Of course, the wiser part of me knows this is a recipe for disaster (or at least disappointment). But sometimes the id screams like a toddler being forcibly removed from the toy aisle and the hubris of me insisting on doing things my way prevails.

But in saner moments, I realize that I simply need to catch the dreams and ideas that come to me, give ‘em some love, take a few action steps…and then release the trajectory of their manifestation to God.

My best friend recently gave me one of the most beautifully thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received: a very cool replica of an old school drive-in theater speaker. Her note said:

“To remind you that you are a screenwriter and filmmaker. Regardless of the fact that it may not look like what you thought it would.”

I was touched not only by her belief in my work, but how spot-on she was about the fact that our desires don’t always come to us in neat little packages designed by our imaginations.

Ever since I fell in love with screenwriting in college, I pictured that my films would one day end up with one of the big studios.  (Granted, this was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and before everything was available on YouTube…but I digress…). My producing partner Curt Apduhan and I tried for years to get into the Hollywood club. Curt is an Emmy award-winning cinematographer, who has worked with a lot of famous people who are well-entrenched in the studio system. But even with his personal and professional connections, we always seemed to get thisclose with one of our scripts, and then…crickets.

Finally, we decided that it was time to stop wasting time courting approval and just make a movie on our own. Even if it wasn’t a full-length feature backed by millions of dollars and starring a household name, it was still tangible proof that we knew how to write and produce something screen-worthy.

So, we shot our first short film, “Anniversary” with an amazing cast of three in a friend’s home (whose living room was miraculously transformed by our set designer into a hotel suite). We were on a shoestring budget, but everyone involved gave so generously of their time and talent that we ended up with a beautiful film that was very well-received at several festivals in the U.K.

We may still make it to Hollywood one day. Or maybe not. But I will never forget the thought that came to me as I stood on set for the first time and watched the actors say my words:

“I don’t know if I could be any happier if this were being played out on a giant soundstage or a glamorous location. I love filmmaking, period. I just want to be in the game.”

And as of this writing, I still am. Another short film produced and screened at festivals last year, and one more in the works that will be expanded to a feature. At least that’s the plan.

(I know, I know…cue the “we plan, God laughs” jokes.)

But I’ve done my best to catch and cultivate the dreams that come to me. Now begins the continual process of prying my fingers off of the steering wheel.

Time to let the Divine do the driving.

But while all of the above events may be true, they’re still excuses. And if I championed them, I’d be creating an absurd rationale for why I’m not doing the one thing that makes me feel the most alive: putting words on a page.

So, why do we go silent on our life’s passions?

Sometimes it’s for a good reason, like the need for genuine introspection. Taking a brief step back from what we love so we can see it with fresh eyes and return to it with renewed zeal.

But all too often, that short break turns into a self-sabotaging sabbatical. Excuses are reframed as “reasons” why we can’t get back in the game.

It’s been too long.

I’m out of practice.

I’ve lost momentum.

I don’t even know where to start.

Those toxic rationales enable us to politely excuse ourselves from doing what feeds our souls in favor of the things that – while perhaps necessary – feed only our practical routines.

We all have to take care of business. And because we’re good, responsible grownups, we buckle down. The work gets done, the groceries get bought and the bills get paid. All the boxes checked.

Except the one that didn’t even make the list: the dormant desire that is never truly silent.

But it is stealthy.

You’ll think you’ve successfully buried – or simply forgotten – it. That is, until it chooses any number of ways to slyly remind you of its existence:

You see a book you could have easily written.

A canvas you could’ve painted circles around.

A dish you could’ve cooked WAY better than that stupid, screaming TV chef.

And the only difference between you and those artists and creators is that when life got noisy, they didn’t lie back quietly and allow it to drown out what they loved.

They turned up their own volume, ignored the cacophony of “shoulds” and “have-tos” and pushed their passions to the forefront.

You can do the same. So can I.

And once we do, we’ll find that our dreams are very forgiving.

Just like a close friend who slides off our radar, all it takes is one moment to reach out and reestablish that connection to our God-given desires. To remember why the love was there in the first place. And to forget how long we’ve been apart.

Let’s break the silence. It’s time.

We’re all made of the same basic building blocks. We all eat, drink, work, sleep…lather, rinse, repeat every 24 hours. The Constitution even confirms that we’re all created equal.

