Fear in a Blank Page


Have you ever just stared at a blank page? All those thoughts and ideas screaming to be scribbled out in front of you but instead they seem to be scattered among the chaos in your mind. My imagination and creativity seem to have lost themselves, not only in the fear but somewhere in the loads of laundry and the wild pack of children pulling at my clothes.

The idea of writing doesn’t scare me but when you add the word successful to the mix, that terrifies me. It makes the tiny hair on my arms stand up and the pencil fall from my grasp. While writing this, I was compelled to look up the meaning of the word successful,¬†two meanings showed up:

  • Accomplishing an aim or purpose.
  • Having achieved popularity, profit or distinction.

That second one is what terrifies me, there comes with it a tower of self-doubt that would inevitably cause my desire and love for writing to collapse in around itself. But the first one, I think I can get on board with. To me, it means that successful writing is in the eye of the beholder. Regardless of the money or the resources or the time spent on it, if I read something that changes the very rhythm of my heart and soul then I characterize that as successful writing. So in that very way I shouldn’t be fearful to write but encouraged and inspired to scribble my heart out on the lines, even if only one person reads it and finds something of meaning or comfort in those words, that in itself is successful. So, my only thing to fear is fear in a blank page. Now to find a way to push through the chaos and the chores and the requests and demands of everyday life and put pencil to paper or fingers to keys and write.




The Storm that Scattered Many

Last night around 2 am I woke up by myself on the bottom bunk of my kids bunk bed. The storm outside had settled, the wind a silent whisper and the rain a gentle drumming. I faintly remembered stumbling out of bed and tripping over toys to get to my kids who were wailing in fright at the thunderous sounds of the storm.

And now here I lay, by myself. The nightlight blinding me as I look around for my little ones.

And the search began.

I head first to my room and poke my head inside where I found 2 sleeping cherubs gently snoring.

One was my 3 year old daughter, they other my 29 year old husband.

And so the search continued.

I peeked inside my littlest guy’s room and withdrew as soon as I heard his deep steady breaths from the crib! Oh such a sweet sound.

My oldest couldn’t be far… down the hall I roamed and as I turned the corner into our living room, my oldest was there sleeping like a baby with his fur baby! My heart pitter pattered and my swollen sleepy eyes smiled.


Oh a boy and his dog… who can separate!?!?