home renovation

After tomorrow the summer officially begins for me, which means the start of my new job. I always have anxiety when I start new employment. I don't handle change very well, for starters. Plus, my perfectionist nature doesn't function well in a state of "I don't yet know what I'm doing, and that's pretty obvious to others."

This summer I have decided to become a writer. Some of you are laughing right now, thinking this is typical Katie sarcasm, but please try to stifle that giggle, because I'm being completely serious. I've always wanted to be a writer. I took a creative writing class at the end of my time at BYU, and got some positive feedback from my professor. I started a novel, and he volunteered to help me with it if I ever finish writing it. Since then, novel writing hasn't had a lot of room on life's agenda, which is why I opted not to get a summer job this year.

This summer I'm going to sit in front of a computer screen, and I'm going to try to write down one of the stories I've had swirling around in my head for the last few years. I've always wanted to write a book, and I feel like now's the time to give it a shot, before my future children come along and and are vying for my attention. What's scarier than me thinking I can accomplish this, is the fact that my husband has enough faith in my minuscule amount of creative writing ability to let me do this for the summer and be happy about it. In fact, he is encouraging me to do this. Bless his heart; he really does love me!

Anyway, over the last couple of weeks I've been having a tad bit of anxiety over starting my new state of "un-employment." I've been picturing myself staring at a blinking cursor for 2 months and ending the summer with nothing to show for it (except for the 20 pounds I will have put on after drowning my writer's block sorrows in hot fudge sundaes and Oreos). Part of me wishes I'd tried to find a position waiting tables at Chili's or Ruby Tuesday, so I wouldn't have to worry about it (then I reflect on my Ihop days, and realize that, no, that's a lie. . . no part of me REALLY wishes THAT).

Anyway, I figure if at the end of the summer I have a book, even if it's a book that no one will ever publish, and no one will ever read but me, I will have accomplished something great. I can cross "write a novel" off of my bucket list, and call it good. I'll know I'm just not cut out to be a novelist, and I can move on. But, until I try, I'll never know . . . so here's to trying.