But somehow, we just don’t get that “all” includes us, too.

She sings like an angel. I sound like a cat being attacked by a lawn mower.

He’s written five bestselling novels and he’s only twenty-six. I’m um…not twenty-six and have barely finished one book that approximately nine people know about.

The entire planet follows them on social media. My dog follows me to the kitchen.

So, why do we habitually catapult those we admire to godlike status, while relegating ourselves to watching silently from the cheap seats?

I think it’s because we forget (or at least I do) that those who have attained stratospheric success are there for inspiration…not imitation.

Big difference.

In the midst of flailing about writing my first novel (which is now thankfully in the hands of some amazing beta readers as I write this), one of my favorite – and futile – things to do was to look at famous authors and note all the ways that I wasn’t following in their esteemed footsteps.

I don’t write long tomes (my head explodes when I think of Ayn Rand spinning out 1000+ pages for Atlas Shrugged).

I’m big on dialogue and nearly non-existent when it comes to description (welcome to the side effect of 25+ years of screenwriting).

And I’m completely missing the “vampires and wizards obsession” chip (somehow I doubt that Anne Rice and J.K. Rowling are losing any sleep over this, since I am one of approximately 15 people worldwide who feel this way).

But the further along I get in my own work, the more I realize that even if I wanted to imitate the aforementioned greats…it’s just not gonna happen.

And it shouldn’t.

Mark Twain said, “Comparison is the death of joy.” And he’s right.

Because there is nothing that sucks the beauty and fun out of creation like wallowing in angst because you don’t paint like Cezanne, sing like Adele or write brilliant prose about blood-sucking creatures of the night or magical adolescents who fly around on broomsticks.

You weren’t put here to be a half-assed copy of someone else. Respect the talented masters that you admire, but don’t revere them. They are just like you, except they’re doing the one thing you might be avoiding:

Being 100% true to who they were created to be.

So, take them off the pedestal. Or better yet, climb up there with them.

There’s more room at the top than you think.

I remember my last night as a grade-schooler, unable to sleep as I pondered my upcoming first day on the big bad junior high campus. Instead of the same familiar pack of munchkins I’d been running with since kindergarten, I’d now be forced to meet an entire legion of new students.

And I was terrified.

In the midst of my angst, I actually had the thought, “I wish I could wake up famous tomorrow. Then everyone would already know and like me.”

I was absolutely convinced that if I were Brooke Shields (the gold standard of teen stardom at the time), I wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of trying to fit in, saying something idiotic or just flat-out being disliked.

Thankfully, I outgrew the naïve notion that “recognition = adoration” long before the internet and social media took public scrutiny to a stratospheric level.

And while it’s tempting to complain about the TMZ-style world we live in today, there is a proverbial silver lining to the often-moronic tidal wave of reality show starlets, viral videos and vitriolic rants:

It’s proof that the gatekeepers are done for good.

And so is your excuse for remaining invisible.

You no longer have to genuflect in the presence of movie studios, radio stations or art galleries, begging them to anoint you as a legitimate artist.

But as the barriers that keep your work from being shared with the world dissolve, so do the walls that keep you shielded from criticism that ranges from the mildly disheartening (actual review for my first short film: “That’s 20 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”) to aggressively hateful.

The fact is, if you’ve got something to offer the world, you’re going to have to deal with online trolls who are more than happy to announce that your novel was apparently written by an orangutan with a MacBook Pro and your abstract canvas looks like a sewage explosion.

And I’ve found the best way to handle the hate is to have empathy for those that dish it out.

No, I did not misspell “Twitter war.” I actually do mean empathy.

And here’s why.

These are people that have opted to spend their precious time and energy on a mission to seek and destroy. And their target isn’t something they despise, but rather something they desperately wish they had:

The courage to offer their gifts to the world, and to keep on doing it, whether the response is kudos or condemnation. 

Your book, film, blog or painting may not be their cup of tea. But the fact that they opt to attack – rather than simply ignore – your creation signals a human being burdened by regrets and hammered by creative Resistance.

Someone imprisoned by fear of failure, success, or both.

Simultaneously facing the dread of taking – or not taking – that first step toward a dream.

And in my book, living that way is suffering enough.

So, the next time snarky or scathing words are lobbed at you, consider the source.

Allow yourself a moment to be angry, annoyed or even amused.

Then let it go.

And give thanks.

