Writers are not special.

That can't be right.

What do you mean, I’m not special?

The statement, “Don’t take yourself too seriously,” comes to my mind along with a poster of a child made up as a clown with tears running down her face. Some people appear to be really good at just going for the gusto, being out there in the world, fully human, and nothing can hold them back. I admire that, because I was the kid in that poster with the easily-bruised dignity bone.

Maybe Gen X was the first generation led to believe we were individually special. I have been viscerally offended in the past by the idea that I might not actually be special. And yet, trying to live up to that perceived specialness has never done me much good. After all, what if they find out I’m not actually that special?

So, what if I’m not special? What if you’re not special either? What if we are all doing the best we can, focused on whatever we have in front of us, that combination of whatever life brings and whatever small bit we can truly affect? That’s not such a bad thing, is it?

Time and experience has taught me that I’m not special. And best of all, I don’t even want to be special. I set goals for myself. I try my best to achieve them, but I can only do what I concentrate on, not everything, and not all at once.

Life has always been about finding a balance in this whirlwind. I’ve likened it in the past to learning to ride bareback backwards and blindfolded in a roundpen. Find the rhythm. Lose it. Find it again. Never let fear get a grip on you.

My husband and my family are my treasures. They come first. There is always work to do, daily responsibilities, projects to complete. Nothing unusual. Writing and art feed my soul, as do walking, stretching, exploring, and visiting with friends. And there are times I just need to sit and stare at the loveliness we are blessed to perceive in this terrible beautiful place.

One of those sunsets!

All of us create something. Our very lives, the decisions we make and how we choose to share ourselves with others, are part of our creations in the world.

My husband, Richard, is an amazing cook. He creates delicious dishes for us, and for our family and friends. It’s his great talent, because he puts his heart into it. Cooking lights him up and brings him satisfaction in the sharing. It’s not that much different from my writing when I think about it. He does his research, he tests out ideas, usually on his very-willing-to-help wife, then he launches the big meal.

I’m getting ready to launch the big meal. This is what I’ve been practicing for, but I am by no means special. Writing is just where I’ve decided to put a lot of my energy. I’m not Shakespeare or Twain, but I have a voice someone may like to hear — and I want to bring you the best story I can write, even as I continue to learn and improve my skills every day. It’s an honor to share this with you.

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I’ve published the following free verse more than once, but I believe it bears repeating here. For all of you human creatives out there . . . Yes, that’s you!

Forgive me for not following the rules today.

For the entire time I’ve created art
I’ve pondered why,
“Why do we create art and why does anyone need it?”
We don’t need it...
And we really really do!

You see, there is a very tiny dot in each of our minds.
It looks a little like this one:


.


You go about your business
And pay no attention.
Most of the time it’s just there.
And it doesn’t matter
Until it does.

Like trees
That make the air breathable.
You walk by them every day and pay no attention,
Until you do.
Try it tomorrow,
Or maybe right now.

Get under a tall tree and look up.
Do you see them?
Branches with leaves
Like pages
On trunks that reach up to the sky
For many stories.

It’s the stories,
Like the leaves blowing around way up there
Out of reach.
We need a brave storyteller
To climb up there
And bring some down.

Look closer at that tiny dot in your mind.
You’ll find it goes deeper and wider
Than any panorama you’ve ever witnessed in the night sky.
Each star there,
Every being who is or was
Is a whole library
Of such stories.

That dot you have there is not just a dot,
And it’s not an empty place, either.
It’s a door
We all connect through.
And it’s wide open.
Artist, writer, dancer, musician, chef, thespian, quilt maker. . . Storyteller

Go in there,
Even if it’s scary
And overwhelming.
Bring something we had forgotten back into the world
And share it
Where we can see it up close
And call it by name.
Make it matter,
So we can breathe
Again.

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There are things I’m better at than I am at others. But I’m no better or worse than you, you with your own goals and challenges. So here we are together. You readers and me. Not special. Not too serious. Just plain humans. And that’s enough.

Next week I’ll start sharing my novel draft, openly, to the public, to whosoever chooses to read it. You will soon see the workings of my blender-mind, which has swirled my own experiences and observations into a concoction I’m calling, Things That Can’t Be Broken. I can’t wait! I’m truly excited and grateful. And bloody scared.

Don’t miss the launch of Things That Can’t Be Broken — next week!