I don’t do things a little bit. I don’t eat “just this one little bite” of the cake, I eat the whole damn cake. I don’t draw tiny flowers on paper, I make them out of fan blades and bike tires. I go all in, or I don’t go at all.
The problem is that I get ahead of myself, and then I freak the frack out. I love the heady feeling of throwing myself into big projects, of making proclamations of the things I am going to do. Sometimes just the planning is what I’m after, and sometimes I follow through. Sometimes I drive 600 miles with a four year old on a whim.
It strikes out of nowhere, this insatiable need to do all the things. I am playing on the computer, and somebody’s offhand comment ends with me researching vacation ideas for next week. Zach is painfully familiar with emails that begin, “So I think I want to….”
I always want to be actively planning … something. Anything, really. Planning, but not preparing. No time for things like measuring (which is why both carpentry and sewing tend to fail me). Right now it’s writing. I have spreadsheets, and idea lists, and all the makings of a big freak out as I realize I’ve stepped too far, gone too big. Expectations are my Kryptonite.
My lack of preparing means that sometimes I don’t even know how I end up where I am. All this to say that, despite my constant instance that everyone who likes my writing is delusional at best, I have been writing for money for the last two months. And this week I learned that one of my rowan.small.and.mighty posts will be republished (with my adaptations for a wider audience) by Scary Mommy on New Year’s Eve.