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.

You may not be redefining the world of dance like Martha did (my own musically-induced gyrations have prompted people to ask if they should call 911), but there is a bit of habitual dissatisfaction in all of us.

And I think it’s awesome.

But I didn’t always feel that way.

I spent a majority of the anxiety-and-self-doubt festival known as my 20s and 30s dreaming of the day when I’d finally hit a peak so high that nothing else could top it.

Everything would be in its proper place, and I’d be perfectly content from that point on. No more striving for goals that always seemed just out of reach.

No more grappling with the fear of what I’d do if I never achieved them.

Or what I’d do with the unease of responsibility if I did.

Back then, that sounded like bliss.

Now, it sounds boring.

I’m not saying it’s wrong to sit back and take pleasure in what you’ve achieved so far. Or to want a life that’s not rocked by constant upheaval.

But there is a big difference between enjoying the season you’re in, and trying to make it last forever.

I believe the inherent – and healthy – sense of discontent we all possess was put in us by a loving God who wants us to be as expansive and creative as He is.

Unfortunately, that natural desire to grow and explore is often suffocated by fears, frustrations and supposed obligations.

But it never goes away.

I know, because I tried unsuccessfully for decades to make it vanish.

I mindlessly collected degrees and certifications for a career that I told myself was practical, but was actually paralyzing.

I avoided bookstores and theaters because they showcased the stories I wasn’t telling.

I saw the success of others as proof that there was one less spot available for me in the world of writers who made a living at their craft.

But deep down, I knew what I was truly capable of.

What I would pursue with abandon if I put on the superhero cape we are all born with and flew like the skies were on fire.

Exciting? Absolutely.

But also terrifying.

Because when you surrender to the discontent, there are questions that demand answers:

What would you have to give up to get where you want to be?

Who might you have to give up?

What would you need to allow into your life…or kick out?

But if you’re willing to listen as your soul responds with honesty to the queries that come, you’ll be rewarded with a sense of passion and purpose that is your birthright.

This kind of unrest truly is blessed…if you allow it to be.

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’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.

I’m not saying competition doesn’t serve a purpose. Try having a Super Bowl where no one wins. Or a marketplace where there is only one brand of anything available. Sometimes we need competition in the world to keep things exciting and in balance.

But what about in your own life?

There has to be at least one person on your path that you must strive to outdo on a regular basis, right?

The co-worker who has everyone mesmerized by his Ivy League education while you’re still plugging away at your undergraduate degree.

Your sibling who founded a Fortune 500 company and bought your parents a condo in Palm Beach.

The frenemy who  prances into the gym baring her six pack abs…while munching happily on a donut.

So, who exactly is your biggest competition? The one that you should be trying to best at every turn?

Look in the mirror.

But self-competition is not a license to turn your rivalrous tendencies inward and beat yourself to a pulp with them. It’s simply an opportunity to let go of caring so much about what everyone else is doing, and figure out what really matters to you (not Donut Abs or Mr. Harvard).

Author  Jeff Goins offers a brilliant piece of advice when it comes to self-evaluation:  “Listen to your ache.” This doesn’t mean to berate yourself because you aren’t as far along as someone else.  Rather, it involves noticing whether you feel an inner pang when you see that person succeeding at something that you know in your soul that you, too, can achieve.

The physical and/or emotional signals may be mild or monumental. But they shouldn’t be ignored.

Here’s why.

My good friend Jennifer Blanchard is a bestselling author of over eight books (fiction and non-fiction), and counting.  I am hugely proud of her, and have always been inspired by both her talent and her tenacity.

But I remember one day earlier this year when I opened my email to see the announcement for the release of her latest eBook. I felt the warm, familiar “good for her” feeling rise in my heart. But right along with my sincere kudos, I felt something else.

A sinking in my stomach, and a voice that whispered, “Ugh. Why aren’t you doing that, too?”

My “authorship ache” was calling to me loud and clear.

In the past I would’ve ignored it. Trotted out my litany of excuses ranging from lack of time to a plethora of paranoia over the oh-so-scary world of self-publishing.

All of my rationale was complete bullsh*t. And because I knew that deep down, the cost of ignoring my ache was very high.

Anxiety. Panic. Stress. Sadness.

But this time, I’d had enough.

I started writing down every single idea I could think of for eBook topics. Some were horrible, others pretty damn good. I had no idea where I was going with any of them, but the point was – for once – I was going to go somewhere.

Not long after that, my aforementioned crazy-prolific friend invited me to attend her online “Write and Publish Your eBook in 10 Days” workshop.

And before I could talk myself out of it, I thanked her profusely and said, “Count me in!”

I’d love to tell you I was completely Zen from that moment on. Never once wondering how I was going to complete the book, or if it would suck beyond all measure.

That was absolutely not the case.  Self-doubt was my constant companion until the day I hit the “publish” button.

But so was an odd sense of peace.

Because even if I never sold one copy, it would’ve been worth it to finally go through the process I’d been dreading for years. To be rid of that that nagging feeling that I was dodging a piece of my destiny.

So, now it’s your turn.

If you have an ache, here’s the bad news.

It will never, ever, ever (did I say ever?) go away.

Unless…

You listen to it, and give it the attention you’d lavish on a child (or cherished pet) that was desperate for your love.

The pain will not merely dissolve. It will morph into something that every one of us craves, whether we admit it or not:

A feeling of accomplishment.

That moment of “I f—ing did it”  that can never be taken from you.