Because you, too, could be hiding behind a screen name instead of making a name for yourself.

But being looked at isn’t the same as being truly seen.

It’s not a big risk to share a meme or join in the latest Facebook argument over whether we just swore in the savior of the free world or a misogynistic Cheeto. But revealing your whole, true self to the world (and no, half-naked selfies don’t count)…that’s an entirely different animal.

And it’s easier said than done. I know, because I wasn’t willing to do it for a very long time.

Like, oh…for about four decades.

I was a shy kid. I dreaded the thought of being front and center (oral book report = raging panic attack). But secretly, I found the idea of being acknowledged very appealing. Having people think I was funny, talented, interesting, inspiring…or maybe even all of those things.

But as soon as my daydream haze evaporated, it was immediately replaced by a paralyzing fear of the potential flipsides to being singled out:

Disapproval. Envy.

Resentment. Ridicule.

And  I decided  (on some level too deep for me to understand at the time) that I was better off incognito.

I told myself I was more of a “behind the scenes” person. I was meant to support the stars, not be one myself.

The stagehand, not the actor.

The announcer, not the announced.

Not surprisingly, the aforementioned roles played themselves out perfectly in – of all places – my elementary school talent show.

When I was in fourth grade, a few of my girlfriends decided we should form a dance group and do a routine to showcase our mad skills. It was the early dawning of the disco era, and we were fascinated by the colorful fashion and spirited gyrations we saw on Soul Train. So, of course, we were determined to emulate both perfectly.

In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that what we thought were smooth moves made us look like we required an antispasmodic. And the outfits were a sight to behold: denim shorts and halter tops with an explosion of sequins across our non-existent chests. But we loved these getups so much that the group was christened…

…wait for it…

The Halters.

So, we began rehearsing. And it was so much fun. I loved dancing and being part of something I thought was totally cool. I pictured us taking the stage and the crowd going wild.

But then the day of the show got closer.

And I did the worst thing any performer can do.

I started thinking.  A lot.

Maybe I’m not all that good. I mean, I did accidentally stomp on Cindy’s foot when we practiced yesterday. And Lisa is so much taller and thinner than me. I probably look like a glittery oompah-loompah in that outfit. I should’ve voted that we wear sweatshirts.

The next day, I went to the group and said that I felt like I didn’t have the steps down as well as I should, and I didn’t want to ruin their chance of winning the competition. But I would be happy to stand behind the podium and introduce them as they took the stage.

At first I was relieved. Whew! Now no one will see me screw up.

Then I was mad at myself. Yeah, but  now they won’t see you at all. Good job, disco dumb-ass.

But I wasn’t upset enough to change the pattern of hiding in plain sight that governed my life going forward.

That is, until I hit my mid-forties. And I couldn’t avoid doing the math that told me – if God and good genes were on my side – my life was possibly half over.

It was time to not only get going, but to get the hell over myself.

To drag my absurd, self-inflicted paranoia out into the light of reason, and ask it some pointed questions:

So, what exactly happens if you write a shitty book?

People will hate it. They’ll hate me.  I’ll look like an idiot.

Well, you are perfectly capable of looking like an idiot without writing a damned thing.  Have you seen yourself practice yoga?

That may seem like a ridiculous exchange. But it’s no more ridiculous than allowing yourself to be boxed in by concerns (most of them fantastic works of mental fiction) that others won’t approve of who you really are.

And what if they don’t give you their kudos, high-fives or rave reviews?

At first, you’ll just survive it.

Then you’ll thrive in spite of it.

Lastly, you’ll wonder why you ever wasted a precious second of your existence jonesing for approval instead of nurturing your next great idea.

Of course, it’s preferable to be liked and lauded. And it’s not wrong to want that.

But it is wrong to withhold your true self – and all the gifts and talents contained within it – until you’re sure the coast is clear of naysayers, haters and trolls.

‘Cause that ain’t never gonna happen, my friends.

But here’s the good news.

You don’t have to wait for a “do the math” moment like mine.

You can kick fear in the ass, and start showing us all of your true colors.

And you can do it today.

Here are a few simple action steps to get you going:

Start Small – So, you’re not ready for a full-on art exhibit? At least pull your paintings out of exile and unveil them to a few close friends or fellow artists. Hang them in your living room. Get used to seeing your work residing someplace other than the garage.

