On This Snowy Morning

Good morning, wintery day. My husband is out shoveling and I snapped a photo of our tree, Susannah:

I don't like the cold, and if I have to go anywhere, I hate when it snows. But there's no denying that it's beautiful, especially before its marked with tire tracks and footprints.

At this moment, I'm very grateful to have heat in the house, blankets aplenty, and a husband who is willing and able to don his coat and clear our driveway. We will see if Emma asks to go outside today. Ever since her dad helped her build a snowman, she has wanted more snow to play in.

Playing in snow is not an Ashton Baker activity. Watching the world from the other side of the window is. But at the same time, I want to encourage my kids to get out there. Time will tell what my day will include.

It does need to include laundry. And vacuuming. Hmm, and what about book edits? Uh... I shudder to begin. Actually, I have no idea how long I need to step away from my novel before cracking it open with red pen and sticky notes. Some would encourage longer, some might suggest a few weeks. I think regardless of when I start, I'm going to need to find a cheerleader to motivate me to keep at it, especially when I think that nothing will save my writing--that each draft will be just as poor as the last.

A couple days ago, I had a strange sense of anxiety as I thought of my writing. Those nasty thoughts crept in that said I am not, nor will ever be, a good writer, and that all those blank notebooks I have in my bedroom would forever be blank because I wouldn't have enough ideas to fill them all. I thought of some of the criticisms I've heard online about other authors' works--that their writing is too simplistic, that their characters are boring or unlikeable, that there's no heart in the story--and thought, That's what people will say about mine. I spiraled for a bit there. I even went into my room and sorted through the journals, putting a few in the donate pile that I wasn't in love with so that I could ease some of the temporary pressure of having so many ideas that owning that many is warranted.

Seriously. I had a lot, and I still do.

I have since talked myself into inner-peace again. I don't have to be a good writer right now. I just have to write. I just have to practice and to enjoy myself. If I work hard, if I do my best, if I turn to resources that will help me improve, maybe, just maybe, I'll be holding a physical copy of a book or two in the future. But right now isn't about that. It's about finding the love of my own stories. It's about putting passion back into my hobby. It's about dreaming again.

So I will let myself fill some notebooks with stories, passion, and dreams. And some pretty atrocious writing. And all of it will be good for me.

If you have to be out in the snow today, be safe. If you get to play in the snow today, have fun. Just don't freeze!