Stepping Out

I’m finally realizing the power of failure. I’ve been so afraid all my life of making a mistake that for 35 years, I have barely allowed myself to live. I definitely haven’t been willing to take any significant risks, because … well, if you don’t try, you can’t fail. Lately, however, I’ve felt extremely claustrophobic, closed in by my own self-imposed sterility. I must either go insane or break free. I choose to break free.

I haven’t taken up sky diving or rock climbing. No, the areas I have allowed myself room to fail are so minute that to many they would seem almost inconsequential. I am almost embarrassed to admit that one of them is my kitchen. I have always told myself – and others – that I can’t cook. Oh, don’t get me wrong! I’ve cooked! The same darn things over and over for thirteen years … And if I dared to make something besides baked chicken or spaghetti sauce, I’d always break out the cookbook. That’s changing lately. I’m allowing myself to experiment, to draw on what I know and to improvise. Being at the end of the month right now, our bank account (and pockets and dresser tops) are depleted. We have to make do with what we have on hand. Last night, Brendan and I created some absolutely scrumptious cookies with butter and flour and leftover Christmas chocolates, cut up into little pieces. Mmm! Okay, so they were a little flat. Next time, I’ll add more flour. But they were so good that I ate … well, actually, I don’t think I’ll tell you how many I ate!

This new attitude is affecting my writing, too. I’ve been writing since I was twelve, but I rarely seem to “get around” to sending my work out. Last week, however, I put together a short story and nine poems and submitted them to local publications. To be honest, as I headed for the post office, I had exactly the same feeling that I have when I’m sitting in the waiting room at the gynecologist’s office. But I did it, and yesterday I spent most of the afternoon researching markets for my children’s stories. Tomorrow those will go into the mail, too.

It’s nothing really – tiny things that most people could have managed without flinching. But they are doorways, each one leading to something just a little bigger. Maybe today I am only baking cookies without a recipe and sticking stamps on stacks of poems. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll try sky diving …