Solicit Support – Taking off your mask is serious business. When you’ve spent years (or a lifetime) presenting only a fraction of who you really are, it can be truly frightening to consider going for the full monty. So, don’t do it alone. Ask friends, family, or even an online group to help you shore up the strength to write the book, start the blog, or sing that song.

Shine, Shine, Shine  –  Once you’ve taken even the tiniest baby step out from the shadows, there is no going back. Thank God. Because what seems like a timid little hop forward to you, is a gargantuan leap to someone who is watching from the sidelines.  Don’t deride yourself because you haven’t yet written the great American novel. There is a person out there who is in awe that you wrote and published a guest post.  Letting your light shine to any degree possible gives them permission to do the same…and then some.

So, let us see what you’ve kept hidden so far.

The words. The music.

The comedy. The art.

The gift for healing.

The truth. Your truth.

Because the rest of you, is truly the best of you.

I used to say that all the time. Usually when I was failing miserably at something and wanted to deflect any suggestion that I should step up my game.

“I can’t write a book. I’m too busy. “
“I can’t create a website. Technology hates me.”
“How am I supposed to eat a salad when a perfectly good pan of brownies is in grave danger of going stale?”

I’m only human.

But while those three little words provided me with a handy-dandy hall pass for avoidance, it always felt wrong. Like I was using my status as a mere mortal as an excuse to not rise higher.  To achieve all that I knew I was capable of.

So, what’s wrong with declaring yourself to be human?

Nothing at all.

As long as you leave out the qualifier that will put the brakes on your potential greatness:

“Only”

I love the way John Mayer addresses the idea of wanting to go beyond our limits in his song “Bigger Than My Body.”

Someday I’ll fly
Someday I’ll soar
Someday I’ll be so damn much more
Cause I’m bigger than my body gives me credit for

We all dream of being so much more than what we appear to be. To amaze the world – or maybe just ourselves – with the strength, talent and innate bad-assery that has lain dormant for much too long.

So, what do you do to get beyond the often minimal “credit” your physical self says you’re due?

First off, remind it very politely who’s boss:

Your God-given soul.

The spirit that animates the earth suit you’re living in for the time being.  The divine spark that was set off the day you were born and has kept you going up until this very moment.

The part of you that knows you’re meant for more than what you’ve accepted as the status quo.

Secondly, do something.

Anything.

Right now.

One tiny step forward that will signal your intent to once and for all stop believing the bullsh*t story that you’re “only” human.

Write the first sentence of your novel.

Throw some color on a canvas.

Capture a moment in your sketch book.

Destroy your kitchen in pursuit of the perfect spaghetti sauce.

Sing. Loudly.

Lastly, try this mantra on for size:

I am contained by nothing and no one.

Those words came to me recently when I felt constrained by circumstances, both real and imagined. I wasn’t drinking my own koolaid when it came to living in Einstein Time, so I felt rushed and scattered.

Every time I’d reach for my work in progress, my phone would launch into an urgent symphony of beeps and pings.

The clock ticked out a constant reminder that in “X” minutes I was supposed to be somewhere else.

I could feel  my resentment choking off any and all creativity.

Why can’t the world just leave me alone so I can do what I want  – and need – to do?

Then I realized it wasn’t the world’s fault that I was stalling out.

It was mine.

So, I took a deep breath, and out came the aforementioned mantra that reminded that I can never be confined unless I allow myself to be.

Because I am bigger than my body.

So are you.

Prove it to yourself. Today.

Your greatness is waiting. And I for one can’t wait to see it unleashed.

I’m not sure who originated that quote, but I’d always accepted it as true. After all, there are lots of ways to create more cash.

Invent something the world  can’t live without.

Find a better job.

Have a garage sale.

Beg, borrow or steal (not highly recommended unless you want to stand on a street corner, pay interest or get arrested).

But there can’t possibly be a way to make more time, right?

Wrong.

And I’m not talking about getting better at time management. Downloading yet another day planning app and sacrificing sleep and sanity in order to pack more activity into the same 24 hours.

I’m talking about literally creating more time.

At this point, you’ve either decided I’ve been eating peyote buttons for breakfast, or I’m possibly onto something.  I hope it’s the latter. Because if you can wrap your head around the idea I’m about to share with you, your relationship with the clock will never be the same.

Welcome to living in “Einstein Time.”

