I know, it’s been a minute. I’m doing a sucky job of trying to keep up with this blog but I’ve been busy.

Someone told me that you should do something you are passionate about and it will never seem like a job. I’ve tried that a few times. It didn’t work out that way for me.

I used to love to sew. I’ve made myself complete wardrobes of cute little sundresses. A complete outfit for a black tie wedding, numerous cocktail and formal dresses. I’ve made clothes for the kids. Designed outfits, purses, covers for things. I have a quilt that I made in a week on my bed that I absolutely adore although the color scheme is completely outdated, it’s faded and it’s falling apart because it’s 12 years old. Even my own wedding dress. I can make just about anything and at the urging of friends of family, I turned this love of sewing into a business. A business that ultimately failed because I lost the love I had for creating beautiful and useful things with my sewing machine and fabric.

Why am I telling you this? I have a job now that I really love although it has never been a passion for me all my life. It allows that creative side to come through without becoming monotonous. It’s fun, it keeps my brain from going numb and I’ve accumulated some really great friends because of it. But again, it’s not my passion.

No, I’ve managed to suppress my real passion because I’m afraid. It’s also the reason I have a hard time keeping up with this blog. You see, I love to write. I mean I really, really love to write. I was the girl in school who volunteered to write other people’s lit papers in college because I just loved the act of putting a pen (or in my case a pencil, my preferred medium) to paper. When I was in elementary school, I wrote poetry and short stories all the time. It continued into high school and then into college where I took my first composition class.

For this class, I was required to keep a journal. I had never kept one before and really don’t keep one to this day unless you count my twitter posts and this blog. But thinking that my professor, who had a doctorate in Medieval Literature and done her thesis on Chaucer, couldn’t possibly want to know all about my drunken bar hopping every night , I made up a story and wrote about it in my journal. Every week, I added to the story until it became an epic adventure about a prince being the one captured and the princess fighting the evil sorceress and her pet dragon (who could talk by the way). I can’t for the life of me remember the name of that professor nor can I even begin to tell you what happened to the notebook that was my “journal”, but I do remember I received a 100 percent on it and it counted for a third of my grade. I also remember the 2 page note she had written at the end of the notebook telling me that if I didn’t know I should be a writer, all I had to do was re-read that notebook.

What I did know at the time was that I was afraid and I didn’t know why. Now 20 years later I do. I’m afraid of taking something I love dearly and learning over time to hate it. I’m afraid that one of the six books I have started will consume me so much that I will be sick of it when I’m finished with it and never want to do anything like it again. I’m afraid that what I put down will become so successful that it will demand all my attention and effort to the point of total exhaustion and nausea. Then I will begin to hate it. I will never want it. The stories that play like movies in my head will build up and I will never have the desire to get them out because if I don’t, my head might explode.

Every so often, I get the itch and I can’t fight it any longer. I just have to write. I either pick up something in progress or I start something new that has been bumping around in my head for a bit. Am I good enough to make all my darkest fears come true? You be the judge. I’m done fighting it.

The Eros One