This is all a part of my doing things that flat out terrify me. And decorating has always been one of those things. I told myself that I wasn't crafty and not all that artistic, and I lived in a house that wasn't all that comfortable or attractive because I was terrified of changing it. It seems so silly to me now - all the things that I have been afraid to tackle for fear of making a mistake. Now, whenever I get paralyzed with fear, I ask myself what is the worst that could happen? Will I save my old couches by not doing anything to them? Is it better to live with what I don't like because I feel safe, or is it better to change? What I am learning is nothing is ever as horrible as we imagine it. In fact, I love my new couches (any tricks for keeping the dog off of them would be greatly appreciated!) and the world did not stop spinning.
I feel that way about my writing as well. What's the worst that could happen by putting it out there? We are all so much more, so much bigger then we give ourselves credit for. But we make ourselves small because we are so worried the worst that could happen is constantly nipping at our heels. Here's a suggestion: let the worst bite you. You will probably find you're dealing with a stuffed animal and not a ferocious hound out for blood.
All this to say, failure is okay. Failure is inevitable; failure is how all great things are born. But I am not going to focus on failure. I am going to try without expectations and, hopefully, with a little joy in my heart.
So, here are ten things I will try this summer in random order:
1. paint my stairs
2. finish Annie Rose's story (this means writing 5 pages a day)
3. make my bed (and I mean every single day)
4. make my husband laugh more
5. laugh at my girls when they are driving me straight crazy
6. start a vegetable garden (any tips?)
7. be kinder to strangers
8. be kinder to myself
9. take the dog on more long walks
10. eat all the dark chocolate I want without guilt.
What about you? What are you willing to try? Shoot me a message and let me know.
And here is an excerpt from Annie Rose's story. Enjoy!
Annie Rose was pleasantly full, the
first time her stomach didn’t feel like a gaping hole since she was released
from the hospital, as she walked John Wayne out. Her old, wooden porch creaked beneath his
weight and for one horrifying moment she imagined it giving way and John Wayne
disappearing down some kind of rabbit hole.
Then she had to shake her head at her own foolishness. John Wayne was much too solid to ever
disappear. She invited him in to be
polite, and maybe she was a little nervous about going inside her house alone
after being gone for a couple of hours, and now she was glad that she had. This felt lovely and normal, maybe as close
to normal, even with her panic attacks, as she was ever going to get with a
man.
“Are you going to be alright, Annie
Rose?” He cupped her shoulders with
large, callused hands and turned her so that she faced him dead on. He was a giant, taller even than Poppop. She barely reached his chest, and she had to
tilt her head way back to see his face.
His blonde hair, carelessly long like he didn’t have the time for a
proper hair cut, fell against his forehead, the texture some where between wavy
and curly and streaked from the sun. He
had the kind of hair any woman would scalp him for, and she bet all he did was
wash it. John Wayne, as far as she knew,
was not the kind of man to use beauty products.
“I’m not sure yet, John Wayne.” A lie would have been easier, the same kind
of fake nonsense that she gave to most everyone else because she knew they
didn’t really want to hear the truth.
Annie Rose could barely stomach it herself. But John Wayne’s chocolate eyes, focused and
steady as he looked at her like she was the last honest to God woman in the
world, made it impossible for anything but the truth to sneak past her lips.
His hand skimmed her rioting curls,
lifting and rearranging until he cradled her nape. His palm, cool and dry, felt unspeakably good
against her hot, flushed skin. His other
hand went to her lower back and rested lightly as he pulled her, nice and easy,
into his arms. “This okay, Annie Rose?”
How long had it been since she’d been
held by a man? He was scary solid, and she felt infinitely vulnerable in his
arms. She should have been terrified;
everything in her past had conditioned her to be afraid of a man holding her
like this, especially one who could just as soon break her neck as kiss
her. But she wished she was a tick,
nasty as they were, so that she could burrow into him and steal all that
warmth. “Yes. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Annie Rose.”
His cinnamon smell seeped into her
hair and skin, so good, and she relaxed, gave him all her weight; her body
instinctively knew he would support her.
And because she knew she was a hot mess and might not ever get the
chance to be this close to the man she had fantasized about for years, she
wrapped her arms tentatively around his waist and cuddled her belly against his
hips. And that’s when she felt his
erection, huge like the rest of him, and so startlingly she gasped like a
maiden in distress and tried to pull back.
John Wayne laughed low and refused to
let her go. “Don’t panic on me,
now. Look at me, Annie Rose.”
He was using his cop voice
again. Deep and patient and dripping
with command. She actually gulped before
she looked up at him. A command from a
man should not make her want to jump his bones and do whatever he wanted. Surely, she knew better. But maybe she was a slow learner or an out
right idiot. “Yes?”
“Do you think that I’d ever hurt
you?”
Annie Rose shook her head. Hurting a woman or anything smaller and
weaker just wasn’t in John Wayne, but between them his cock just kept
growing. Annie Rose felt like she was
one second away from a full out faint.
And it wasn’t from terror either.
He’d be lucky if she let him make it to his car.
“I am not going to play games with
you, Annie Rose. I’m not good at
them. I want you. And I mean to have you. Consider this fair warning.”
When was the last time a man really
wanted her? They looked and flirted or
insulted, depending on the man. She was
vain enough to know she got a lot of second and third glances. But men looked at her the way they did a
sports car; they just wanted a fast ride.
She was, apparently, nothing but one big old false advertisement. Her motor was slow to start and often stalled
altogether. But this man wanted
her. This man saw her. And it made her want to cry because she had
no idea what to do with him.