So, stop telling yourself, “The world doesn’t need my (book/film/poem/banana pancake recipe).” It’s not about whether the entire planet needs it. It’s the fact that SOMEONE on this spinning blue orb does.

How dare you hold it back from them?

Heeding the call of your ache is one instance where it’s not a numbers game.  Impact is what matters.

All it takes is one person (or a handful of people) to connect with what you do, and the repercussions can be beautifully staggering.  Your fingerprints will be forever on this generation, and on those beyond it.

But only if you keep your focus solely on your biggest competition.

Run your own race. It’s the only one you were ever meant to win.

But the fact is, it’s hard to improve your writing when you aren’t actually doing it.

So, the other thing I’m always looking for are surefire tips on how to get my ass moving when everything but the keyboard is calling for my attention.

And thanks to blogger Ali Luke’s wise words, I have found a method that works for me every time I use it.

It’s hugely scientific. You may want to take notes.

Ready?  Here goes…

Open the Damn Document (ODD).

It’s so deceptively simple that it’s tempting to just blow it off. Oh, right. Opening the document is going to magically make the piece write itself.

Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. But the tiny step of putting yourself – literally – within arm’s length of the page makes it infinitely more likely that you’ll get down to business.

And yes, this works when your project is overwhelming. Especially when it’s overwhelming. Because it’s much easier to stomach the thought of merely opening a file than it is to obligate yourself to War and Peace-level output.

I recently had to put this technique into major practice when I wrote and published my first eBook: Gratitude Adjustment: 5 Simple Shifts To Refresh Your Perspective and Ignite Your Life. Even though it was planned to be a very short book, I was still freaked out by the possibility of…well, everything.

You know nothing about this kind of format. What makes you think you can put out a book on Kindle all by yourself? You are such a techno-idiot, you will probably single-handedly blow up Amazon when you hit the ‘publish’ button. And why do you think anyone cares about your take on gratitude? I’m pretty sure the Dalai Oprah has that one covered.

So – being the wildly enlightened person that I am –  I listened slavishly to the aforementioned bullsh*t and proceeded to procrastinate like a demon.

Oh my God…there’s a science project growing in the toilet. I’d better clean it up immediately or else the dogs might drink the water and die.

Uh, oh. We’re out of vanilla extract. And chocolate chips. I haven’t baked since MTV actually played music videos, but suddenly I’m feeling a Tollhouse cookie deficiency. Hey, it’s a blood sugar issue. It’ll just take me ten minutes to run to the store.

But one sparkling toilet and three trays of baked goods later, I was still firmly rooted in my authorship avoidance.

So, it was time to engage in some ODD behavior.

I went to my laptop and opened the page of notes I’d started for the book. The urge to get up and clean something or have a Betty Crocker relapse was still there. But it wasn’t nearly as strong as before.

Come on, you’ve got your butt in the chair and the page in front of you. Just write a few words. Then you’re free to keep your hot date with the vacuum cleaner.

So, I jotted a few words. Which turned into a few paragraphs. And one hour later, the Hoover was still sitting forlornly in the corner while my book took on a life of its own.

Even if you’re not a writer, the ODD principle is still one you can apply to your own pursuits.

Want to become a great chef? Don’t freak yourself out by trying to figure out how you’re going to afford living in Paris while you train at Le Cordon Bleu.  Buy a cookbook and play with a recipe or two.

Tired of living like a human beanbag chair? Skip buying $1500 worth of clothing racks…um, I mean exercise equipment…and start with a walk around the block.

Goethe was on to this concept well over 150 years ago when he wrote, “Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”

Just choose one step. Keep it simple. Then keep it up.

You’ll be amazed where you’ll go from there.

So, one day this week after loading up my cart with an inordinate amount of healthy stuff, I decided the scales needed balancing.  And the most expedient (and delicious) way to do that seemed to be potato chips.  So, I happily veered my cart out of the produce section and headed for the snack aisle:  home of crunchy fried potato goodness.

And there it was.

The Abomination.

Clearly labeled in bright red letters:

“Guilt-Free Potato Chips”

On principle, I refuse to buy anything labeled “guilt-free.”  I soundly reject the notion that I require the  absolution of food manufacturers in order to enjoy a chip or two (or fifty).

But I have a friend who cannot stop announcing how “bad” she is every time she puts something other than a carrot stick or a kale leaf in her mouth.  I love her, but I have to go to a happy place (preferably Krispy Kreme)  when she gets in that mode.  It’s like, “Jumping into your behemoth-sized SUV and mowing down a little old lady holding a puppy is bad.  Eating a cookie is hardly an existential crisis.  Keep calm and have an Oreo.”

I’m not saying to never check yourself.   But the constant searching for things to blame yourself for (either real or imagined) is pointless.  All the endless obsessing does is draw the thing you want to be leaving behind even closer to you.  Or it ruins something that you have every right to enjoy (food, relaxation, shopping, etc.).

Religious dogma cheerleads for guilt, claiming that it will drive us to make changes we need to make.  But if there is a God (and I believe there is), He is wise enough to know that love is an infinitely more powerful  motivator than condemnation and self loathing.

Changes driven by guilt rarely stick.

Changes driven by guidance always do.

Guilt is a hammer.  Guidance is a gentle nudge.

It turns you softly inward.  Shows you your soul.

Brings revelations to the surface with kindness, not criticism:

I’m wasting my gifts.

I deserve more.

I’m better than this.

So…do I believe that shame and self-reproach are needless toxins?  That  I can actually love myself through the process of change?

Guilty as charged.

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.