In Gay Hendricks’ bestselling book, The Big Leap, he presents the groundbreaking idea that time is not a finite entity outside of us, but rather something we ourselves create internally.

As Hendricks puts it, “When we’re running on Einstein Time, our experience of time changes because we make a fundamental change in how much space we are willing to occupy. By learning to occupy space in a new way, we actually gain the ability to generate more time.”

Here’s a practical example from Einstein himself that perfectly explains the flexible nature of time:

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”

Unless you are wearing asbestos gloves, your tolerance for occupying any space at all on the scorching stove is going to be zero. Conversely, when you’re with someone you’re attracted to, you are more than willing to inhabit each moment together.  And time literally flies.

So how do we stop doing battle with the hours and minutes that seem to rule our lives?

One of the most simple ways to begin accepting the fact that YOU are the source of time is to stop complaining about the lack of it.

Notice that I said “simple,” not “easy.”

We’ve been conditioned to believe in scarcity when it comes to time. So, of course it’s second nature for us to gripe about it.

How often do you catch yourself saying the following:

There aren’t enough hours in the day.

I don’t even have a second to stop and breathe.

Where does the time go?

But if you can (even for a day or two) allow yourself to play with the mantra “I am where time comes from” whenever you feel rushed, you’ll be surprised by how quickly the pressure of trying to wrestle time into submission will dissipate.

While alleviating stress is reason enough to adopt this new way of thinking, there is another benefit that I’ve found to be equally important:

Increasing your creative output exponentially.

If you read my blog, I’m willing to bet that even if you aren’t a writer, you have a huge passion to create.

You want to make more music. Paint more canvases.

Cook more amazing meals. Grow stunning gardens that would make Martha Stewart hate you. (If that last one applies, call me. I have been known to kill a cactus by breathing in its general direction.)

But after you factor in all the other aspects of your life – job, spouse, kids, pets – the assumption is that there is very little room left for your creative outlets. That you can’t possibly generate anything worthwhile when you don’t have an entire day set aside to noodle on your latest project.

And that kind of erroneous thinking is precisely why you need to switch over to Einstein Time (ET).

When you’re operating on ET, you become more easily absorbed in the work you’re doing, whether it’s for fifteen minutes or five hours.  Blocks and resistance dissolve because you aren’t obsessively watching the timer, counting each minute as it slips away. The less you believe in a so-called “time crunch,” the more easily your words, melodies, images or whatever you’re trying to bring forth will flow.

ET applies to the business world, too. The demands you feel upon you (meetings, deadlines, etc.) are much less crushing if you realize that you own the clock, not the other way around.

But what if everyone else thinks I’m crazy? Or they won’t  play along with my new perception of time?

Not to worry. The beauty of ET is that other people don’t have to buy into this concept.

Just you.

The idea of ET is simple, but it takes a little practice to integrate it. In fact, as I began writing this post, I was hyper-cognizant of an appointment I had looming on the horizon today. I found myself getting uptight over the prospect of finishing this – and several other pieces – before I had to leave my house.

So, I stopped, took a breath…and reminded myself of who’s really in charge.

And I wrapped it all up with time to spare.

If you’re ready to give up feeling like you’re living on a shot clock, give ET a try.

You’ll find that time really is on your side.

And then I had a totally bizarre experience with one of my co-workers that completely befuddled me.

My position was front desk reception.  It was a super busy office, and fairly high stress (along with the requisite coffee and doughnuts, the kitchen came equipped with tanker sized bottles of Excedrin and Pepto Bismol).  And because I was right there at the front door, everyone strolled past me as they came and went.  Usually they would stop to chat, joke, or bitch about some client that was making them think “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere” at 8:30 in the morning.

But after it got around that I had given notice, one of my cohorts started “joking” about my departure by saying “I hate you” or “you suck” every time she passed my desk.  I thought it was odd, but tried to just deflect it with humor.  Of course, she maintained that she was only kidding and her jabs were simply because she was going to miss me.

But when she kept it up day after day, I realized something.

She wasn’t  kidding.  At all.

During my time there, she had complained repeatedly that she felt overworked and underappreciated.  As the breadwinner of her household, I totally understood that she couldn’t just quit on a whim.  But whenever I’d suggest that she start casually sniffing around for other opportunities, she would roll out a litany of reasons why that was impossible.

The mortgage.  The kids.  The car.  The bills.

