waltz,” where my best move is stammering out a few contrived sentences before frantically deleting it all.
What if no one likes it? What if I reveal my true self and I don’t even like it? Not …