She had no choice but to stay.

So, by informing me of my inherent suckyness, she wasn’t pining over my impending exit.

She was  letting me know loud and clear that she resented me for leaving a place that she wanted to flee herself.

Why I couldn’t have served as an inspiration for change instead of just pissing her off, I have no idea.

She had many other talents beyond what she did for the company.  She was creative, innovative and had a quick wit.  I really liked her.

But it comes down to this.  Whether it’s redefining your ideal work life or making works of art, there is one thing I’ve found to be sadly true of many people:

It’s easier for them to critique than it is to create.

Don’t sit down and write that book that’s been in your heart for decades.  Go online and post about what a pile of crap JK Rowling’s latest bestseller is.  You could certainly do better if you had her time, money, connections, etc. (Never mind that she didn’t always have those things, but I digress…)

Don’t go for the promotion you really want at work.  Much more productive to sit around playing whack-a-mole with your supposed rivals, trying to guess their next move and shoot them down with some well placed water cooler gossip.

If you read my blog, I know you aren’t one of those people.  But I know you run into them.

Me, too.

And here’s how I handle it.

I love Stephen R. Covey’s quote, “Seek first to understand, then to be understood.” And I try to live by it, because I genuinely care about what people feel.

What makes them tick.  Why they do what they do.

But sometimes, you just aren’t meant to understand.

Your only job is to offer encouragement.  To affirm that they are worthy of the joy that only comes from being the authentic self that God created them to be.

If they accept it, great.  If not, bless them and let them go.

And get back to creating a life that’s so awesome it makes the critics cringe.

Normally, that phrase is said with irony after some outlandish statement.  (“This cake contains anti-oxidant laden dark chocolate, plus protein rich milk and eggs.  Therefore, it makes perfect sense for me to be shoveling it in my mouth at six-thirty in the morning.  Pretty sure Jillian Michaels eats a slice right before she bench presses a truck.”)

I have definitely used sticking to my story in defense of breakfast cake (and will continue to do so).  But I’ve also employed it in some less frivolous scenarios.  Like sticking to a story I really wanted to write when it just wasn’t working.

I have a good friend who once had a severe gambling addiction.  At one point, her habit put her so far in debt that she stopped opening her mail because she couldn’t do anything about the bills that kept piling up.  She took out multiple payday loans until she finally got turned down for one.

The day that happened, she had a nearly zero balance in her bank account.

After slamming into the proverbial rock bottom, she joined Gamblers Anonymous.  She turned her life around, and went on to help many other women do the same.  I was – and still am – so incredibly proud of her.

I remember thinking, “Wow, this would make a great novel if I just fictionalized it!”  It was dramatic, raw and an extremely personal tale.  I couldn’t imagine there wasn’t an audience for it.

Without much additional thought beyond that, I forged blindly ahead.

Never mind that if I won $50 in a slot machine, I would freak out like a game show contestant, squirrel away my bounty and call it a night.

That I gave up blackjack upon realizing that having to repeatedly count to 21 was too much for my math phobic brain.

And I didn’t even know how to play poker.

But, yes, I was going to write an entire book about the horrors of gambling addiction.

So, I spent months outlining the novel.  Created a full cast of characters.  Hung out in casinos.  Even interviewed a gambling addiction therapist.

But when it came time to write the story…I just couldn’t do it.

And I berated myself endlessly for it.

What’s wrong with you?  What about all the time you’ve spent?  You’ve got the outline complete! Just suck it up and write the damned thing!

It seemed to have all the seeds of success.  But the more I stared at my piles of research, synopses, etc., the more I became mired in my misgivings.

The bottom line was, I was clinging to something that came from my head, not my heart.

So I let it go.

Sticking too long with a fictional tale that stalled out wasn’t the end of the world.  I learned a lot about who I am as a writer.  And I can always pull it out of mothballs if I feel the calling.

But I have also stuck to stories that didn’t work for me in real life.

I know the importance of a good narrative.  And I like to think that when I’m writing a book or a screenplay, I’m spinning a pretty good tale.

Engaging.  Interesting.  Uplifting.

But  when it comes to my own life, sometimes the tales I spin are not the best.

Critical. Doubtful.  Fearful.

I don’t know how to be a business person.

I’m so far from where I should be in my writing life.

I am a technological idiot.

That last one almost derailed my efforts to start this blog.

I knew deep down for years that I needed to put my writing out there online.  And I received countless feedback from others that confirmed what my gut kept telling me:

Stop being terrified of everything you don’t understand.  Your fears are keeping you frozen.

But, because my perfectionistic streak is a mile wide, I decided that anything less than being a programmer equaled complete and utter incompetence.

God forbid I should put out anything less than the greatest website ever known to mankind. 

I am going to look so stupid next to all these pro bloggers with 50 billion followers.

I’d better wait until I have a full understanding of all aspects of social media before I unveil myself.

As I write this, I am hugely embarrassed that I ever thought this way.  Don’t get me wrong, I am still scared to death of half the things I do…especially when it comes to technology.

But at least now I’ve gotten over myself and accepted the fact that not being able to wax poetic on the virtues of SEO or thinking that a “plug-in” is an air freshener doesn’t make me a moron.  (Okay, maybe that second one does.)

But I am who I am.

I live with techie butterflies in my stomach almost daily.

I still pray every time I open WordPress that I don’t click on anything that will send my site into cyber oblivion.

But  I’m doing the best I can.  And I’m having a really good time along the way.

And that’s a story I can stick with.

When we’re already low, our monkey minds go to town…blowing up minor missteps into irrefutable proof that we are complete idiots:

The time you choked during your presentation and forgot the name of your own company.

That stellar moment when you asked your co-worker when she was due. And she wasn’t pregnant.

The night where you had one (or three) too many at cousin Barb’s wedding and assaulted the dance floor with gyrations that looked like MC Hammer on peyote buttons.

“All right.  I can forgive myself for stammering through a presentation or dancing like a jackass.  But what about the really big stuff?  Opportunities I lost out on.  Things I didn’t step up for.  I would be soooo much further along if I had (fill in the blank with regret du jour).”

Let me tell you a story…

When I was in my early 20s, my best friend’s stepfather (Gale) turned his experience as a criminal court judge into a screenplay that was made into a TV movie. As a newbie  taking my first screenwriting class in college, I remember going to the film’s screening with (literal) stars in my eyes. Oh my God…there are famous people here!

I was totally in awe of the fact that his debut script had been produced, seemingly overnight. He had not one but TWO agents.  He was being courted to write for several television shows, including the then wildly popular L.A. Law.

I wanted his life.

Being the cool guy that he was, Gale offered to read a few of the screenplays and TV scripts I was working on in class. He was impressed (or perhaps just kind) enough to suggest that his agents take a look at them.  After I got up off the floor and the paramedics left, I gratefully accepted his offer.

A few weeks passed, and Gale got back to me with the agents’ input. No surprise, they had some notes on what could be improved, what wasn’t quite in line with industry standards, etc.

But then Gale said something I’ll never forget.

“They said you could make a living at this.”

So, what do you think I did? Jump up and down in elation that a couple of Hollywood big shots said I had the chops to be a professional screenwriter?  Start writing movies and teleplays like a woman possessed?

Nope.

I stopped writing for an entire year. And only sporadically after that for the next several years.

I could look back at that (and have, trust me) as an abysmal failure. Why did I run away, cowering from encouragement that most twenty-somethings (or any-somethings) would die to receive?

I could tell you that I focused on the agents’ critiques more than their kudos and that’s what sent me scurrying.

But that would only be a half-truth.

The reality was, I was simply not ready to put myself out there in the world. The initial excitement I felt about possibly being “discovered” quickly  morphed into abject terror.  And I hid.

Gutless? Stupid? Wasteful? Yes, yes, and yes.

But it was where I was at the time. I knew somewhere inside of me that I didn’t have the rhino-thick skin I needed to succeed as a scribe in Hollywood (or anywhere, for that matter).  I didn’t have the resolve  to withstand criticism.  And I lacked the emotional maturity to realize that while praise is awesome, it can’t be what motivates you to create.

I kept the self-condemnation going off and on throughout my 30s. But once I started skidding into the Big 4-0, I realized that it was time to not only forgive the past but truly bless it.

Put the lost opportunities in perspective once and for all.

Maya Angelou said it beautifully:

Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.

I didn’t know what to do then. But I do now.

And I’m getting on with it. Writing.  Sharing.  Encouraging.  Running my own race.  And not giving a sh*t if I trip on my shoelaces while doing it.

It’s a good place to be. Finally.